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of the hor-
rible disconnect from reality she felt.
The bearded man looked down, his own eyes open wide in
surprise.
Minnie pulled on the knife — it gave more resistance than she
would have expected — and it came free with a spurt of dark blood.
The bearded man looked at her.
He smiled.
She turned and ran, the bloody knife still clutched in her fist.
She didn’t know what to do. All she could think of was the soft,
wet give of his body beneath her knife, and the way he’d said, “I’ve
caught one, too.”
Too.
She was back at the church, pacing the steps, before she knew
it. She kept repeating their faces — Cora, Arthur, Thomas,
Charles — wondering who was gone.
She wondered if she’d just killed a man.
She wondered if she cared.
Wiping the knife on her dress, she put it back in the makeshift
sheath against her leg. If something had happened to anyone she
loved, she wouldn’t care if she’d killed him. She would never care.
She would do it again.
“Minnie!”
Her heart bright with hope that hurt like pain, she looked
up to see Arthur, her Arthur, running toward her, followed by
Thomas. And then she looked past them and saw no one, and the
hope crashed into terror and despair.
“They aren’t with you,” she said.
“Where is my brother?” Thomas demanded, putting his hands
on her shoulders and shaking her. “Where is he?” His face was
