“Run!” Sam shoved her away. “Charlie, go!”
Charlie fell back onto the ground. She saw the bright flash of the gun firing, heard the sudden explosion of the bullet leaving the barrel.
Sam spun through the air, almost somersaulting into the gaping mouth of the grave.
“Shit,” Daniel said. “Christ. Jesus Christ.”
Charlie scrambled away, crab-like, on her hands and heels, until her back hit a tree. She pushed herself up. Her knees shook. Her hands shook. Her whole body was shaking.
“It’s okay, sweetpea,” Zach told Charlie. “Stay right there for me.”
Charlie stared at the grave. Maybe Sam was hiding, waiting to spring up and run. But she wasn’t springing up. She wasn’t moving, or talking, or shouting, or bossing everybody around.
Zach told Daniel, “You cover this bitch up. Lemme take the little one off for a minute.”
If Sam could talk right now, she would be yelling, furious at Charlie for just standing there, for blowing this chance, for not doing what Sam always told her to do.
Don’t look back … trust me to be there … keep your head down and–
Charlie ran.
Her arms flailed. Her bare feet struggled for purchase. Tree limbs slashed at her face. She couldn’t breathe. Her lungs felt like needles were stabbing into her chest.
She heard Sam’s voice—
Breathe through it. Slow and steady. Wait for the pain to pass.
“Get back here!” Zach yelled. The air shook with a steady thud-thud-thud that started to vibrate inside of Charlie’s chest.
Zachariah Culpepper was coming after her.
She tucked her arms into her sides. She forced the tension from her shoulders. She imagined her legs were pistons in a machine. She tuned out the pine cones and sharp rocks gouging into her bare feet. She thought about the muscles that were helping her move—
Calves, quads, hamstrings, tighten your core, protect your back.
Zach was getting closer. She could hear him like a steam engine bearing down.
Charlie vaulted over a fallen tree. She scanned left, then right, knowing she shouldn’t run in a straight line. She needed to locate the weather tower, to make sure she was heading in the right direction, but she knew if she looked back she would see Zach, and that seeing him would make her panic even more, and if she panicked even more, she would stumble, and if she stumbled, she would fall.
And then he would rape her.
Charlie veered right, her toes gripping the dirt as she altered direction. At the last minute, she saw another fallen tree. She flung herself over it, landing awkwardly. Her foot twisted. She felt her anklebone touch earth. Pain sliced up her leg.
She kept running.
Her feet were sticky with blood. Sweat dripped down her body. She scanned ahead for light, any indication of safety.
How much longer could he keep running? How much farther could she go?
Sam’s voice came back to her—
Picture the finish line in your head. You have to want it more than the person behind you.
Zachariah wanted something. Charlie wanted something more—to get away, to get help for her sister, to find Rusty so he could figure out a way to make it all better.
Suddenly, Charlie’s head jerked back.
Her feet flew out in front of her.
Her back slammed into the ground.
She saw her breath huff out of her mouth like it was a real thing.
Zach was on top of her. His hands were everywhere. Grabbing her breasts. Pulling her shorts. His teeth clashed against her closed mouth. Charlie scratched at his eyes. She tried to bring up her knee into his crotch but she couldn’t bend her leg.
Zachariah sat up, straddling her. He worked his belt back through the buckle. His weight was too much. He was pushing the air out of her.
Charlie’s mouth opened. She had no breath left to scream. She was dizzy. Vomit burned up her throat.
Her shorts were wrenched down. He flipped her over like she was nothing. She tried again to scream, but he shoved her face into the ground. Dirt filled her mouth. He grabbed her hair in his fist. She felt a tearing deep inside her body as he ripped into her. His teeth bit down on her shoulder. He grunted like a pig as he raped her behind. She smelled rot from the earth, from his mouth, from what he was pushing inside of her.
Charlie squeezed her eyes shut.
I am not here. I am not here. I am not here.
Every time she convinced herself that this wasn’t happening, that she was in the kitchen at the red-brick house doing her homework, that she was running the track at school, that she was hiding in Sam’s closet listening to her talk on the phone to Peter Alexander, Zachariah did something new and the pain wrenched her back into reality.
He was not finished.
Charlotte’s arms flopped uselessly as he turned her over. He shoved inside of her from the front. She was finally numb. Her mind went blank. She was aware of things, but as if from a remove: Her body shifting up and down as he started to thrust. Her mouth hanging open. His tongue jamming down her throat. His fingers digging into her breasts like he was trying to rip them away from her body.
