Part Six

The first thing Lane noticed when she awakened was the throbbing. As if the skin had been scraped from her inner thigh and flayed away until just above her shins, the vicious aches erupted and snaked wildly, unforgivingly.

Trying to bend her knees ever so slightly seemed at once to send blazes of pain up the middle of her legs, so much so that she might've screamed or cried for help had her voice not been so dry and desiccated from a night spent wailing between coarse flesh and the chafed protrusions of carpeted floors.

Against shrill moans and the rebounding burn of her raw nerves, Lane finally managed to rake her way out of bed, nearly toppling to the icy floor as she took her first tentative step toward the tiny desk where she'd set her makeup the previous morning.

After gripping her cosmetics bag in her left hand, she trembled to her room's only door and cracked it open. A flush of goosebumps exploded along her upper arms and legs as she peered down the hall, terrified that some tall man, some hefty and imposing figure, might be staring back at her—would he steal her away again, and in broad daylight no less?

Would she scream?

Could she scream?

As Lane pushed the door further, the hallway's crisply chilled wind sailed into her room, at once stroking through her hair and watering her eyes.

She blinked twice, narrowed her gaze.

Down the tiled and dingy hall, she spotted the bathroom; its door hung open, allowing the artificial glow of incandescent bulbs to light a triangle on the ceramic flooring. Creeping forward on tiptoes, she arrived at the entrance and locked the door behind her once she made it inside.

Lane looked up into the mirror, that ragged and flushed reflection of her own face staring back from behind the smudged glass.

But that wasn't her.

It couldn't be her.

Who was this girl with cheeks so red as to match her eyes? What were those dark purple, fingerlike stains that appeared to encircle her throat as if in a chokehold? And why did a similarly dark circle blemish her left temple? Why did reddish streaks smear across her cheekbones, and what was that tiny collection of scabs that she now spotted above her shoulder?

Fingers quaking, Lane launched both hands into the partially unzipped makeup bag that she'd set on the counter. She shut her eyes as squirts of Lizöella perfumed the bathroom air, then coated her lips with glittering lemony gloss. She felt around in her bag for the fluffed edges of a bronzer brush, then a powder—but wait, why bronzer first?

Cover it! I just have to cover it all up! her brain screamed, but her hands gripped instead a stippling brush. The bristled edges could help her lay a glorious foundation of milky apricot! Or maybe she should start with a rouge champagne as a base? Would the rubicund striations that marred her jaw then cease to appear?

Reopening her eyes at last, Lane spotted herself again in the mirror, this time feeling a surge of fresh hot tears. She released her hold on the brushes and polishers, and her palms shot up instantly to grip her crèmed blond hair. But rather than stroke and caress, Lane found herself pulling it to wrap the sides of her face like a golden vanilla scarf.

"Th—that's it," she whispered to her reflection. "Look...look at that. They're all gone now...the bruises are gone. They're gone! They're not here anymore; they...they're—" Low breaths pressed between her lips, punctuated with higher pitches that escaped as gasps. "Y-y-you're so pretty," she told herself. "You're gorgeous...you are...you're soooo gorgeous, Lane."

Her knees began shaking, knocking into one another, as her chattering teeth jingled out a tune of terror. "You're s-s-s-s-s-sooo gorgeous!"

She yanked tighter and tighter at the base of her hair, the strands stiff as metallic rods as she tremored and twitched at the mirror's fearful mimicry of her every move, grasping desperately at the bright blond veil that hid the marks, the bruises, the scars.

****

What must have been half an hour passed, and Lane was on her bed again. But how had she made it there? And why couldn't she remember it? Had her brain shut it out; was she simply too numb to remember much of anything?

She glanced across the room at the miniature desk that stood all alone. There it was—there was her makeup bag, half zipped, its contents either haphazardly stuffed inside or spilling ravished on the desktop.

That stupid alarm clock was the next thing to grab Lane's eyes; somehow, it was only 6:49 in the morning. Hadn't that awful lady with the red hair—Marissa?—mentioned something about breakfast?

