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She could have cracked ribs. She could be bleeding inside, or carrying an infection from whatever was done to her, and none of that shows on the outside until it's bad. But she got here on her own two feet, and she isn't going to let a stranger touch her tonight.

"Not tonight," I say. "But come morning, somebody's going to look you over. If you collapse before then, I'm getting help whether you like it or not."

She walks in ahead of me. I follow a step behind and reach for the switch on the wall beside the door.

When my hand comes up, she flinches.

Her whole body jerks away from my raised arm, shoulders hunched, head ducked, and the knife comes up between us. It's over almost before it starts.

She straightens and stares at me, chin up, waiting for me to say one word about it.

I freeze with my arm halfway to the wall. "Light switch," I tell her quietly.

I bring it the rest of the way, slow, so she can track it, and flip the switch. The lamp on the dresser comes on, and this close I can see what the work light in the barn didn't show me.

Her shirt is torn down the left side. Through the rip, the skin over her ribs is a patchwork of every color a bruise turns. Some marks are fresh and purple, some have gone green, and some have faded to yellow at the edges. Her forearms carry the same mix.

I fill the biggest glass in the kitchenette, set it on the table by the bed, and fill a second one to go with it.

The whole time, her eyes stay on the open door behind me, like she's waiting for somebody else to walk through it.

I take the key off my ring and set it on the table beside the glasses. Her eyes leave the door just long enough to find the key, and then they go right back. "That's the only key," I tell her. "The lock's on the knob. It's cheap, and I'll replace it tomorrow. Tonight I'll be on that porch, and nobody gets to this door without going through me."

I walk out and pull the door shut. Before I've let go of it, the lock clicks.

I move my truck across the drive so nothing on wheels reaches the house without going around it. I pull my rifle from behind the seat and lean it against the porch post.

Then I brace both palms flat on the rail and hold on until I quit wanting to put my fist through something.

I text Jesse to ask about Raven and get nothing back. He's either still out there after Harlan or driving her somewhere safe, and either way I'm not who he's answering right now.

Past midnight, my little brother Beckett finally texts that Raven's out, Harlan's dead on the gravel, and Jesse took her home to the cabin. He doesn't mention getting grazed until a few texts later, and then only to say he's not going to any damn hospital. That makes two people I'm stuck with who'd rather bleed than let anybody look at them.

I call Jesse. "How is she?"

"Cuts and bruises. She'll be fine." He pauses. "How's yours?"

Mine. I almost tell him she isn't mine, but the words won't come.

"She won't let me call a doctor." My voice drops low. "She's got bruises on her ribs, her face, her arms. Somebody worked her over, Jesse. It wasn't a beating. This was sustained and systematic, like somebody was trying to break her."

"Did she talk to you?"

"Barely. She asked for water and a locked door." I have to stop and breathe. "She flinched when I raised my hand to turn on the light, Jesse. She flinched."

He goes silent for a while.

"Don't push her tonight," he says. "Let her sleep. We'll figure it out tomorrow."

"I'm not leaving the porch."

"I know you're not."

I hang up without saying goodbye.

Not long after, a door bangs shut toward the back of the guest house, where the bathroom is. Then the thuds start.

They're dull and heavy, a fist hitting tile. They come in bursts with long silences in between, and every time I think she's done, she starts up again.