at the porch light, which was bright white, like a flame. Blood had dripped into her eyes. Charlotte used her fists to rub it away. The welcome mat had a plump, red strawberry on it with a smiling face, arms and legs.
Her feet left dark prints on the mat.
She raised her hand.
Her wrist had a springiness, like the rubber band on a paddle ball.
Charlotte had to steady one hand with the other so that she could knock on the door. A bloody, wet impression of her knuckles was left on the painted white wood.
In the house, she heard a chair scrape back. Light footsteps across the floor. A woman’s chipper voice asked, “Who could that be knocking so late?”
Charlotte did not answer.
There were no locks that clicked, no chain that slid back. The door opened. A blonde woman stood in the kitchen. Her hair was pinned back in a loose ponytail. She was older than Charlotte. Pretty. Her eyes went wide. Her mouth opened. Her hand fluttered to her chest, as if she had been hit by an arrow.
“Oh—” the woman said. “My God. My God. Daddy!” She reached for Charlotte, but she didn’t seem to know where to touch her. “Come in! Come in!”
Charlotte took one step, then another, then she was standing inside the kitchen.
She shivered, though the space was warm.
Everything was so clean, so brightly lit. The wallpaper was yellow with red strawberries. A matching border rimmed the tops of the walls. The toaster had a knitted cozy with a strawberry stitched onto the side. The kettle on the stove was red. The clock on the wall, a cat with moving eyes, was red.
“Good Lord in Heaven,” a man whispered. He was older, bearded. His eyes were almost perfectly round behind his glasses.
Charlotte stepped away until her back was against the wall.
He asked the woman, “What the hell happened?”
“She just knocked on the door.” The woman was crying. Her voice trilled like a piccolo. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“That’s one of the Quinn girls.” He opened the curtains. He looked outside. “Are they still out there?”
Zachariah Culpepper.
Daniel Culpepper.
Sam.
The man reached his hands to the top of the cabinet. He pulled down a rifle, a box of bullets. “Give me the phone.”
Charlotte started to shake again. The rifle was long, its barrel like a sword that could cut her open.
The woman reached for the cordless phone on the wall. She knocked it to the ground. She scooped it up. Her hands were still fluttering, their motions chaotic, uncontrollable. She raised the antenna. She handed the phone to her father.
He said, “I’ll call the police. Lock the door behind me.”
The woman did as she was told, her fingers clumsy as she tried to turn the latch. She clasped together her hands. She looked at Charlotte. She took a quick breath. She glanced around the room. “I don’t know what …” She put her hand to her mouth. She was looking at the mess on the floor.
Charlotte saw it, too. Blood was pooling around her feet. It was coming from her insides, sliding down her legs, past her knees, her ankles, steady and slow like the trickle that came from the farmhouse faucet if you didn’t hit it hard enough with the hammer.
She moved her foot. The blood followed her. She remembered learning about snails, the way they left a slick slime behind them.
“Sit down,” the woman said. She sounded steadier now, more sure of herself. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You can sit down.” She gently pressed her fingers to Charlotte’s shoulder, guided her to the chair. “The police will come,” she said. “You’re safe now.”
Charlotte did not sit down. The woman did not look like she felt safe.
“I’m Miss Heller.” She knelt down in front of Charlotte. She brushed back her hair. “You’re Charlotte, is that right?”
Charlotte nodded.
“Oh, angel.” Miss Heller kept stroking her hair. “I’m sorry. Whatever happened to you, I’m so sorry.”
Charlotte felt a weakness in her knees. She did not want to sit, but she had to. The pain was like a knife jamming into her insides. Her bottom ached. She could feel something warm coming out of her front like she was peeing herself again.
She asked Miss Heller, “Can I have some ice cream?”
The woman said nothing at first. Then she stood. She gathered a bowl, some vanilla ice cream, a spoon. She placed it all on the table.
The smell brought a surge of bile into Charlotte’s throat. She swallowed it back down. She picked