Lane wondered how long she'd have to wait. But the longer she lay in bed, she began to realize she wouldn't really care. She didn't have much of an appetite for anything. Her throat was so raw and ached so badly from screaming that she wasn't even sure she could swallow food.

Would they have lemon tea? Or maybe milk?

She scoffed at the thought. The only 'breakfast' she'd probably get would be a sandpapery box of cheerios. And maybe iced tap water if she was lucky.

BUZZ!

Lane jolted, yanking her bedsheets closer to her at the sound of the scratchy static.

"Hul...Hellllo—" came a crumbly voice. "Laaaane?"

Taking a deep breath, Lane crawled achily from her bed and grabbed at her nearest suitcase.

As she opened it, the voice grew higher, clearer: "Lane, are you there?"

"GiGi?" Lane's arms ruffled through her folded clothes to retrieve the walkie talkie GiGi had given her the day before. "GiGi, you scared the crap out of me!" Lane huffed a sigh of relief. "W—why are you up so early?"

GiGi paused. "Lane, are you okay? You sound kinda...freaked?"

Lane blinked twice, then gulped. "I—I'm fine, GiGi. I just...you just scared me is all. The, um—the walkie talkie really scared me." She felt her eyes quivering, watering.

"Oh, okay," GiGi mumbled. "Sorry—I didn't mean to freak you out. I just wanted to call and see how you're doing before I head to school..."

"Great," Lane blurted. "I'm doing...everything is great, GiGi. Really. I just wish I had a little more bathroom space for all my makeup." She tried her best to cough up a genuine laugh.

"Lane," GiGi giggled, "there's not enough bathroom space in the world for all your makeup. Besides, you're way too pretty to be covering up your face all the time."

The tiniest of sniffles escaped Lane's nostrils, then her shivering eyes let fall their first flush of teardrops, streaking down her face and dripping onto the shiny satin blanket covering the bed. "GiGi," she tried, a drawl scratching along her throat, "you're just soooooo sweet."

Lane reached up and grasped at the sides of her face, where she could still feel the peel and flake of marred flesh.

More tears pulsed at the throbbing of her cheekbones, so many that she feared GiGi must have known—must have felt it as she sat there on her bed, anger and despair and loneliness racing through her brain and bursting to life with her every aching move.

"Sam really, really wants to see you," GiGi whispered after a moment's hesitation. "I swear I told him you couldn't have any visitors, but he said he still wants to come..."

"GiGi, no," Lane commanded with a whimper. "He can't. You have to stop him..."

"But you like him, Lane! This is your chance!"

"He...can't...see me like...he can't." Lane felt her voice shaking with every word.

"Would it really be so bad? I don't think he'd care that you're in Molding the Way. He misses you." GiGi sighed. "And I miss you too."

"I can't, GiGi. I'm—I'm ugl..." Lane's lower lip began to quiver. "I'm not pr..."

GiGi held her silence.

"I can't s—see him...I can't—"

Frosted stillness hung between them, icing the air around their voices. Though they talked through the phone, Lane felt as if GiGi were right there in front of her, staring at her flushed cheekbones and scraped shoulder blades, mouth agape as she stared down at the pitiful blond girl sprawled in fear on the flat mattress.

What had happened to her? Who was she? Why did she lie there with such trepidation seared into her eyes?

I'm Lane! her brain screamed to itself. That's who I am! And I'm amazing!

I'm beautiful! She grasped at the marks along her face and neck.

My hair is gorgeous! She twisted her fingers through locks that felt, for the first time, to be fraying. 

My lips are fabulous! Every boy in the world wants to kiss me! Her palms brushed against the swollen bumps brimming the edge of her mouth, gloss smeared in glittery sparkles.

The static of the walkie talkie barked back at Lane's reticence.

Her eyes grew wide.

Was GiGi still there? Was she still waiting for a response?

What would Lane say...what could she say?

****

The rest of the morning seemed to come and go; Lane would glance at the window ever so often to track the movement of the sun. It felt almost a betrayal that the morning should get brighter and brighter while Lane ached and throbbed, trapped beneath the bed sheets draped liberally across her body.

