“No.”

  “I hope you choke on a clot.”

  “Are you upside down, Harry?” I asked him.

  “I am. I’m worried my head is going to pop, all this blood rushing up from my big dick. You okay?”

  “Broken arm, I think.”

  “Someone kicked your ass, too? I feel like I spent an hour in a cement mixer with a pallet of bricks.”

  “Larry,” Blood whispered. “He tenderized you.”

  “Hey, Jackie, I think I’m ready to form an opinion about your next-door neighbor. I’m thinking he might be dangerous.”

  I heard a soft chuckle.

  “That’s right, asshole,” Harry said. “You get a meal and a floor show.”

  “I can taste your elevated histamine levels.”

  “What does it taste like?” Harry asked. “Dr. Pepper?”

  “It tastes like fear.”

  “Does it also taste like herpes? Because you need to head to the store and buy up every lip balm you can find.”

  “What is Larry going to do with us?” I asked Blood.

  “Tenderize you again. Then put you in the freezer.”

  “Are you going to come back?”

  “Yes. But not for you. For your children.”

  I came close to starting another round of screaming, but Harry interrupted me.

  “I’m going to tell you a secret, Blood. Me and Jackie, we don’t die so easily. We’re going to get out of here. And we’re going to track you down.”

  “And then you’re going to kill me.” Blood gargled some of Harry’s blood. “How original.”

  “No, Blood. That would be too merciful. Instead, I’m going to befriend you, and then friendship will slowly blossom into something more, something shockingly intense and startlingly beautiful, and after you fall desperately in love with me, we’ll plan a gigantic wedding—we’re talking a page 9 Variety photo spread with all of the Baldwin brothers who aren’t currently in jail—and after a full decade of wedded, marital bliss… I’m going to ass fuck both of your parents and send you the pictures.”

  “You’re not a very nice man,” Blood whispered.

  “Did you hear the part about a full decade of marital bliss? Ow!”

  “You okay, Harry?”

  “The suck tube got yanked out. Hey, Blood! Got a Band-Aid?”

  “No. But I have something else.”

  “A blowjob?”

  “A bat.”

  “Not interested. I’d rather have a—YAAAAAAAA!”

  The dull thump of sporting goods vs. private eye was punctuated by screams and occasional black humor.

  “Quit it! I’m not a goddamn piñata!”

  THUD!

  “You hit like a baby! A giant, strong-ass baby!”

  THUD!

  “I lied! We’re divorcing after the third year!”

  THUD!

  “I don’t have herpes! I have super herpes! You’re not going to need Valtrex, you’re going to need ten pounds of kryptonite!”

  THUD THUD THUD!

  Then Harry was quiet.

  Then…

  Sobbing.

  “I’m not bad. I just do bad things.”

  I pushed it all back. Fear of dying. Pain from the injuries and the stress position. Threats against my kid. My best friend being beaten.

  Holy shit. Harry really was my best friend.

  But I pushed back that thought as well, and focused on speaking clearly and compassionately.

  “Blood, you’re hurting. I bet you’ve been hurting for a long time.”

  “How would you know?” I still couldn’t determine Blood’s gender, but they sounded young. Early twenties. Maybe late teens.

  “You don’t have to be in pain, Blood. You don’t have to suffer.”

  “You don’t know. You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I know that no one needs to hurt. No one is beyond getting help. I can help you.”

  “How?” A tinge of hope in their voice.

  “There are ways.”

  “What ways?”

  “Professionals,” I said. “Doctors.”

  “NO! NO DOCTORS!”

  The bat hit me in the hip.

  Then it hit me in other places.

  I clenched every muscle in my body, hoping the beating stopped before I passed out.

  It didn’t.

  SAM

  Mr. Wintergarten mostly watched the front door, but he would occasionally look back and check on me and Harry Junior.

  I timed it when he did. Counting in my head.

  Sometimes I could get to three hundred Mississippis before he glanced at us.

  But one time, he checked after only forty Mississippis.

  I watching him for a while. Counting. Keeping the numbers in my head.

  Mr. Wintergarten, on average, looked at us every one hundred and seventy-two Mississippis.

  Which meant I might have enough time to sneak out the back and run away.

  Maybe.

  Or maybe I wouldn’t have enough time, and then he’d try to catch me.

  And maybe he would catch me. Which was scary.

  But there was something worse than getting caught. Something worse than failing.

  The worst thing would be to not try at all.

  Mom and Dad and Uncle Harry, they had done a lot of things. Important things. Big things. They fought bad people. They had adventures. They were smart and tough and brave and they always tried their hardest. They never gave up. No matter what.

  They were heroes.

  But they were adults. All grown up.

  I was just a kid.

  Smart for my age. But still, just eight years old.

  Mozart wrote a symphony at eight. But I wasn’t Mozart.

  I could never be a genius like Mozart.

  I wasn’t Mom.

  I could never be as smart as Mom.

  I wasn’t Dad.

  I could never be as tough as Dad.

  I wasn’t Uncle Harry.

  I could never be as brave as Uncle Harry.

  But that was okay.

  I knew exactly who I was.

  I was Samantha Adams Troutt-Daniels.

