A gunshot.

Dean. It echoes from down the street. I run toward the gray house, shove open the picket fence and bolt up the porch stairs. I don’t care about waiting for the cops. I don’t care what I’m supposed to do.

The front door is locked, so I dart down the porch and leap over the railing, running around to the back. There’s a door off the kitchen, and I push it open and then slow for just a second before stepping inside.

Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust. It hangs in the air and swirls in the sunlight that comes through the windows. My feet displace it as I hurry across the kitchen, trying to keep silent. Just as she taught me to do for all those years.

Silent and hidden. Pretend you don’t exist.

There’s a wide front room that contains nothing but a ratty couch. The picture window shows a still empty street. Why aren’t the cops here yet? I’d called them as soon as I got off the phone with Anthony.

A hallway extends deeper into the house. I stare down it, listening. At the far end, there’s a hiss of breath. Something creaks. I dart down the hallway and stop in the doorway.

She has him. My mother has Dean.

He sits on a red folding chair, his hand pressed against his thigh, blood running down his leg, pooling over those black slip-ons, and staining the carpet around him. His jaw is clenched tight. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t see me.

My mother’s on the far side of the room by a dresser. Maybe eight feet away from Dean. She’s got a gun pointed at his head.

Right at his head. My chest caves in, so hard that I almost fall to my knees.

No. She can’t do this. She can’t hurt him.

She glances up and smiles—like she was expecting me.

“Elly.” Her dark eyes flash over me. “You’re so beautiful. You always were, though.”

Dean looks up, and then his jaw ripples. He nods toward the hallway behind me. He wants me to leave, but I won’t. I won’t hide in a closet and hope this all goes away.

I look at the chair, at the gun, at the sunlight cutting through the blinds, at the pile of bags in the corner, at Dean, at the red cuts along his forearms, at my mother. I try to pull it all together. My hands shake as I step into the room. I cross toward him, slowly and steadily. Keeping one eye on the gun. Black and so foreign in her hand. She could do anything. She’s capable of anything. I kneel before Dean.

Her forehead wrinkles. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to help him.” I reach for his hand. Something I’ve done so many times before. And for the first time ever, he doesn’t reach out in response. My eyes fill up with tears that blur my vision. “Can you walk?”

“Go,” he whispers. Those blue eyes are clouded—she must have drugged him. And then she shot him. What was going to be next?

He licks his lips, and it seems like it takes effort for him to speak. “I don’t want you to be part of this.”

“Elly.” My mother lets out a long breath, like she’s confused. “Do you know who this is?” There’s a sharpness to her words, and it makes me glance over at her. Her head is tilted as if she’s trying to figure something out.

“Can you get up?” I take Dean’s hand in my trembling fingers. His grip is weak, but his eyes focus on me before he pulls himself up unsteadily. A thick drop of blood rolls down his forearm to his wrist and drops to the carpet. Some of the cuts are deeper than I realized.

“We’re just going to walk out of here,” I whisper to him.

“El…” He trails off, but he pushes one of his feet a few inches forward. I slip under his arm, helping to support his weight as best I can. His injured leg presses against mine, and blood from his chinos colors my jeans, a strange mixture of flour and blood. He’s cold—the usual warmth that surrounds him is missing.

“No.” My mother takes a step closer, the gun still pointed at his head. One little burst of anger, and she might fire. “You’re confused. He’s an Archer. One of them. Do you know what they did to me?”

“I do,” I say. “And I’m sorry. I really am. But that doesn’t give you the right to hurt someone else.”

Dean takes another slow step, his eyes focused on the door. His jaw is knotted with determination.

“They took everything, Elly.” Her voice wavers. “Our entire life together. They just took it. They threw me down on a pool table and took their turn with me. And his father…”

The gun shakes. Her attention is focused on Dean. Like he was the one who was there all those years ago. Maybe that’s what she sees. So much anger and hurt and hate that all she can see are blue eyes that remind her of what happened.

“His father was the one who told them to do it.” She doesn’t look at me—just at Dean. He stops and turns to stare back at her.

“Your father,” she says to him. “He urged them to do it. Like a game. Like a sick, fucking game. Eeny, meeny…” She trails off again. “A game between Laura and me. Do you play games with Ella?”

Dean stares at her, his jaw ticking.

“We have to get out of the house.” I pull his chin so he’s looking at me, and it’s like he snaps back to us. He nods, squeezing my fingers. Then he slides a foot forward.

“You have to see what he is.” Her hand shakes, the gun swinging between us. There are so many similarities between her and me. Eyes and hair and even the way she’s standing. Feet set slightly apart, shoulders straight. It could be me on the other side of that gun.

But it’s not. It’s her. And I won’t let her take things from me anymore.

I will forever despise the men who did that to her. But, like Anthony, she needs help. More than I can give. Maybe more than anyone can give.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “About what happened to you in that bar. It was evil and cruel and it never should have happened. And I even get the desire for revenge—to be so angry with someone who’s hurt you so deeply.” I take a breath. “But being hurt doesn’t give you the right to hurt someone else. Just let us go.”