The clip-clap of feet wrapped in leathered shoes would sound in the distance ever so often, seeming to disappear the moment Lane would hear it. When she fell between sleep and wakefulness, the leather steps would feel far and away, drifting down the hall and stepping into air. Then they would grow closer, closer still until stopping just outside her door.

And, wait a moment—what was that light glaring beneath Lane's eyes? Why did it reach out in pointed ends like the corners of a spider web, and why did it seem to move at the clicking of a lock...unless...?

"Lane?" A smooth, boyish melody whispered in the fading light. "Lane, are you awake?"

But no—that couldn't be him because—

"SAM!?" She sprang upright, and her eyes popped wide.

There, his figure illuminated by what few rays of sunlight still persisted, Sam Irish leaned against the edge of the doorway.

He bowed his head slightly. "Uh, hey...hey, Lane."

"What are you doing here!?" she demanded at once. "I told GiGi t—"

"I know." His voice fell. "She begged me not to come, but...I needed to see you."

"Guess you got your wish." She turned her eyes to face the wall.

Sam gulped, taking an uneasy step forward. "I bet GiGi's been here a thousand times already," he tried, burying his hands in his pockets.

Lane crossed her legs beneath the covers.

Sam gulped again. "So, uh, I hear you've got one heck of a right kick," he offered with a low chuckle, that charming hum of his voice somehow still ever present.

Lane allowed her eyes to sail to the ground. "Whatever," she breathed.

Sam could feel the cold stifle through the air. "I...I miss y—" The words stopped behind his lips, twitching to new ones as they found their exit: "It sucks in English class. We're studying Chaucer right now..."

But Lane ignored it, ignored him, turned her body fully away, left him to wonder if he'd somehow said something wrong.

Sam shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. "I...uh, I...it's really b...really weird at school without you. And this place looks like...like some old abandoned warehouse or something."

"Well," Lane spoke up as she felt the cold of the room brush over her, "at least here, I don't have your loser teammates writing me love letters."

Why did she say that?

Sam sighed, lowered his eyes. "I'm...I'm sorry, Lane."

"Well, what can I say?" she gave a hollow giggle. "I mean, the boys just can't stay away." Before Lane knew it, her left hand was stroking through her hair, flinching as it did.

A small smile slid fleetingly across Sam's face.

"I guess locking me up in here was...was the only way they could stop me from stealing all the hearts." Lane's stroking finger finally released her hair, tossing strands of it sideways. She twisted to glance over her shoulder, forced a smile back at Sam.

He let out a low laugh, then shook his head. "Look, I know you didn't want me to come by, but it's...it's so screwed up what Jay's parents said about you," he mused lowly. "And I had to make sure you knew that I...that I just hate everything they did."

Lane leaned back; her gaze sailed to the ceiling.

Sam coughed. "And I...I brought someone else I thought you might wanna see."

The snapping clicks of tiny ballet flats sounded next to Sam, and Lane turned again to face him; this time, Irina stood by his side wearing a toothy smile and a mini-dress adorned with shooting stars.

Had she been standing there this whole time?

Why had she been so quiet?

"Sam, can I please?" the little girl tried her best to whisper.

"Um, I don't know if—"

"Please?"

Before Sam could say another word, little Irina broke into a mad sprint towards Lane's bed.

Lane drew back, gripping the covers around her, before Irina bounced up and onto the bed, grabbing Lane around the shoulders to embrace her in a gracious hug.

"I love you, Lane," the little one trilled. "Me and Sam and GiGi love you so much!" Irina's grip tightened, the warmth of her tiny body streaming against her blond big sister. "Mommy says when you hug someone, you give them a little piece of love. And I want you to have all the pieces, Lane!"

Lane felt a gasp slip from her throat, and a tiny teardrop soon followed, landing on Irina's leg.

The kindergartener looked down, then back up at Lane's eyes brimming with liquid anguish.

"Don't cry, Lane!" Irina's high pitch begged. "All you need is more pieces!" The kindergartener pulled tighter still, raining kisses against Lane's arm and shoulder.