  And I was strong.

  The next time Mr. Wintergarten checked on me and turned away, I silently rolled off the couch and got on all fours and began to count in my head.

  One Mississippi, two Mississippi…

  I crawled slowly, steady, no jerky movements, staying low to the floor.

  Keeping both eyes on the old man with the shotgun.

  Twenty-three Mississippi, twenty-four Mississippi…

  When I got to the side of the sofa, I turned around and crawled backward, facing the back of Mr. Wintergarten’s head so I would know when he turned around.

  Forty-two Mississippi…

  Creeping along. Nice and quiet.

  He shifted in his chair.

  I froze at fifty Mississippi, expecting him to check the sofa.

  He didn’t check the sofa.

  He kept staring at the front door.

  I backed up all the way into the kitchen, then eyed the patio.

  I needed to open the patio door silently, then close it behind me so Mr. Wintergarten didn’t notice the breeze. His house was on the right, so I’d go to the left. I wasn’t sure if I could climb over the fence, but Dad had unpacked the ladder to my swing set slide. I could prop it up and use that.

  I carefully got up to my feet and shuffled across the floor, reaching for the patio door—

  —and I stopped.

  When Mom and Uncle Harry left, they said they’d be back in a few minutes.

  Harry Junior and I were in the middle of a gigantic Gunface Death Warrior 3 battle, and I hadn’t been paying full attention. But in my head, I played back her exact words.

  “We’ll be back in a few minutes, Sam. We’re going next door.”

  Next door. Did Mom mean she was going to Mr. Wintergarten’s house?

  It made sense. That could be where Mr. Wintergarten got our front door key.

  If so, was Mom still at his house?

  Was she in trouble?

  Maybe I shouldn’t run for the neighbor. Maybe I should check on Mom.

  Or maybe that was a really stupid idea.

  I couldn’t decide, and I was at one hundred and sixty Mississippis. Any second now and Mr. Wintergarten was going to check the sofa and see I wasn’t there. Then he’d come looking for me.

  What would a smart person do?

  What would a strong person do?

  What should Samantha Adams Troutt-Daniels do?

  I stared at the sink, at the cabinet below it.

  Mom and Dad had a gun safe there.

  It had a biometric fingerprint scanner on the lock, so I couldn’t open it.

  Which was fine. I didn’t want to open it. Firearms were scary. I was too small to shoot a gun.

  But if I did decide to look for Mom, and she was in trouble at Mr. Wintergarten’s house, I could give her the gun safe.

  I already wasted enough time thinking about it, so I crept over to the cabinet, moving past the living room doorway so I couldn’t see Mr. Wintergarten anymore.

  I opened the cabinet and quickly reached for the safe—

  —bumping a bottle of spray cleaner.

  It seemed to tip over in slow motion, and I felt frozen, paralyzed by fear, and then the cleaner fell onto its side…

  Onto a sponge. It made no sound at all.

  I needed to be more careful.

  I gently picked up the safe, which was the size of a big book and heavier than I expected. I’d seen my parents open it, and knew it was lined with foam, so the stuff inside wouldn’t rattle.

  Then crept back to the patio door and I eased it open, carefully stepped outside, and closed it behind me at two hundred and six Mississippis.

  I had a plan, but it was always good to re-evaluate the situation.

  Any second now, Mr. Wintergarten would come looking for me.

  Should I run to a neighbor’s house and go to the police?

  Should I go to Mr. Wintergarten’s house and hope Mom was there?

  Should I run down the street and hide somewhere and wait for 911 to pick up?

  I knew Mom would be furious if I went looking for her instead of getting help.

  I also knew Mom would go looking for me instead of getting help.

  I had to try and find Mom.

  Not only because she might need help, but because it was a smart place to go. When Mr. Wintergarten noticed I was gone, his own house is the last place he’d probably check. So in a way, that was the safest place to be.

  I headed right, to walk around the sinkhole and get the playground ladder to climb the fence—

  —but I didn’t make it.

  After two steps, the ground opened up.

  I slid down into the sinkhole, and when I hit the bottom, I kept sinking. Up to my waist. Up to my neck, as I clutched the gun safe like it was a pool float.

  But it wasn’t a pool float.

  I was getting pulled down, like a fleck of sand in an hourglass, and I opened my mouth to scream but realized I shouldn’t waste the breath, and then the earth ate me up.

  PHIN

  I opened my eyes.

  There was light. Candles, flickering orange and throwing crazy shades on the cave walls.

  Tried to move. Couldn’t.

  Fishing line had been tied around my arms. My hands. My legs.

  No pain. Just dizziness.

  Dizziness, and a gnawing sound. Like a dog, worrying a bone.

  But it wasn’t a dog. It was Rita.

  And it wasn’t a bone. It was my bare foot.

  She was chewing on my big toe and shaking her head, trying to gnaw it off.

  I pulled my feet away, soaking Rita’s ghoulish face with spurting blood, and I rolled on my side and began to inchworm away.

  Rita’s giggling filled the space.

  “Ast ood.”

  Fast food.

  Then she leapt on my back, pinning me facedown into the dirt, her teeth locking on my ear, and I began to roar in terror.

