quiet, and snapped off the lamp. Any minute, any second, he’d come bursting through the door, breaking the frame or throwing a chair through the glass at the top. No more time to think or read. I had to find a weapon, something to defend us with. Beverly lay limp, offering no suggestions, no advice.

I chewed my lip, clung to Molly, and looked from the door to the coat closet to the file cabinet to the window. The window. It was level with the top of my head. The kind that pushes open. If I could get us up there, we might be able to slither through. It was a chance.

Something was scraping, scratching at the door. Was he trying to file away the lock? The scratching stopped, and for the moment everything was quiet again.

“Molly,” I whispered and pointed to the window. I gestured, showing her what I was going to do. She nodded, eyes wide, and let go of me. I moved the desk chair, climbed up on it, and pulled at the window. It resisted, wouldn’t give. I found the clasp, which was old and rusted and promised that it hadn’t been unlocked in decades, but I pushed and turned anyway, trying to unlock it. Damn. My fingers slipped, and I saw flashes of white as pain slashed my fingertips. I’d torn a nail, and blood seeped under it, pulsing. But there was no time for cursing. I tried again, grabbing the clasp firmly, tugging at it slowly, steadily, with all the weight of my shoulders and torso. Finally, in slow motion, it gave. I turned the handle, pushed, and the window opened outward. Frigid wind slapped my face.

There was a crash at the door. The sound of something large butting the solid wood. Molly jumped up and ran to me.

I pulled her up onto the chair with me. The window looked very tiny. The door shook. I reached up, lifting Molly up to the windowsill. I pushed; she scooted and was out. I tried to follow. I grabbed the frame and tugged. No way. I was too bulky, too big to fit through. Another crash at the door. And another. I ripped off my sweatshirt and threw it out into the snow. I was thinner now, but not much. Woods rammed the door again and again. The top hinge burst. A few seconds and he’d be in. I had no time.

SIXTY-FIVE

GRASPING THE FRAME, I PULLED MYSELF UP. THE WINDOWSILL scraped my breasts, then my belly as I squeezed over it, barely fitting through. Molly grabbed my head and pulled. The palms of my hands stuck to frozen metal and my fingers burned, then throbbed. But I slid, slithered, and kicked, bruising my knees and my shins, clawing ice until finally, with Molly’s help, I landed on my face in the snow.

As I reached back to close the window, I heard the shattering of glass. An arm in a pink mohair sweater reached down through a jagged hole in the glazed pane where Beverly’s name had been, feeling for the bolt. I pulled Molly away from the window and we hunkered against the wall, shivering in merciless cold. I put on my sweatshirt and tried to get my bearings.

The fence closed us in. We were boxed in by three walls of brick and one of wire, barbed at the top, and higher than we could hope to climb.

Behind us, I heard Woods rummaging around in Beverly’s office. I thought he’d see my jacket on Beverly, notice the chair beneath the open window, and come charging after us. But he didn’t. The shattering and crashing were followed by sounds of papers shuffling. And wind blowing. I crouched beside the window, holding on to Molly, afraid to move. From where I sat, I was able to see only a few square feet of the office, the small part of the floor between the desk and the window. What was he doing? I didn’t dare lean over to see more, couldn’t risk being discovered. But I pictured Woods at the desk, looking around. Was it possible that he hadn’t noticed my jacket? Or the open window?

I released a breath and looked at Molly, who was bug-eyed and silent, her teeth chattering. Inside the office, drawers slammed. Papers and manila folders flew across the slice of desk I could see. Files and patient records landed on the floor. What was he looking for? Then I knew: the 302. Woods was searching