Eyes shaking, Lane glanced up from Irina and landed once more on Sam, still in the doorway, but this time with what looked to be tears in his own eyes.

"Irina..." Lane's voice began to tremble. "I th...I c..." She grabbed the kindergartener's arms and lifted her off the bed, placing her on the floor beneath. "I think it's...time for you to go."

"But—"

"Please." Lane spoke past the tears still bubbling above her cheeks, stealing another glance toward where Sam stood rooted to the floor's dreary tiles. "Both of you just need to go."

****

Lane was alone in her bedroom when darkness finally fell, when the night iciness began finding its way through the window and air vents.

She didn't mind the cold so much anymore, even when it crept beneath her bedsheets to crawl over her toes. She didn't shiver or shake or curl her legs up to her chest. She didn't even wish for warmth to come find her.

It must have been hours that she lay there, eyes blinking sporadically. Her gaze traced the faded lines and pasty caulk seals along the painted walls. Heavy shadows mingled with the bland patterns, a hint of the unforgiving night beyond the window.

Gradually, her shadowed eyelids grew heavier. It felt like she was sinking further into the bed, plunging her sheets against the spotty mattress. She let her eyes close, felt the raw soreness of her reddened eyeballs begin to allay.

Was this sleep? She couldn't tell. All she knew was that somehow, the pain was becoming less. Every throbbing pulse seemed lighter, and the pounding between her temples slowly faded to a thump—

CLICK!

What was that?

Lane's eyes twitched open.

The room was still shrouded in a deep darkness, but—

CLICK!

There it was again, and heavier this time. Lane shook herself free of the bed sheets and scrambled to the floor, grasping at her suitcases.

CLICK!

She barely avoided chipping a nail as she tore the first zipper along its tracks. She stuck her free hand inside, scrabbled for her walkie talkie.

"GIGI!"

CLICK!

"GIGI, PLEASE PICK UP!"

BAM!

The door slammed open.

Hallway light fell on Lane's back as she frantically held the walkie talkie's speaker button.

"GIGI!"

..."Laaane?"

Footsteps rushed from behind, just as a hand clawed onto Lane's head and yanked her backwards.

"Let go of me!" she screamed, gripping the walkie talkie with all her might. "Don't take me back to that stupid church, you psycho!"

Another hand encircled Lane's throat as she screamed, the calloused skin seeming almost to dig into her. She dropped the walkie talkie, and it fell to the floor with a reverberating crack.

No! she screamed inside her head. NO!

More giant hands caught her arms, and Lane felt her body being dragged swiftly from the room. The light of the hallway grew brighter, burning against her squinting eyes. She faintly registered the clicking shut of her room as what looked like Marcus shoved a key in the door.

Another man—it must have been Glenn—still held Lane tightly and yanked her toward the empty reception desk, over which more bright lights gleamed.

In seconds, their blaze ended, and Lane was plunged into familiar yet somehow thicker darkness.

Was she outside?

Another click sounded, then the hands holding Lane fast were shoving her into a cramped space with a whirring engine. Her face slammed against leather, and a heavy palm pressed down on the back of her skull.

Faintly, beyond the merciless throbbing behind her eyes, Lane heard the screech of tires as they sped across asphalt, the crunching of tiny rocks and paved cracks. It was almost harmonic, the way it stopped and resurged; it was making a melody—an accursed, wretched melody. 

At some point, the melody stopped, fell into nothing as rocks and pavement ceased to move.

Locks unhitched.

Doors swung wide.

Frozen wind swept Lane's hair.

She could barely see, but she heard laughter. Knuckles slid between her legs as a hand tugged at her thighs.

"Let go of me!" she wailed hoarsely as her attackers dragged her into the wintry wisps. "Put me down, you sick bast—"

Five fingers sealed her mouth shut, then a fist smashed into the back of her skull.

"Keep it down!" barked Glenn. He let out a gruff breath, turned his attention to Marcus. "You sure Marissa's even gonna show up this time?"

"Of course she is," he barked in reply. "Need I remind you she and her boyfriend are only one missed bill away from living on the streets? Not to mention that new table Landon just gave her." Marcus chuckled. "All else fails, and we oust the skank."