  LARRY

  He glanced at the children.

  Still asleep.

  It was still too early to bring the kids over to the house. Larry didn’t want to be spotted walking out the front door of a house he didn’t own, carrying a child that wasn’t his.

  A suitcase or large bag were possibilities. Or wrapping them in a blanket.

  Still, if someone drove by, or a next-door neighbor was peering out their window, it might look suspicious.

  Larry could also drive his car over, park in their garage, load the children, and then drive back to his house.

  The problem was Phin.

  Where was he? What if he just showed up suddenly?

  One couldn’t hold a shotgun effectively while also holding a sleeping child.

  So Larry decided to wait. For either the cover of night. Or for Phin to come home.

  He wouldn’t risk the backyard. His neighbors had a seriously nasty sinkhole, and Larry had no inclination to get swallowed up.

  Swallowed up, and possibly trapped down there with Rita.

  The last time Larry had seen his sister was 1978.

  That had been a long while. Long enough to forget the monster she’d become. Now, when Larry closed his eyes, he remembered his sister as a teenaged girl, young and sweet and so full of life and promise.

  He imagined how she must look now, and shuddered at the image.

  Larry turned away from the front door, checking on the children again.

  Neither had moved.

  Rita will be delighted.

  He patted his apron, and removed the syringe to double-check that he’d refilled it with ketamine.

  He had.

  This had been a risky endeavor, and Larry attributed his success so far to luck.

  From now on, he would limit the risks.

  No more killing and eating his neighbors. No matter how juicy their children looked.

  He would only find food out of town. Junkies and whores and runaways. People who wouldn’t be missed.

  Larry wondered if there would ever be an end to this. Many times, over the years, he’d thought about leaving town. Abandoning his sister. Just hopping in the car and heading out, never to return.

  That would be a horrible death for her. Starvation.

  Cutting off her water would be kinder.

  Or simply making cookies with so much ketamine in them, they would stop her heart. Probably the most humane way to go.

  But, truth be told, Rita’s nutritional requirements gave Larry purpose. She counted on him. Needed him.

  And if she outlived Larry, he had made provisions. Blood would move in, and take care of her.

  Larry was a good provider. A good brother.

  Even though he’d dumped Rita in a sinkhole and kept her there for forty years.

  Of course he loved her.

  You didn’t kill over five hundred people for no reason at all.

  He checked the children again.

  The girl, Samantha, wasn’t on the sofa.

  Larry immediately stood, storming into the bathroom, shotgun in hand.

  She wasn’t in there.

  He checked her bedroom. In the closet. Under the bed.

  No little girl.

  Next he went into the master bedroom.

  Not in the closet.

  Not under the bed.

  But next to the bed, on a nightstand—

  A cell phone.

  JACK

  You still alive, Jackie?”

  I peeled my eyes open.

  Still in pain.

  Still upside down in a body bag.

  Still alive.

  “Yeah.”

  “I think Blood hurt himself. Pulled a muscle, beating you with that bat. Nice work.”

  “Happy to help.” I added, “Buttlips.”

  “I take offense. What did I do?”

  “Maybe insulting the blood-drinking lunatic wasn’t a good play.”

  “You’re victim-blaming. That’s victim-blaming, Jackie. Uncool. Besides, he only flipped out when you mentioned doctors. I take zero responsibility for your beating. Anything else broken?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m mostly just numb.”

  “I’m not. I’m one giant, throbbing knot of pain. Worst pain ever.”

  “Have a baby without an epidural,” I countered.

  “Chicks always bring that up. But guess what? You never got kicked in the balls. That’s what I feel like. I feel like the balls, after getting kicked in the balls. Like I’m trapped in a giant scrotum.”

  “Not an image I need in my head.”

  “First you victim-blame. Now you’re going all prude on me. I’m just trying to explain that I feel like two battered nuts, trapped in a wrinkly skin sack. No curly hair on this scrote. Smooth. But with tiny little bumps. Like a basketball.”

  “Can you stop? Please?”

  “Out of all the things to complain about, my testicle analogy seems like the least of your troubles.”

  “We need to get out of here, McGlade.”

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “Maybe one of us could tear through the bag with our million dollar robotic hand.”

  “Huh. Good suggestion.”

  I heard a faint mechanical hum.

  “It’s tough to pinch. The fabric is stretched too tight.”

  “I thought your hand had a corkscrew.”

  “It does. Why? You got a bottle of cabernet? I could really go for a big, bold red right now. Be tough to drink upside down…”

  “The bag, McGlade. Punch through the bag.”

  “Right.” He made some noises. “I think this bag is made of steel.”

  “Keep at it.”

  “Of course I’m going to keep at it. How about you say something positive?”

  “What do you want? A pep talk?”

  “That would be nice. You’ve never given me a pep talk before.”

  I searched my memories. “I must have.”

  “Nope. Never. Tell me I can do it.”

  “You can do it, Harry.”

  “Tell me I can save the day.”

  “You can do it. You can save the day.”

  “Now call me Big Daddy.”

  I snorted. “Kiss my ass.”

  “Say, ‘Do it, Big Daddy! Do it like only you can!’“