She stills, her eyes flaring. The sudden anger I remember from so long ago. It curls back her lips, and suddenly she looks like someone else.

She sidesteps, quickly, and in a blink she’s between us and the door. She kicks a bag to me, and it falls over. The kite string from Dean’s ticket hut that was missing this morning.

“Tie him to the chair,” she says. “When Anthony gets here, he’ll have enough to dose him with. But for now, we need to get him tied up. You don’t know what he’s capable of. What’s lurking there. Trust me, Elly.” Her eyes are cold when she looks at Dean, but when she turns toward me, those curled lips shift into a frown. “You’ve always trusted me before.”

I stare at the gun as it shifts back to Dean, watching every millimeter of movement. “Just let us go.”

Her cheekbones sharpen. “Do you know what it took me to get here? To get to you? What I’ve done for you? All I want is for us to be together. Family first. The way it was for so long.” She waves the gun. “Tie him to the chair.”

No. She’s asking me to hurt him. To become part of her. Maybe that’s why she asked me to help before when Charles was handcuffed to the register. If I went along with it, then the darkness would become mine too.

Dean stumbles, and I wrap my arms around him to try and steady him. He’s losing blood. It soaks into the carpet around his feet. How much blood can a person lose?

“Ella,” he whispers. “Leave me here.” His face is so pale. He clutches onto my shoulder, but I can’t hold his weight. We both know that.

He drops to his knees, but as soon as they hit the carpet, he tries to struggle up again. He gets one foot under him, but it’s like the other won’t cooperate. His leg—the one she shot—it starts to shake. He hisses out a breath, but I don’t hear him breathe in again. He’s not going to make it down the hallway.

“Tie him up,” she orders. “Show me that I don’t have to shoot him again.”

If we try to leave, she’ll hurt him again, maybe kill him.

I know what I have to do. What Anthony said my mother did. I have to wait for an opportunity. And until then, I have to play her game.

“It’s going to be okay,” I whisper to him. But I’m not sure I believe that. I slide under his arm and help him up. He groans when he drops into the chair, but his eyes are steady on me.

“Leave,” he mumbles. “You don’t have to do this to yourself. Just leave me here.”

“She’ll kill you.”

“I know.” He fights to speak. “But you’ll be safe.”

No, I won’t. I won’t be safe. And I won’t leave him.

“Elly,” my mother warns. She steps to the side and kicks the spool of kite string to me.

“He’s in the chair.” I glance toward the window, looking for any movement between the blinds. The cops have to be here soon. I just need to delay until they get here. “He’s not going anywhere.”

“Charles did.” She steps in front of the door again. “Tie him up.”

I shake my head. The gun clicks, and a bang reverberates in the small room. Something rushes past my head toward Dean too fast for my eyes to follow. My heart leaps into my throat, and I turn to see a hole in the wall.

A warning shot. But the next one might not be. She’s going to shoot him. I know it. I fall to my knees and reach for the spool, my hands shaking so hard that I can hardly open the packaging.

“His father was the worst one of all.” My mother keeps talking, like this is some kind of demented story time. “He pretended. He hid who he was for years.”

I don’t look up at her. I just keep looking at Dean. My eyes on him. And his on mine. But they’re cloudy—fading blue—and they don’t focus anywhere for long.

I finally get the wrapping off and toss it away.

I pull out the little frayed end. So light and thin.

It’s just string. Nothing more.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I drape the string over him, but then I stop. It’s almost as thick as that leather bracelet that still wraps his wrist. White instead of black. Fabric instead of leather.

But when I go to wrap it around his wrist, he hisses out a breath between his teeth. The white string reddens from his blood.

My stomach twists so hard I wonder if I’m going to be sick. I can’t do this.

In every thought I’ve ever had about tying him up, it was never like this. Nothing like this.

Water dots his forearm. My tears, running tracks down my cheeks and falling on him. Mixing with string and blood.

“Go,” he whispers. “Don’t…” He lets out a long exhale and then focuses on me. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

I’m tying him down, and he’s telling me to save myself.

Tears well up in my eyes, making everything look wavering and unclear. I blink them away as best I can and loop his forearm a few times with the string. Then wrap it around the arm of the chair once. I hold the spool and sit back, turning to look at my mother.

She glares down at me, waving the gun. Her lips curl back to show her teeth. “What are you doing? More. Tighter.”

“N-no.” My throat closes up.

Her eyes widen. And her finger squeezes the trigger. Another deafening shot, and Dean jerks and shouts.

He sways forward and grabs at his side with his free hand. A cough shakes his body, and then he sucks in a ragged breath.

She’s killing him. Blood soaks the carpet by his feet, wetting the knees of my jeans. Tears streak down my face, and I don’t know how to stop them. Don’t know how to stop any of this.

She’s going to take him from me. Just like she’s taken so many things before.