It was Glenn's turn to snicker, ignoring Lane's squirming body as he did. "That false leg was genius, Mark." He shook his head. "I can practically hear it now—her stupid, whiny little voice begging 'em to believe her when they find that Densett girl's rotting fingers stuffed inside."

What the heck is going on!? Lane's mind hissed with bewilderment, with dreadful agony, as the two men who held her in iron grips hauled her mercilessly forward.

The doors to EdgeWay flew open, rustling several of the tiny shrubs and miniature trees situated at the church's entrance. Darkness reigned supreme inside that building, and Lane felt it crawl all over her. She looked up, looked around.

There was nothing, no one but her and Marcus and Glenn.

Twisting left and right, then finally tilting her head to glance behind, Lane felt a flurry of tears forming behind her eyes. She blinked and squinted, doing her best to hold on to some shred of composure until...

Huh?

What Lane had first thought to be a tiny shrub beyond EdgeWay's front door now looked to be moving, and not just shaking in the wind like the others. This one was uncurling, standing to its feet.

Lane jerked back and forth, preparing to scream when another blow to the back of her head sent sharp pain searing to her eyes and ears.

What must have been Glenn's arm slammed Lane against the wall, and another calloused hand began rubbing against her neck.

Lane heard the creaking of the door to a nearby room before she was hurled inside. A dim light fell on her, followed by ravenous hands that snatched at the fabric surrounding her body.

She thinned her eyes in the paleness of the room, noticing for the first time how frantically Marcus breathed as he tore and ripped, Glenn standing behind. 

Marcus leaned closer, inches from Lane's face as his left arm feverishly moved along her upper thigh. His lips pressed together, drew closer as his body radiated a sick and awful heat.

Lane turned her neck, then suddenly twisted it back and slammed him in the lips with her forehead.

Marcus screamed, and Glenn lunged to grab Lane just as she swung her right foot to smash Marcus in the face again before rolling away from Glenn's massive arms.

Glenn jumped for Lane again, but she twisted as he charged, bending both knees and kicking upward to bash him between the legs.

Now it was Glenn's turn to scream, and Lane ran to the door and began twisting its knob wildly. She whirled to the left and spotted a key on top of a tiny desk.

Marcus sprang toward Lane and grabbed her leg just as she secured the key; but Lane twisted to face him and jabbed the key against the side of his temple, then shook her foot free and kicked him directly in the face.

She turned back to the door and shoved the key inside the lock, twisted the knob, bolted from the room amid the groans and wails of Glenn and Marcus.

The church hall was still dark, but Lane could hear the rustling of wind outside and see the faint glimmering of street lights through the front door. She ran, turning hysterically from side to side in fear of Marissa or anyone else who might spring from the darkness.

"LANE!"

The pitch of the scream bolted through Lane's head just as her thighs whacked into a table that sent her toppling to the floor.

Lane looked up, tears beginning to streak from her eyes—she knew that voice.

"GiGi?"

"Lane." GiGi's voice was breaking as she battled her own set of tears. "Lane, w-w-what's going on? I—I got your message on my walkie talkie, and I just...I heard something about the church, but..."

"GiGi, you can't be here...y—you have to g...we have to get out of here..."  

"Lane." Her voice was almost a whisper. "Lane, what did those men do to you?"

"I c—I can't," Lane began. "GiGi, we don't have time. I got away, but Marissa could still be somewhere in here..."

"...Marissa?" GiGi whispered. "Who's Maris—"

BAM!

"GIGI!" Lane screamed as her best friend fell to the floor.

Through the shadows that surrounded, Lane managed to make out the tall and thin woman who stood before her on a set of high heels, her right hand clenching what looked in the darkness to be a sharp wooden board.

"M—Marissa?"

She didn't say a word, only reached out and grabbed Lane by the shoulder.

"Hey, let go of me!" Lane screamed, twisting out of Marissa's grasp and running to GiGi's side. "Oh, my gosh. She's—she's bleeding!"

