“I’m going to find you, Tatum!” Mars’s voice bulleted through the trees.
No, no he wasn’t.
She crouched, breathing hard and spotted light flash against the trees.
Mars had brought his Maglite.
And here she was, wearing a red sweater, like neon. But she couldn’t take if off—not if she didn’t want to freeze to death. Already, her static position had turned her feet to ice cubes.
Sticking around much longer might turn them black.
She crept away from the light, deeper into the forest, hiding under an old-growth evergreen, its arms shaggy and broad.
Get back to the house.The thought pulsed.Get back to the house,lock them all inside,callfor help.
Fight or flight. Well, running seemed like a superb option at the moment.
Already, she’d lured Mars away from the houses, maybe a tenth of a mile toward the ridge. It would box her in, but if she circled back toward the lake, she could trek back along the shoreline.
Felt like a good plan.
She got up, her footsteps soft in the snow. Oh, she hoped she could keep her toes. She liked her toes.
The moon barely broke through the webbing of the forest here, and she tried to douse her breath before it gave her away.
The wind picked up the sound of a tiny bell, and she stilled.
No—
The sound deepened, the tinkling faster, as if Orlando had found her trail.
Because of course Jericho would have returned to the house by now. Discovered her gone.
So, maybe she’d fight?
No. She was unarmed. And not stupid.
Rounding, she took off at an angle, back toward the house, through the snowy drifts and uneven ground. And even as she did, she tested the wind.
It came off the lake, through the trees, sending her scent north.
Which meant Orlando would keep coming.
And behind him, Jericho.
Worse, as she stopped, her hand gripping the icy bark of a paper birch, she no longer heard the huffing of Mars, crunching through the snow in his heavy boots.
She took off, running harder, back toward her house.Please,please,Orlando,pick upmy scent. Follow me home.
A flashlight beamed through the forest, maybe a hundred yards away, and she ducked under a tree as light scanned past her.
Then she took off running again. Oh, why didn’t she carry a decent weapon?
Maybe her father still kept his weapons locked in the basement. She knew the code—
Barking.
Orlando had picked up her scent. Or maybe—maybe Mars’s scent? The dog did know it, after all. Mars had tried to kill him before.