He tore the package open with trembling fingers. He spilled a half dozen of the bright pellets on the floor before catching the next few. He popped them in his mouth.

Cigar had never tasted anything half so wonderful. “Where… Where did you get these?”

Penny stopped. She leaned in close to him and jabbed suddenly at his head with her finger. It hurt, but just a little. “In there. From inside your head.”

Cigar looked doubtfully at the Skittles still in the pack. His mouth watered. Sugar was almost a forgotten memory. But he was pretty sure the candies had never been this good. These were crazy good. He could eat a million of these, and maybe they weren’t real, but they felt real in his hand and tasted better than real in his mouth.

“Good, huh?” Penny asked. She was still way too close.

“Yeah. Really good.”

“People think because things aren’t real that the pleasure wouldn’t be as great. I used to think that, too. But things that are in your head can be pure, you know? Realer than real.”

Cigar realized he’d finished the whole pack. He wanted more. He had never wanted anything half as much as he wanted more Skittles.

“Can I have more?” he asked.

“Maybe if you asked me nicely.”

“Please? Please can I have more?”

She put her lips close to his ear and whispered, “On your knees.”

He barely hesitated. The longer he went without more of the candy the more he wanted it. The need was incredibly urgent. It took his breath away, he needed the candy so badly.

Cigar dropped to his knees. “Can I have more?”

“You’re easy to train.” Penny smirked.

Suddenly there was a handful of Skittles in Cigar’s palm. He tossed them into his mouth. “Please, more?”

“How about some Red Vines?”

“Yeah, yeah!”

“Lick my foot. No, not the top, you idiot.”

She held her foot up so he could lick the dirty sole and Red Vines sprouted in his hand. He rolled onto his back and gobbled them up and licked her foot again and got more, and his head was swimming, swirling, the taste of candy overwhelming, like nothing, like nothing he’d ever had, like nothing could ever have been, but so good. He needed more, desperately.

The Red Vines were in his hand and somehow hard to get. Like they had melted into his skin and he had to dig at them with his fingernails, and he did and sucked on the ends as soon as he had freed them.

And then, with a sickening lurch, the Red Vines weren’t candies anymore. They were the veins in his wrists.

“Ahhhh, ahha, ahhh!” Cigar cried in horror.

Penny clapped her hands together. “Oh, ho-ho, Cigar, we are going to have a lot of fun together.”

FIVE

44 HOURS, 12 MINUTES

ASTRID PACKED ALL her perishable food into her backpack. It wasn’t much, but she might be gone for a while, and she couldn’t tolerate the idea of letting anything go to waste.

She checked her shotgun. She had four shells loaded and five more in her pack.

Nine shotgun shells would kill just about anything.

Except Drake.

Drake scared her deep down. He had been the first person in her life to hit her. To this day she could remember the sting and force of his slap. She could remember the certainty that he would quickly escalate to closed-fist punches. That he would beat her and that the beating would give him pleasure so that nothing she could ever say would stop him.

He had forced her to insult Little Pete. To betray him.

It hadn’t bothered Petey, of course. But it had eaten at her insides. It seemed almost quaint now when she recalled that guilt. She’d had no way of knowing then that she would someday do far, far worse.

Fear of that psychopath was part of the reason she had needed to manipulate Sam. She had needed Sam’s protection for herself and even more for Little Pete. Drake wasn’t Caine. Caine was a heartless, ruthless sociopath who would do anything to increase his power. But Caine didn’t revel in pain and violence and fear. However amoral, Caine was rational.

To Caine’s eyes Astrid was just another pawn on the chessboard. To Drake she was a victim waiting to be destroyed for the sheer pleasure it would bring him.

Astrid knew she couldn’t kill Drake with the shotgun. She could blow his head off his shoulders and still not kill him.

But that image brought her some sense of reassurance.

She slung the gun over her shoulder. The gun’s weight and length, along with the pack that was loaded down with water bottles, made her a bit slower and more awkward than when she was running free down the familiar trail.

Astrid had never measured the distance from her camp to Lake Tramonto, but she guessed it was six or seven miles. And if she was going to follow the barrier so as to avoid getting lost, it would mean traveling over rough terrain, up steep hills without trails. She’d have to keep up a pretty good pace to get there before night and see Sam.

Sam.

The name made her stomach tense. He would have questions. He would make accusations. He would be angry. He would resent her. She could deal with all of that. She was strong.

But what if he wasn’t mad or sullen? What if he smiled at her? What if he put his arms around her?

What if Sam told Astrid he still loved her?

She was far less prepared to deal with that.

She had changed. The sanctimonious girl with so many certainties in her head had died with Little Pete. She had done the unforgivable. And she had seen the person she truly was: selfish, manipulative, ruthless.