Marissa simply stood there and stared down at Lane, whose breaths drew sporadically as she stared over the ballooning puddle of GiGi's blood.

"What the heck is wrong with you!?" Lane screeched at Marissa.

"That girl broke into this church!" Marissa boomed. "I was defending myself, defending everyone!"

"More like defending you and Pastor Hall and your dirty little secret!" Lane screamed as she stood to her feet.

Marissa glared at her. "You're coming with me, young lady. I have a feeling Pastor Hall will want a word with you." She grabbed Lane's shoulder again, this time tightening her grip.

"Let me go!" Lane screamed, trying again to twist away. But this time, Marissa's grasp was ironclad; and she used her other hand to hold the sharp wood to Lane's back.

"LET ME GO! I HAVE TO SAVE GIGI!"

"Walk!" Marissa ordered, pointing Lane back down the hall, in the direction of that awful, awful room.

Lane looked back, her eyes filling with tears. "Marissa, please!" she begged. "GiGi's dying!"

Marissa kept the wood to Lane's back, threatening to pierce between her shoulder blades should she move backward even an inch.

Lane's head was pulsing pain in tendrils behind her eyes and along her cheeks. Her shins and thighs ached, as did her arms and shoulders. But feeling Marissa's wretched grip on her, seeing in her mind's eye the shadowed image of her best friend as she lay bleeding, something snapped inside Lane. Something wild and unforgiving—something of pure rage.

She slid to the left and sidestepped the wooden stake, then twisted around and crunched on Marissa's gripping hand with her teeth.

Marissa screamed as Lane spat blood from her mouth, then grabbed that witch of a redhead by her wiry ginger hair and kicked her in the bend of the knees. As Marissa fell, Lane swung her face against the wooden assistant desk situated next to a bordered bulletin board.

The force of the impact sent papers at the desk's edge into flight, and they sailed past Marissa's eyes just as Lane slammed her head against the desk again, then thrusted a heavy kick into her back, forcing her to the floor.

Reaching downward, Lane grabbed the sharpened wood that lay close to Marissa's writhing body. "You..." Lane began, her brain racing. "You stood in front of all those people, and you LIED ABOUT ME!" She struck Marissa in the back of the head with the wood.

Marissa yelled again, louder this time, her gnarled and bloody hand reaching for her tender skull.

"You let Pastor Hall and Mr. Clather RAPE ME!" Lane raised the wood again, this time pointing the sharp end for Marissa.

CLICK!

Lane's eyes shot to the end of the hall, where that horrible room's door finally swung open. Out of it emerged two dark and stocky figures.

Lane turned to GiGi, spotting again that grisly wound and the blood that seeped from it. Tears surged at the sight of her best friend, motionless, lying face down.

Feet rushed as Lane stared in despair, and the lowest of moans escaped Marissa's lips. Hearing the steps, Lane turned and ran, passing GiGi's body and eventually making it to the front door, which she shoved open with both hands before stealing into the night.

Lane sprinted across the parking lot, the asphalt crunching into the bottom of her feet. Tiny dots of blood and broken skin decorated the paved and crackling rocks.

Bright lights shone onto Lane's back as the familiar whirr of an engine sounded behind her. Lane turned as the lights grew brighter and bigger, Marcus barreling towards her in the driver's seat of that pitch-black car. She twisted away from the road and rushed instead to the edge of the lot, where tall trees stood guard of the forest behind them.

Lane bounded between the foliage, ignored the downward reaching mossy hands of her willowy protectors as Marcus was forced to stop his car.

She ran deeper and deeper, her feet stomping quickly against the dewy grass as she heard the sound of a car door opening in the distance.

Were Marcus and Glenn preparing to follow her on foot?

Could she outrun them?

As Lane kept sprinting, the forest grew darker and darker. She prepared to stop, to feel for tree trunks and roots bulging from the ground—perhaps a way to escape?—but then she spotted a solitary light. Sticking her hands in front of her as a guide, she began moving towards that tiny flicker of brightness.

Leaves crunched, and the chirps of tiny crickets reached Lane's ears as she stayed fixed on the light. It grew larger and larger as crumbling vines and flowers disintegrated beneath her feet.