“Please, stop. Please,” I plead. And I know that it’s just going to make her continue. Because that’s what she did with the men. But still, I plead. I can’t keep myself from doing it.

She raises the gun so it’s pointed at his head.

I grab the spool and wrap it around his wrist and then the chair.

Dean hisses out some words I can’t understand and then licks his lips. His other hand is still clamped to his side, shaking as he presses against his stomach, but his eyes focus a little. They’re distant, though. He’s so far away. Worlds and worlds away.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter. Over and over with every loop around his arm. My hands tremble so hard I can barely hold the string. The blood on my jeans is cold. It feels as if the heat is seeping out of me—just like it is out of him.

“It’s okay,” he pushes out. He grimaces and leans closer to me. “I… trust you.”

My heart shatters. How can he trust me? After all of this—even if we do walk out of here. How can things ever be happy and warm between us again?

“Don’t listen to him,” my mother warns.

But I am. Entirely. I’ve listened to every word he’s said from that first moment on the dock when he grabbed my wrist. I drop the spool and turn back to her, blinking away my tears.

Movement behind her in the hallway. A dark flash.

Anthony. He stands behind her, his hands clutching a wooden box. The box is smaller than I remember, but the same monstrous fear sinks into my stomach at the sight of it. He’s here to drug Dean. Why else would he bring the syringes? Why else would he be here?

But then he hesitates in the hallway. He clutches the syringes, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

My mother doesn’t see him. Maybe because she’s so focused on Dean, who slides forward, his eyes closing. His arm shakes against the chair, and his face is so pale that I wonder if he’s got any blood left. How much time does he have?

“Keep tying,” she orders.

I switch to the other side of the chair, pulling the string across. Blood soaks his shirt and drips onto the chair. I raise my eyes to her. I try not to look at my brother behind her and the way he’s staring at me. Intently. Like he’s making a decision.

“Elly,” my mother snaps. She’s going to kill Dean. There’s no convincing her otherwise, no reasoning with her. She’s past any point of logic. But maybe I can convince someone else.

I lick my lips, letting my trembling hands tug the string across Dean’s chest. I look at my mother, but I speak to Anthony over her shoulder. “You don’t have to be this person.”

Anthony stares at me.

“You could be free,” I say.

My mother’s forehead wrinkles. She starts to turn and then—as fast as he decided the first time—Anthony’s hand comes up. He jams something into her neck. A syringe.

She stumbles back, the syringe sticking out of her neck at an odd angle.

A ghost of a smile crosses Anthony’s lips. It’s a sad smile—one that I remember from so long ago when we left that house with Charles Archer strung between us. He drops the box on the carpet and syringes roll out. Then he disappears down the hallway.

I have only a second to register that he left before my mother swings the gun toward me. She pulls the syringe out with her other hand, and stare down at it for a moment.

When she looks up again, her lips curl back. The gun goes off. Something tugs at my hair, and my hand flies up. I wipe blood off my cheek. She grazed me.

No. This has to end. Now—before she shoots Dean again. Before she shoots me.

I drop the string, and I run at her. Her eyes widen just before I crash into her, shoving her shoulder so the gun swings wide and pushing her out into the hallway. Away from Dean. I fall on top of her, and she shouts.

I push her down. She fights against me, and the gun moves toward my face. It fires somewhere over my head.

I struggle with her, slapping at her wrist until the gun finally falls. Then I see them—syringes sitting on the carpet.

I reach for one. I don’t know where Anthony went. Don’t know where Dean is. Don’t know anything except for the weight of the syringe in my hand as I pull the cap off.

She slaps me, hard. Her hand comes up again, and I drive the needle down. Right into her palm.

She stills. It’s too soon to be the drugs, but she stills and looks at the syringe sticking out of her hand.

I scramble off of her, desperate to be away.

“I just wanted…” She shakes her head, her arm falling to the side. “I just wanted you to see who he is.”

I stare down at her. “I know exactly who he is.”

She’s starting to fade—just like Charles did all those years ago. I reach over her and take the gun. It’s warm from her hand holding it for so long.

Anthony’s nowhere to be seen, but red and blue lights flicker across the hallway wall.

Too late.

I stumble back toward Dean and set the gun on the carpet under his chair where I know she can’t reach it. I don’t know how to disarm it. The cops will do it.

And my concern—all my focus—is on the man in front of me. He’s slumped forward in the chair, his skin clammy.

I wind the strings off him, careful of his cuts. Unwinding and unwrapping. I hear them coming down the hallway before they get to the room. Calling to each other as they enter each room. Filling up the silent house with movement. But I just focus on Dean. Undoing what I had done to him. Freeing him.

I press my hand to his side, over the spreading circle of red. I can’t tell where the other bullet hit on his leg. There’s too much blood.

Noise and movement fill the room. A man kneels close to me, telling me that he’ll help. That there’s an ambulance. That they can help him. Save him.

They have to.