She looked up. Past his ugly, contorted face.
Past the bowed trees. Their crooked limbs.
The night sky.
The moon was blue against the dark expanse.
Stars were scattered, indistinct pinholes.
Charlie closed her eyes. She wanted darkness, but she saw Sam twisting through the air. She could hear the thump of her sister’s body hitting the grave like it was happening all over again. And then she saw Gamma. On the kitchen floor. Back to the cabinet.
Bright white bone. Pieces of heart and lung. Cords of tendon and arteries and veins and life spilling out of her gaping wounds.
Gamma had told her to run.
Sam had ordered her to get away.
They would not want this.
They had sacrificed their lives for Charlotte, but not for this.
“No!” Charlotte screamed, her hands turning into fists. She pounded into Zach’s chest, swung so hard at his jaw that his head whipped around. Blood sprayed out of his mouth—big globs of it, not like the tiny dots from Gamma.
“Fucking bitch.” He reared back his hand to punch her.
Charlotte saw a blur out of the corner of her eye.
“Get off her!”
Daniel flew through the air, tackling Zach to the ground. His fists swung back and forth, arms windmilling as he beat his brother.
“Motherfucker!” he yelled. “I’ll fucking kill you!”
Charlotte backed away from the men. Her hands pressed deep into the earth as she forced herself to stand. Blood poured down her legs. Cramps made her double over. She stumbled. She spun around in a circle, blind as Sam had been. She couldn’t get her bearings. She didn’t know which way to run, but she knew that she had to keep moving.
Her ankle screamed as she ran back into the woods. She didn’t look for the weather tower. She didn’t listen for the stream, or try to find Sam, or head toward the HP. She kept running, then walking, then she felt so exhausted that she wanted to crawl.
Finally, she gave into it, collapsing to her hands and knees.
She listened for footsteps behind her, but all she could hear was her own heavy breaths panting out of her mouth.
Blood dripped between her legs. His stuff was in there, festering, decaying her insides. Charlotte threw up. Bile hit the ground and splattered back into her face. She wanted to lie down, to close her eyes, to go to sleep and wake up in a week when this was all over.
But she couldn’t.
Zachariah Culpepper.
Daniel Culpepper.
Brothers.
Charlotte would see them both dead. She would watch the executioner strap them to the wooden chair and put the metal hat on their heads with the sponge underneath so that they wouldn’t catch on fire and she would look between Zachariah Culpepper’s legs to watch the urine come out when he realized that he was going to be electrocuted to death.
Charlotte got up.
She stumbled, then she walked, then she jogged and then, suddenly, miraculously, she saw a light.
The second farmhouse.
Charlotte reached out her hand as if she could touch it.
She swallowed back a sob.
Her ankle could barely hold her as she limped through the freshly plowed fields. She kept her eyes on the porch light, using it as a beacon, a lighthouse that could guide her away from the rocks.
I am here. I am here. I am here.
There were four steps up the back porch. Charlotte stared at them, trying not to think of the steps at the HP, the way she had run up them two at a time just a few hours ago, kicked off her shoes, peeled off her socks and found Gamma cursing in the kitchen.
“Fudge,” Charlie whispered. “Fudge.”
Her ankle buckled on the first step. She held onto the shaky railing. She blinked at the porch light, which was bright white, like a flame. Blood had dripped into her eyes. Charlotte used her fists to rub it away. The welcome mat had a plump, red strawberry on it with a smiling face, arms and legs.
Her feet left dark prints on the mat.
She raised her hand.
Her wrist had a springiness, like the rubber band on a paddle ball.
Charlotte had to steady one hand with the other so that she could knock on the door. A bloody, wet impression of her knuckles was left on the painted white wood.
In the house, she heard a chair scrape back. Light footsteps across the floor. A woman’s chipper voice asked, “Who could that be knocking so late?”
Charlotte did not answer.
There were no locks that clicked, no chain that slid back. The door opened. A blonde woman stood in the kitchen. Her hair was pinned back in a loose ponytail. She was older than Charlotte. Pretty. Her eyes went wide. Her mouth opened. Her hand fluttered to her chest, as if she had been hit by an arrow.
“Oh—” the woman said. “My God. My God. Daddy!” She reached for Charlotte, but she didn’t seem to know where to touch her. “Come in! Come in!”