She grasped a low-hanging branch, then felt hard asphalt underpin her feet as she took another step. Lane gasped and looked down, finding herself to be standing upon paved ground again.

The street! She had made it to the street!

She stared around, registering at once the pallor of tinier lights released by the smattering of streetposts along the highway. But all those lights seemed only infinitesimal dots in comparison to the one that glowed before her now. Across the street, in a quaintly situated one-story home, brightness shone through the front windows.

Lane bolted forward, darting through the road before running up the sidewalk to bang on the door. She smashed her fist thrice, then slammed the doorbell as swiftly as she could.

"HELP!" she screamed. "HELP! PLEASE, HELP!"

Whoever was in there—at least someone must have heard her.

She darted left to the windows stationed amid the home's outcropped bricking, peering inside as she began banging on the glass as well. "HELP! SOMEBODY, PLEASE HELP!"

Under the glow of the artificial lights, a man shuffled into view wearing a long cotton bathrobe.

"MISTER! MISTER, PLEASE HELP ME!"

He turned to the window, and Lane froze.

"L—L—Landon?" she gasped, just as a thin blond appeared and drew close to him. The woman whispered into his ear, then began toying with his bathrobe. She slid away the sash from around his torso and pulled free the buttons that secured the fabric in place.

Lane's jaw dropped as the robe fell to Landon's waist, then the lady put a single finger to his lips and scampered out of sight. In seconds, the home's bright lights vanished.

"What the—?" Lane began. "HELP! I NEED HELP!" she tried again, slamming against the window pane. "PLEASE!" Lane fell to her knees, each bang of her fists growing lighter, weaker.

The only reply from inside the house was a light and air-filled laughter, followed by low mumbles and groans.

I don't believe this. Lane could feel the hopelessness pouring from her eyes. I can't—I can't...

She twisted her back to the window, curled her body forward on the paved porch, pulled her forearms around her legs. She began for the first time to notice the fresh marks on her feet, thin cuts and streaked blood intermingled with forest dirt.

Was this it? Would she sit there, at Landon's doorstep, and wait until Marcus and Glenn caught up to her? It wouldn't be hard; they would make it to the edge of the woods and find her where she sat. Maybe they would force themselves on her again, or maybe they would simply snap her neck and leave her for Landon and his whore to clean up.

She could do it. She could let herself die there. She had fought; oh, how she had fought. But they were too strong—all of them.

Marcus, Glenn, Marissa, her mother, Madam Caroline, Mrs. Alvin.

All the power of EdgeWay flowed through them. That sick, sick power that somehow kept their illusions intact and their realities unpenetrated.

But what about GiGi?

Lane raised her head at the thought.

If I die here, GiGi dies—and Marissa and Marcus and Glenn get away with EVERYTHING!

More tears surged, but Lane stood to her feet as they soaked her cheeks. She stared across the street, this time listening for footsteps.

She pulled in a deep breath through her mouth, then burst into another sprint, making it across the street in seconds before tearing back into the forest. She didn't know where she was going, but she knew she had to keep running.

The noises of the night encircled her, and tree branches reached to her on either side as she ducked between them. Her feet fell on more rocks, more vines, more decaying leaves that crunched with each step.

She flung her hands to both sides, grazing trees and branches to keep her bearing until suddenly, her arms felt nothing. Beneath her feet, the edges of tree roots and trailing vines were replaced by fine blades of grass pointing skyward.

Lane blinked, tried her best to filter in whatever shimmers of light she could as she strained to discern the surrounding patch of treeless ground covered with what appeared to be tombstones. Slowly, as she squinted, she noticed a figure in the darkness. It was moving, moving toward her.

But she didn't run; she knew not to run. For it wasn't Marcus who drew near, and it wasn't Glenn.

That deliberate confidence, those unwavering steps...she knew only one person, only one boy, who walked as this one did.

"Sam," she whispered, then fell to her knees.

The boy in darkness ran the moment Lane fell; he ran so fast that she scarcely thought it possible—somehow, he caught her in his arms before she could collapse fully to the grass.

