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Gidge revs the engine. The tractor lurches backward an inch, and the winch keeps pulling.

Peter's body stretches. His spine arches, the space between his ribs and his hips elongating like taffy. I can hear his joints popping—hips, lower back, the wet sound of tissue starting to tear.

He's screaming now, full-throated, a sound that echoes through the trees and bounces back.

"Please!" he shrieks. "Please, God, please⁠—"

Gidge doesn't stop. She eases off the clutch, and lets the tractor roll back another foot. The winch cable hums, pulling steady.

I hear the first tear. A wet, ripping sound, like separating thick leather. His lower spine gives way with a crack that I feel in my own back.

Blood sprays. It's not a trickle—it's a burst, splattering the tree trunk, the leaves, my boots. Peter's torso splits from his pelvis, the skin peeling back, organs spilling out in a slick, steaming pile.

He doesn't scream anymore. His mouth is open, but nothing comes out. His eyes are wide, fixed on nothing.

Gidge kills the engine and climbs off the tractor, adjusts her straw hat, and looks at the two halves of what used to be Peter.

"Huh," she says. "Cleaner than I thought."

Nobody says anything.

She looks at me, and grins. "Same time tomorrow?"

Chapter

Fifty-Seven

Autumn

This morning, I woke up, and all the stress and fear I’ve been holding in since those photos showed up, is gone.

Sunlight is already pouring through the bedroom windows. For a few seconds, I stay exactly where I am, warm beneath the blankets.

I stare up at the ceiling.

Nobody is stalking me. Nobody is watching me. No one is waiting around the next corner.

A smile pulls at my mouth before I even move, mostly because somebody is snoring…loudly. I lift my head enough to look down the bed.

Tripp is sprawled across the bottom half of the mattress and one arm hangs off the side, his face buried in a pillow, completely oblivious to the fact he's making noises usually associated with heavy machinery.

Behind me, Clint's arm is draped around my waist, his chest warm against my back. On my other side, Briggs is still asleep, too, one arm thrown over his eyes.

For a long moment, I just lie there looking at them.

These men were strangers; now they're home.

Tripp lets out another aggressive snore. Without opening his eyes, Briggs blindly grabs a pillow and launches it. The pillow smacks Tripp directly in the face, and I laugh so hard I accidentally wake everybody up.

"What the hell?" Tripp mumbles.

"You were snoring."

"So?"

Clint groans into my shoulder and Briggs rolls over.

"You're dramatic," Tripp whines.