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left the door standing open. As if all Olivia had to do was stand up and walk out

of hell. She rose and took a few hesitant steps. It looked like a beautiful day out

there.

Go, she told herself. Get away from them. Fast. Before she comes back. Go.

Go. Go.

But her limbs didn’t obey. She walked hesitantly to the door and stopped at the threshold, leaning forward to peek out. A few chickens were scratching in the

yard, but she saw neither of the Stubblefields. She turned her head the other way.

There was the trail. The way home.

Suddenly alive, she took quick steps to the bed and sat to pull on her shoes,

fumbling with the laces. Clumsy in her panic, she sent the tray of food clattering

to the floor. She rushed to the door and paused again, looking out at the clearing

as if she had never seen it before.

She stumbled toward the trail and into the woods and ran until her lungs felt

ready to burst. When she tripped over a branch and fell, loud sobs escaped her. It

had rained lightly the night before and she lay on the damp ground for what seemed a long while before sitting up and looking around, still in a daze. Above

the treetops was a brilliant blue sky, scattered with cotton clouds. A gentle breeze

whispered and songbirds chirped to one another.

But it’s a different world, she thought. For me it will never be the same. Forthe rest of my life I will dwell in a dark secret place. No one else will ever beable to understand. There’s no way for anyone to set me free from it. I’m out of

that barn, but I’ll always carry a different kind of prison on my back.

It required a tremendous effort to force herself to her feet. She felt as if the

blood had frozen in her veins and began trembling with cold. Something rustled in the underbrush and she shrieked. Someone was coming! Filmore was after

her! She hid behind the thick trunk of an elm to watch for him, but the trail remained empty. She began to fear that she would find him waiting for her when

she got home. She’d open the door to her little cabin and there he’d be, lying on

her bed, leering. Her knees buckled at the thought.

He won’t be there, he won’t be there, she chanted and forced herself to walk.

Go home. Fast. Filmore won’t be there. Not yet. Hurry. Not until tomorrow. Iola

said he would come tomorrow.

A few minutes later she heard breaking branches and stopped again.

Stop being ridiculous, you can’t let every raccoon and squirrel terrify you.

But she listened closely. That was not the rustle of small animals. Those were

human footsteps crashing through the woods and they weren’t far away. She hid

behind another tree, shaking. Whoever it was, he was walking fast. But he

wasn’t coming after Olivia; the sounds were receding in the opposite direction.

She stepped back on the trail and rushed toward her cabin.

Where did I leave the shotgun? Where it always is, leaning against the wall

behind the door. Please let it be there. Mourning, where are you? What did he do

to you? Please be home. Please be safe. I am going to get through this. I have to

think. Plan. Keep walking. Get home.

Shame and guilt brought back the dark thoughts and slowed her down. Why

had she gone to Iola’s? Why hadn’t she refused to drink that tea? Why hadn’t she

Are sens

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