"Lane?" He stared down at her, and Lane could now see the look of worry written across his face. "Lane, are you okay?"

She began sniffling, and tears poured from her eyes. "No, Sam," she cried. "I'm not okay. I—I think I'm g...going to die."

"What? Lane, what are you—?" He froze, staring for the first time at the blood and bruises that seemed to cover almost every inch of Lane's bare skin. Between the strands of her ripped pajama shirt, he spotted more bruises beneath her shoulder; and blood was streaked along the sides of her legs, all the way up to the frayed underwear around her upper thighs.

"Lane." Sam's voice started to crack. "...What happened to you?"

"I c—cant...I don't have time to...to explain. I...I have to hide."

"Hide? Hide from what?"

"Pastor...M-M-Marcus...Glennnn." Lane's words shivered from between her lips as she tried her best to stand.

"Lane, whoa," Sam cautioned. "Take it easy, okay? Look, just let me help you—"

"Y-y-you can't," she whispered. "I...I have to hide."

Sam gulped loudly, then blinked and started shaking his head. "Lane, I don't...I mean—"

"Hide," Lane rasped, then staggered to her feet. She ran shakily to a corner of the wooded area and dove to the ground, unearthing a tiny whirlwind of leaves. She grasped at the leaves and began piling them on top of herself, Sam staring awestruck all the while.

"Shhh!" Lane screeched at him, placing her finger over her lips as she covered her face with more leaves. She felt tiny legs scurrying across her arms, behind her neck. But she didn't move. For the first time in her life, Lane Martin was covered in bugs and didn't scream.

She lay still—so perfectly still that Sam began to worry. He glanced around warily. Was he beginning to fear that whatever was pursuing Lane might come for him as well?

He spun to the right when he heard footsteps.

"Samuel? Samuel, is that you?"

"Pastor Hall?" he replied. "And...Mr. Clather?"

"Samuel, what...what're you doing out here so late?"

"I, uh, I was..." He cleared his throat. "Just visiting someone."

"Oh, right," Marcus's voice grew lower. "Of course. I don't mean to impose."

"It's...it's fine," Sam mused. "I just...is everything okay, Pastor Hall?"

"Of course," Marcus replied, then paused for a moment before continuing: "Say, Sam, you haven't...run into anyone out here, have you?"

Sam gulped. "What?"

"It's late, and it's very dark. I was just wondering—you haven't seen anyone? Anyone running through these woods or...sneaking around the streets?"

"N—no," Sam shook his head slowly. "I haven't; it's just me."

Marcus sighed. "Well, if you see anything...or anyone, then—"

"Then what?" Sam interjected. "Who would be out here this late? And...and why are you out here this late?"

Marcus's hand shot out instantly and grabbed Sam's arm. "Listen to me," he ordered. "It is my job to keep my people safe."

"You're a pastor, not a cop," Sam fired back. "And just what are you so worried about anyway?"

Marcus tightened his grip. "If you're lying to me, you'd better hope th—"

POW! Sam's fist rammed into Marcus's jaw, and he stumbled backwards.

Glenn bounded forward at Sam, but Sam swung his other fist into Glenn's throat and then turned to run.

"GET BACK HERE!" Marcus yelled at Sam as he darted between gravestones and ripped through moss and leaves, disappearing into the surrounding forest.

"Get the car!" Marcus barked at Glenn. "Circle around and meet me at the path to Garrett Loop! We'll cut him off!"

No! Lane thought, fiery tears bursting from her eyes. Run, Sam! she wanted to yell.

Her sight started to blur, unable to distinguish the ebony night from the dusk of her own eyelids as they drooped with exhaustion and the heaviness of it all.

Please, God, she pleaded internally, her mind whirring as she thought of GiGi, of Sam, even little Irina. Please—please don't let them...please...

Her eyes shut, but the darkness refused to dissipate.

God...please...

Wind brushed over her in waves; the glooming air chilled through the leaves, wrapped its arms around her as she released a hushed breath.

Please, God—I'm begging you...