Chapter 2

The Miller sons started muttering to each other, glancing nervously between me and their mother.

"She knows his name, Ma," one of them, the taller one, whined.

"Lots of folks know the old Sheriff's name," Brenda snapped, though her voice lacked its earlier conviction.

"Jessica said she was a runaway, probably heard stories, trying to scare us."

She was rationalizing, trying to convince herself as much as her sons.

They wanted to believe Jessica' s story, it was easier, safer.

It meant they could keep me.

"I'm not lying!" I cried, frustration and despair washing over me.

"He lives over near Oakhaven, on the old Thompson place! My Grandma Betty makes the best apple pie in the county, she wins the bake-off every year!"

I threw out details, anything to make them believe, things a stranger wouldn't know.

They just stared, their faces blank, then skeptical.

Brenda shook her head slowly.

"Nice try, girl, real nice try, but Jessica was clear, no family to make a fuss."

Tears of pure frustration streamed down my face, I wanted to scream, to shake them.

How could they be so stupid, so blind?

It was true, Grandpa John and Grandma Betty had always been careful.

After my dad moved us to Ashton for his job, they worried.

Ashton was bigger, had more opportunities, but also more... anonymity.

Grandpa John, with his years in law enforcement, knew the world could be a dangerous place.

They didn' t want my connection to a well-known ex-Sheriff to make me a target, or for people to treat me differently, for good or ill, just because of who my grandparents were.

So, while everyone in their circle knew, it wasn't something broadcast widely in Ashton, or among people my age who didn't have direct ties to Willow Creek.

Jessica, for all her supposed friendship, only knew my grandparents as "Sarah's nice old folks from the country."

She had no idea of their standing, their power, in this specific place.

The irony was a bitter pill. Their efforts to protect me had, in a twisted way, made me more vulnerable to this.

But that was then, this was now.

The immediate danger, the horror of what these people intended, it overshadowed any past reasons for discretion.

I stood up straighter, wiping the tears from my face with a muddy hand.

"You will regret this," I said, my voice low and intense.

"When my grandfather finds out..."

I didn't need to finish the sentence, the implication hung heavy in the damp air.

Brenda' s patience snapped.

"Enough of your stories!" she shrieked, her face contorting with rage.

She lunged, grabbing me again, not by the arm this time, but by the throat.

Her fingers dug in, cutting off my air.

"I don't care who your damn grandpa is or isn't!" she hissed, her face inches from mine.

"You're here, you're mine, and you'll do as you're told!"

She slammed my head against the rough wooden wall of the porch.

Stars exploded behind my eyes, pain blinding me.

She was trying to break me, to silence me for good.

"Help!" I choked out, the word a strangled gasp as her grip tightened.

"Somebody help me! I' m Sarah! John' s granddaughter! They' re trying to... to keep me here! I' ll pay anyone who helps, my grandparents will pay!"

I screamed it as loud as I could, hoping someone, anyone, a neighbor, someone on the dirt road, might hear.

The rain was letting up a little, maybe my voice would carry.

Brenda cursed and hit me again, a hard slap across the face that made my ears ring.

My vision blurred, I tasted blood.

"Shut her up, Cletus!" she yelled to the taller son.

He moved forward, a nasty grin on his face, and backhanded me.

The world tilted, I felt myself falling, the rough porch boards scraping my cheek as I landed in the mud at the edge of the porch.

He still looked like he wanted to hurt me more.

Suddenly, a new voice cut through the air, sharp and questioning.

"Brenda? What in tarnation is going on here? You beating on that poor girl again?"

An older man, thin and wiry, with a weathered face, stood at the edge of the yard, near a beat-up fence line.

He must have been a neighbor, or just passing by.

My heart leaped, a desperate, fragile hope.

Brenda whirled around, her hand dropping from my throat.

Her sons froze.

"Just a little disagreement, Hank," Brenda said, her voice suddenly smoother, almost friendly, but with an edge.

"This here girl, she' s a runaway Jessica Peterson brought by, troubled thing, telling wild stories."

She was trying to control the narrative, to make me sound crazy.

"She needs a firm hand, that's all."

I struggled to push myself up, my body screaming in protest.

My face was throbbing, blood trickled from my lip.

I reached out a hand towards the man, Hank.

"Please," I rasped, my throat raw, "Help me, I'm Sarah, Sheriff John' s granddaughter, they' re holding me here."

I tried to make eye contact, to convey the truth with my gaze.

Hank looked from me, sprawled in the mud, to Brenda, then back to me.

He frowned, then slowly shook his head, his eyes skittering away from mine.

Brenda seized the moment.

"See? She's delirious," Brenda said smoothly, stepping between me and Hank.

"Now, you run along, Hank, this ain't your concern."

She gestured to her sons. "Boys, get her inside, out of the rain."

Cletus and the other one, who I now saw was younger, maybe even my age, grabbed my arms, hauling me roughly to my feet.

They started dragging me towards the farmhouse door.

I couldn't speak, Brenda' s fingers had bruised my throat too badly.

A strangled sob was all that came out.

Muted despair, a crushing weight, settled over me.

He was right there, help was right there, and he didn' t believe me.

He was turning away.