Heart hammering, she slipped out of the room in her bare feet and hospital gown, dashed across the hall, slipped into another room.

Two beds, but only one person. Another kid, she realized. Younger than her. And a phone on the table by the bed where he slept. She took the phone as far away from the bed as she could, sat with it on the floor, and called Emily. Nobody answered, and she wanted to cry again when the machine came on.

But she had another number in her head. Emily’s cell phone. If that didn’t work …

“This is Emily.”

“Emily.” As she had countless times with Zane, Britt whispered. “You have to help us.”

“Britt! Oh God, Britt. They wouldn’t let me see you. Are you okay?”

“Nothing’s okay. You have to help. Dad said Zane’s going to prison. He said I couldn’t tell what happened or he’d hurt me worse. It wasn’t Zane, it was Dad.”

“I know. I know, baby. Tell me your room number. I’ll find a way to get in. I’m here. I’m in the ER right now.”

“You’re—you’re here.” Tears spilled then, shoved out of her by terrible hope. “You’re here.”

“I’m here. I’ll come get you. What’s your room number?”

“I’m not there. He took my clothes and shoes. He took out the phone. I went into another room where a kid’s sleeping. Don’t come up! Everyone will do what he says. They’ll send you away, and they’ll tell him. I’m coming down the stairs.”

“Britt—”

“I can get to the stairs, and I’ll walk down.”

“Which staircase? Do you know?”

“This is room…” She turned the phone more to the light. “Room 4612. It must be pediatrics because there’s a kid.”

“Okay. I’ll go to that staircase. If you aren’t down in five minutes, I’m coming up.”

“I’m coming down. I’m coming now.”

She started to leave the phone on the floor and run, just run. But stopped herself, thought it through. If a nurse came in, the phone should be where it belonged. And just running out? She might get caught.

She put the phone back, froze when the little boy stirred and whimpered in his sleep. At the door she heard the sound of brisk footsteps passing by, waited, waited until they faded away before opening the door a crack.

Then wider so she could ease out enough to look up and down the corridor. She saw the sign for the stairs—so far away! She’d run, had to run. But quiet.

She heard a call bell ding, and like a runner off the mark, sprinted down the corridor. The stairway door, heavy, seemed to push back at her, but she got through, and kept running.

Somebody could come. He could come. They’d take her back, they’d tell him. He’d stick her with a needle again. Hit her again.

She got all the way down, breath wheezing, but Emily wasn’t there. Drained, desperate, she sat shaking on the steps.

Maybe he’d found Emily. Hurt her. Stopped her. Maybe he’d—

The door opened; Britt’s hands flew to her mouth to hold back a scream. And Emily rushed to her, gathered her up.

“Oh, Britt, oh, sweet baby.” Pulling back a little, she looked at Britt’s face, the black eye, the bruised cheek. “Oh, that filthy, fucking bastard. Put this on.”

She stripped off her hoodie. “I would go for orange. Keep the hood up. We’re going to walk—not run—walk, steady and direct, to the exit. There aren’t many people around, and we’re just going to walk out, keep walking to my truck. It’s in the ER lot, but once we’re outside, we’ll be okay.”

“You came. You came.”

“Of course I did. We have to go. Hold my hand, keep your head down. Just walk. Don’t talk, don’t stop. Ready?”

Nodding, Britt gripped her hand.

They walked, Britt in the orange hoodie, bare feet, flowered hospital gown. And at one in the morning, no one gave them a second look.

Outside, Emily slid an arm around Britt’s waist. The girl had shot up, she realized, and stood nearly as tall as she did. Growing like a weed. One she hadn’t seen in weeks.

“I should’ve given you my shoes.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay. Is it much farther?”

“Not much. We’re fine. We’re fine.” But her voice shook a little, and Britt heard it. “We’re going to get to the truck, and we’re going to go to the police.”

“No! They believe him. They put Zane in jail.”

“Not the Lakeview police. The Asheville police. And we’re going to make them believe us, Britt. Dave—Mr. Carter’s going to help.”

When her knees went weak, she staggered a bit. “Chloe’s daddy? He—he’s helping?”

“That’s right. I’m going to call him when we get in the truck, tell him you’re with me. He’s getting Zane’s notebooks.”

“What notebooks?”

Doing her best to keep out of the light, Emily kept steering the girl forward. “I’ll explain.”

“Was he hurt really bad? Zane?”

“Yes. But he’s going to be okay. And we’re not going to let them keep him in jail. I’m getting him a lawyer, first thing in the morning. You’re going to tell the police everything. Nobody’s going to hurt you again, baby. I swear it.”

“I’m so scared.”

“Me, too. There’s my truck.”

Maybe her hands shook as she unlocked it, as she helped Britt inside. But her mind held clear and steady.

Graham Bigelow wouldn’t put his hands on her niece again, whatever it took. She fumbled out her phone as she got behind the wheel.

“Dave. I have Emily. I’m taking her to the Asheville police.”

“You—how did you—never mind. I have the notebooks. I’ll meet you there.”

Not much traffic, Emily thought as she kept carefully to the speed limit. And probably no one looking for them yet. They’d be fine, just fine, just fine. Unless they locked her up for kidnapping.

She reached out to squeeze Britt’s hand as much to reassure herself as the girl. “I’m not going to ask you questions now, because I want you to say everything to the police. So it’s not like we, I don’t know, made it all up together.”

Inside the orange hood, Britt’s bruised face looked so small, so pale. “What if they don’t listen?”

“We’ll make them listen.” They have to listen.

She drove straight to the police station, parked. Nobody else in the visitor’s lot, she noted, and couldn’t decide if that was good luck or bad.

“Okay, Britt, you just tell the truth. You tell all the truth, and it’s going to be okay.”

“He made us lie all the time. We had to lie to you all the time.”

“He can’t make you lie now.”

Once again she took Britt’s hand, and they walked to the station house. As they did, a man walked out. Britt’s hand squeezed hers hard.

He looked tired, Emily thought, and his suit jacket looked as if he’d slept in it. A good day’s worth of scruff gave his face a rough, tough sort of look. He paused, watched them come—the woman in red Converse high-tops, with disordered dark hair, faded jeans. The girl with a battered face and bare feet.