Charlotte took one step, then another, then she was standing inside the kitchen.
She shivered, though the space was warm.
Everything was so clean, so brightly lit. The wallpaper was yellow with red strawberries. A matching border rimmed the tops of the walls. The toaster had a knitted cozy with a strawberry stitched onto the side. The kettle on the stove was red. The clock on the wall, a cat with moving eyes, was red.
“Good Lord in Heaven,” a man whispered. He was older, bearded. His eyes were almost perfectly round behind his glasses.
Charlotte stepped away until her back was against the wall.
He asked the woman, “What the hell happened?”
“She just knocked on the door.” The woman was crying. Her voice trilled like a piccolo. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“That’s one of the Quinn girls.” He opened the curtains. He looked outside. “Are they still out there?”
Zachariah Culpepper.
Daniel Culpepper.
Sam.
The man reached his hands to the top of the cabinet. He pulled down a rifle, a box of bullets. “Give me the phone.”
Charlotte started to shake again. The rifle was long, its barrel like a sword that could cut her open.
The woman reached for the cordless phone on the wall. She knocked it to the ground. She scooped it up. Her hands were still fluttering, their motions chaotic, uncontrollable. She raised the antenna. She handed the phone to her father.
He said, “I’ll call the police. Lock the door behind me.”
The woman did as she was told, her fingers clumsy as she tried to turn the latch. She clasped together her hands. She looked at Charlotte. She took a quick breath. She glanced around the room. “I don’t know what …” She put her hand to her mouth. She was looking at the mess on the floor.
Charlotte saw it, too. Blood was pooling around her feet. It was coming from her insides, sliding down her legs, past her knees, her ankles, steady and slow like the trickle that came from the farmhouse faucet if you didn’t hit it hard enough with the hammer.
She moved her foot. The blood followed her. She remembered learning about snails, the way they left a slick slime behind them.
“Sit down,” the woman said. She sounded steadier now, more sure of herself. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You can sit down.” She gently pressed her fingers to Charlotte’s shoulder, guided her to the chair. “The police will come,” she said. “You’re safe now.”
Charlotte did not sit down. The woman did not look like she felt safe.
“I’m Miss Heller.” She knelt down in front of Charlotte. She brushed back her hair. “You’re Charlotte, is that right?”
Charlotte nodded.
“Oh, angel.” Miss Heller kept stroking her hair. “I’m sorry. Whatever happened to you, I’m so sorry.”
Charlotte felt a weakness in her knees. She did not want to sit, but she had to. The pain was like a knife jamming into her insides. Her bottom ached. She could feel something warm coming out of her front like she was peeing herself again.
She asked Miss Heller, “Can I have some ice cream?”
The woman said nothing at first. Then she stood. She gathered a bowl, some vanilla ice cream, a spoon. She placed it all on the table.
The smell brought a surge of bile into Charlotte’s throat. She swallowed it back down. She picked up the spoon. She ate the ice cream, shoving it into her mouth as fast as she could.
“Slow down,” Miss Heller said. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
Charlotte wanted to be sick. She wanted him out of her. She wanted to cleanse herself. She wanted to kill herself.
“Mama, what would happen if I ate two bowls of ice cream? Really big ones.”
“Your intestines would burst and you would die.”
Charlotte devoured a second bowl of ice cream. She used her hands because the spoon was not big enough. She reached for the container, but Miss Heller stopped her. She looked aghast.
She asked Charlotte, “What happened to you?”
Charlotte was winded from eating so fast. She could hear her breath whistling through her nose. Her shorts were wet with blood. The strawberry cushion on the chair was completely saturated. She felt the dripping between her legs but she knew that it was not just blood. It was him. It was Zach Culpepper. He had left his stuff inside of her.
The vomit roiled up again. This time, she couldn’t stop it. Charlotte slapped her hand to her mouth. Miss Heller picked her up by the waist. She ran down the hall, carrying Charlotte to the bathroom.
Charlotte threw up so hard that she thought her stomach would come out of her mouth. She gripped the cold sides of the toilet. Her eyes bulged. Her throat burned. Her intestines felt as if razors were inside. She yanked down her shorts. She sat on the toilet. She felt a torrent of fluid rush from her body. Blood. Feces. Him.
Charlotte cried out from the pain. She folded at the waist. She opened her mouth. She screamed out an anguished wail.
