the neighbors had called the cops. How was that possible? Where was Mr. Nevins? Something thumped heavily, and Juno ran toward the sound. He was going to shoot Winnie, she was certain of it. He didn’t just want to hurt the elusive Manda, who had wounded his pride by not taking him back, he wanted to show his family what would happen when they didn’t prioritize him. Juno realized something else as well: he was going to kill himself. She could see now that Dakota had planned this out; she’d seen his truck circling the house and had thought nothing of it. And for Dakota’s final act of power, he needed to hurt everyone who’d hurt him.
She took a resigned peace in her final evaluation as a therapist—even one who had lost her license—as she moved toward her destination, the mantel. Winnie’s garish decorating provided five-pound weights; the busts and the statue of David Juno hated were expensively heavy. The orange one was dead center—the one that reminded her of Joe and his orange juice. She ran for it, darting past the open door of the den and grabbing it by the neck. Beyond the den, in the apartment, Dakota was pulling his twin to her feet. She had a brief glimpse of Winnie’s back, and then the fireplace was in front of her. Juno wasn’t sure if he’d seen her. The weight of orange David made her knees dip; as she straightened up, she moved out of sight, hiding behind the open door to Nigel’s den.
Juno closed her eyes and said a silent prayer, her heart hammering so hard it hurt.
Dakota stepped out with Winnie held against his front, walking slowly, the gun to her head. Her hands were bound and the gag was back in her mouth. But as soon as Dakota stepped across the threshold and into Juno’s sight line, it was already too late for him. Juno, concealed behind the open door, was already behind him. She stepped forward from behind the door and swung the base in an arc like she was holding a baseball bat. The orange David hit Dakota’s head with a dull thud, and she dropped it as pain exploded down her arm from the impact. Dakota let go of Winnie, who looked like she was barely conscious, and lurched forward. Winnie fell face-first onto the carpet and stayed there; Juno didn’t know if she’d passed out or was playing dead. Both were an excellent idea on her part. Juno stared at Dakota, who had fallen onto his knees, roaring in pain, an ugly grimace on his face. She didn’t wait to see what he’d do next. Juno ran again.
She held her arm cradled to her chest, legs pumping with the last of her adrenaline. When she got to the front door, she saw again the heavy chair Dakota had pushed under the door handle. The time it would take her to move it... If she went back now and ran for the kitchen, she’d most likely run directly into him. She managed to unlock the deadbolt before she heard him in the hallway behind her, but she couldn’t open the door without moving the chair, and Nigel’s body was between it and the door. God, Dakota wasn’t as dumb as he looked. She ran for the closet instead, opening the door and closing it behind her; she hauled up the trapdoor with her good hand. She was so distracted by the thought of Dakota finding her at any minute that she didn’t move her face out of the way; the corner of the trapdoor whacked her above her left eye, slicing through her eyebrow. Juno felt the sting and then the warm flow of blood. She didn’t wait for her vision to clear—as the closet door opened, she slipped into her cave.
Juno knew deep down that she should have left this house when she had the chance. Now here she was, going deeper into the shit rather than out of it. But wasn’t that the story of her life? Out on parole but in a different type of prison. But the crawl space is safe, she told herself. She knew it well, and Dakota had never been in it before, so she had the advantage, even if her body was screaming.
She dropped onto her hands and knees and immediately began crawling. She didn’t need light to know where she was going, but Dakota would. She heard him swearing behind her and