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The sofa was empty except for the brown woolen blanket slung haphazardly across its back. Crossing her arms across her chest, she walked toward the kitchen and peered out the window. Dawn was just beginning to creep through
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the shadowy grass. Last night's lingering rain clung to the leaves, making them appear rich and glossy green.
It was so quiet, Tess could hear the raindrops falling from the leaves and plunking in the still wet grass.
Cold seeped through the thin pane, making her shiver. But it was more than the cold that sent a skitter along her flesh.
Something is wrong.
"No," she said aloud, taking comfort from the strength and certainty of her own voice. Nothing was wrong. Jack was simply out before dawn, working his fields as always.
And yet, she didn't quite believe it.
She stared across the farm's rolling, grassy pastures, willing herself to see a lone figure. Somewhere. Anywhere.
"Where are you, Jack?" she murmured. "And what's wrong?"
Jack opened his eyes and thought for a moment he was blind. The world was a smeary wash of black and midnight blue and deep purple, of impossibly shifting shapes and imposing shadows.
Dread slammed through his body, tensed his every muscle until he ached. He rolled onto his stomach and lay panting, trying desperately to remember something. Anything.
Nausea thrummed his stomach hard, coiled around his insides. He swallowed thickly, praying he wouldn't vomit, and crawled shakily to his knees. On all fours he paused, head hung low, taking deep, measured breaths.
Gradually he became aware of the scent of fresh green grass and wildflowers.
He sat back on his heels and looked wearily around him. The headache had already begun, pounding behind
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his eyes like hammerblows. His vision swam in and out of focus.
The west pasture.
He was in his own field.
"Thank God," he whispered in a raspy, scream-weakened voice.
He started to get to his feet, but as he moved, his knee ground into something hard and cold. He shifted sideways, reaching blindly for the object. His fingers curled around something long and narrow and chillingly cold.
A knife.
Jack squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a flash of terror so icy, so consuming, he thought for a moment he was going to vomit after all.
His hands started to shake. Curling his fingers tighter around the cold blade, he lifted it up. It seemed to grow heavier, colder. Sweat crawled in an itchy trail down his forehead. Fear radiated through his body, echoing with every painful throb of his headache.
What have I done? The familiar question drove like an icepick into his brain.
No, he thought desperately, I wouldn't hurt my children. Please, God, not my children ...
Weary, shaking with fear and shame and despair, he opened his eyes and looked at what he had in his hands.
A piece of metal. Just a goddamn piece of metal. Not a knife at all.
He got to his feet and started the long walk home. With every step, every breath, his fear escalated until, by the time he saw the outline of the house in the distance, he was wound tighter than a badly made clock.
"Please, God," he mumbled time and again, his hands curled into white-knuckled, shaking fists, "not my children. Not my children. Please ..."