She wanted her mother. She needed her mother.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Miss Heller was on the other side of the door. She was kneeling down again. Charlotte could hear her voice coming through the keyhole. “‘He said unto them, ‘Let the little children come unto me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.’”
Charlotte squeezed shut her eyes. Tears flowed. She breathed through her open mouth. She heard the heavy drops of blood hitting water. It would not end. This was never going to end.
“Sweet baby,” Miss Heller said. “Let God carry this burden.”
Charlotte shook her head. Her blood-soaked hair slapped at her face. She kept her eyes closed. She saw Sam spinning, somersaulting through the air.
The mist as the bullet entered her brain.
The heavy spray of blood as Gamma’s chest exploded.
“My sister,” Charlotte whispered. “She’s dead.”
“What’s that, baby?” Miss Heller had cracked open the door. “What did you say?”
“My sister.” Charlotte’s teeth were chattering. “She’s dead. My mother’s dead.”
Miss Heller held onto the doorknob as she sunk to the floor.
She said nothing.
Charlotte looked down at the white tiles at her feet. She could see black spots in her vision. Blood dripped from her open mouth. She rolled off some toilet paper. She held it to her nose. The bone felt broken.
Miss Heller came into the room. She turned on the sink faucet.
Charlotte tried to wipe herself. She could feel strips of flesh hanging down between her legs. The blood would not stop. It was never going to stop. She pulled up her shorts, but a wave of dizziness kept her from standing.
She sat back down on the toilet. She stared at the framed picture of a strawberry patch on the wall.
“It’s all right.” Miss Heller wiped Charlotte’s face with a wet cloth. Her hands trembled along with her voice. “‘But unto you that fear my name shall the Sun of righteousness arise with healing in his wings; and ye shall go forth, and grow up as—’”
A loud knock shook the back door. Banging. Screaming.
Miss Heller’s hand went to Charlotte’s chest, keeping her still.
“Judith!” the old man yelled. “Judith!”
The back door splintered open.
Miss Heller grabbed Charlotte again, picking her up by the middle. Charlie felt her feet leave the ground. She braced her hands against the woman’s shoulders. Her ribs felt crushed as Miss Heller ran down the hall.
“Charlotte!”
The word was pained, like the sound you would hear from a dying animal.
Miss Heller skidded to a stop.
She turned around.
Her grip around Charlotte’s waist slowly released.
Rusty was standing at the end of the hallway. He leaned heavily against the wall. His chest was heaving. He gripped a handkerchief in his hand.
Charlotte felt her feet touch the ground. Her knees folded, unable to support her weight.
Rusty staggered down the hallway. His shoulder bumped the wall, then the other wall, then he was on his knees and then he was holding Charlotte.
“My baby,” he cried, enveloping her body in his. “My treasure.”
Charlotte felt the slow release of her muscles. Her father was like a drug. She became a rag doll in his arms.
“My baby,” he said.
“Gamma—”
“I know!” Rusty wailed. She felt his chest shake as he struggled to control his sorrow. “I know, sweetheart. I know.”
Charlotte began to sob; not from the pain, but from fear because she had never seen her father cry.
“I’ve got you.” He rocked her. “Daddy’s here. I’ve got you.”
Charlotte was crying so hard that she couldn’t open her eyes. “Sam—”
“I know,” he said. “We’ll find her.”
“They buried her.”
Rusty let out a howl of despair.
“It was the Culpeppers,” Charlotte said. Knowing their names, telling them to Rusty, was the only thing that had kept her moving. “Zach and his brother.”
“It doesn’t matter.” He pressed his lips to the top of her head. “We got an ambulance coming. They’re going to take care of you.”
“Daddy.” Charlotte lifted her head. She put her mouth close to his ear. She whispered, “Zach put his thing inside of me.”
Rusty’s arms slowly fell away. It was like the air had been let out of him. His mouth dropped open. He crumbled to the floor. His eyes scanned back and forth as he looked at Charlotte’s face. His throat worked again. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a whimper.
“Daddy,” she whispered again.
Rusty put his fingers to her mouth. He bit his lip, like he didn’t want to speak, but he had to.
He asked, “He raped you?”
Charlotte nodded.
Rusty’s hand dropped like a stone. He looked away. He shook his head. His tears had turned into two rivers running down the sides of his face.
Charlotte felt the shame of his silence. Her father knew the things that men like Zachariah Culpepper did. He could not even look at her.
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said. “I didn’t run fast enough.”
Rusty’s eyes went to Miss Heller, then finally, slowly back to Charlotte. “It’s not your fault.” He cleared his throat. He said it again. “It’s not your fault, baby. Do you hear me?”
Charlotte heard him, but she did not believe him.
“What happened to you,” Rusty said, sounding strident. “It’s not your fault, but we can’t tell anybody else, okay?”
Charlotte could only stare. You didn’t have to lie if something wasn’t your fault.
Rusty said, “It’s a private thing, and we’re not going to tell anybody, okay?” He looked up at Judith Heller again. “I know what lawyers do to girls who are raped. I’m not going to put my daughter through that hell. I won’t let people treat her like she’s damaged.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. His voice became stronger. “They’ll hang for this. Those two boys are murderers, and they’ll die for it, but please don’t let them take my daughter with them. Please. It’s too much. It’s just too much.”
He waited, his eyes on Miss Heller. Charlie turned around. Miss Heller looked down at her. She nodded.
“Thank you. Thank you.” Rusty rested his hand on Charlotte’s shoulder. He looked at her face again, saw the blood and bone and sticks and leaves that had become glued to her body. He touched the ripped seam of her shorts. His tears started to flow again. He was thinking about what had been done to her, what had been done to Sam, to Gamma. He dropped his face into his hands. His sobs turned into howls. He fell against the wall, racked by grief.
Charlotte tried to swallow. Her throat was too dry. She could not clear the taste of sour milk. She was torn up inside. She could still feel the steady flow of blood sliding down the inside of her leg.
“Daddy,” Charlotte said. “I’m sorry.”
“No.” He grabbed her, shook her. “Don’t ever apologize, Charlotte. Do you hear me?”
He seemed so angry that Charlotte dared not speak.
“I’m sorry,” Rusty stuttered out. He got up on his knees. He wrapped his hand around the back of her head, pressed his face to her face, their noses touching. She could smell cigarette smoke and his musky cologne. “You listen to me, Charlie Bear. Are you listening?”
Charlotte stared into his eyes. Red lines spoked out from the blue irises.
He said, “It’s not your fault. I am your daddy, and I am telling you that none of this is your fault.” He waited. “Okay?”
Charlotte nodded. “Okay.”
Rusty whimpered out another breath. He swallowed hard. He was still openly weeping. “Now, do you remember all those boxes your mama brought home from the thrift store?”
Charlotte had forgotten about the boxes. No one would be around to unpack them now. It was just Charlotte and Rusty. There would never be anyone else.
“Listen to me, baby.” Rusty cupped his hands to her face. “I want you to take what that nasty man did to you, and I want you to put it in one of those boxes, okay?”
He waited, clearly desperate for her to agree.
Charlotte let herself nod.
“All right,” he said. “All right. Well, then your daddy’s gonna get some tape, and we’re gonna tape up that box together, sweetheart.” His voice warbled again. His eyes desperately searched hers. “Do you hear me? We’re gonna close up that box and tape it shut.”
Again, she nodded.
“Then we’re gonna put that mean ol’ box on a shelf. And we’re gonna leave it there. And we’re not gonna think about it or look at it until we’re good and God damn ready, okay?”
Charlotte kept nodding, because that’s what he wanted.
“Good girl.” Rusty kissed her cheek. He pulled her close to his chest. Charlotte’s ear folded against his shirt. She could feel his heart thumping beneath the skin and bone. He had sounded so frantic, so afraid.
He asked, “We’re gonna be okay, aren’t we?”
He held her so tight that she couldn’t nod, but Charlotte understood what her father wanted. He needed her to flip on her logical switch, but for real this time. Gamma was gone. Sam was gone. Charlotte had to be strong. She had to be the good daughter who took care of her father.
“Okay, Charlie Bear?” Rusty kissed the top of her head. “Can we do that?”
Charlotte imagined the empty closet in the bachelor farmer’s bedroom. The door hung open. She saw the box on the floor. Brown cardboard. Packing tape sealed it closed. She saw the label. TOP SECRET. She watched Rusty hefting the box onto his shoulder, sliding it onto the top shelf, pushing it back until shadows placed it in darkness.
“Can we do that, baby?” He begged, “Can we just close that box?”
Charlie imagined herself shutting the closet door.
She said, “Yes, Daddy.”
She would never open the box again.