Dutch Henderson.
CHAPTER 9
EVELYN
Dutch stood in the doorway,his face hard as granite, a hunting rifle held casually in his gnarled hands. His presence filled the room—solid, unmovable, like the rocks that surrounded our town. Unlike Wade, unlike Carol, unlike Beth, his eyes were clear and focused, blazing with a fury I’d never seen in the usually taciturn shopkeeper.
“Been watching this town go sideways for days,” Dutch grumbled. “Folks acting strange. Speaking strange. Moving like they’re all sharing one brain.”
He wasn’t affected, I realized, almost dizzy with relief. Thank God he was okay.
Beth’s head snapped toward the new threat, her attention divided, her grip on Sophia’s shoulder loosening just a fraction. It was barely anything—a millimeter of space, a fraction of pressure released—but in that moment, it felt like the difference between life and death for my daughter.
“Figured something bad was happening when Carol Ruper went an entire conversation without gossiping,” Dutch said, taking a slow step into the room. “Then I saw the kids marchingout of school in perfect lines. Walking like little soldiers onto a bus, not a peep. Just wrong. And now this?” He frowned at Beth.
“Appreciate the assist,” Trent said.
Dutch nodded. “What’s the play, son?”
Myriad emotions crossed Trent’s expression as he stared at Sophia. Just for a heartbeat, then he swallowed hard and locked it all down behind the soldier’s mask again. “We need to separate them without those scissors going anywhere near the girl’s throat.”
Dutch shifted his weight, the floorboards creaking beneath his heavy boots. “Got a clear shot from here.”
“No,” I gasped. “Beth’s not herself. She’s being controlled.”
“I know that,” Dutch snapped. “But that don’t change what needs doing if she makes a wrong move with those shears.”
I couldn’t tear my eyes from Sophia, from the scissors still pressed against her throat, from the purple sweater I’d helped her put on this morning when everything had been normal and safe. The butterfly pin on her collar caught the fluorescent light, its tiny wings seeming to flutter with my daughter’s rapid, terrified breathing.
Beth’s gaze darted between us, that strange flicker in her eyes intensifying. The real Beth was fighting harder now, her internal struggle visible in the trembling of her hand that held the scissors. Desperation rolled off her, and I couldn’t imagine the horror of being trapped in your own body while someone else pulled the strings.
“Beth,” I said softly, using the gentle voice I’d once used with frightened children in my classroom. “I know you’re still in there. I know this isn’t you.”
The scissors wavered slightly. A bead of sweat rolled down Beth’s temple, and she made a sound like a wounded animal.
Dutch took another careful step into the room, positioning himself at an angle that forced her to divide her attentionbetween him and Trent. He kept the rifle steady, his weathered hands rock-solid despite his age. “Been watching you with these kids for years, Beth Morris. You’d sooner cut off your own hand than hurt one of them.”
Something like recognition flickered across Beth’s face—a ghost of the warm-hearted, chaotic woman who baked cookies shaped like dinosaurs and cried during school plays.
Trent’s eyes found mine across the room, a silent message passing between us.Now.
I coiled every muscle, weight shifting to the balls of my feet, hands ready to grab, to hold, to protect. My entire existence narrowed to my daughter’s small body, to the scissors at her throat, to the space between us I needed to close.
Trent lunged forward with explosive speed, one hand clamping around Beth’s wrist, forcing it away from Sophia’s neck. His other arm locked around Beth’s waist, trying to control her body. His left side moved stiffly, but he didn’t let it slow him down.
I moved at the same instant, covering the few steps to Sophia in a heartbeat. My hands found her shoulders, and I yanked her backward, away from Beth’s loosened grip. The fabric of her sweater stretched as I pulled, and then suddenly she was free and in my arms, her small body trembling against mine.
“Mommy!” The word was more sob than sound as Sophia’s arms locked around my neck.
I backed away, clutching her to my chest, unable to look away from the struggle playing out in front of me. Beth was fighting, really fighting, with a strength that seemed impossible for her small frame. She moved like she had hand-to-hand combat training, twisting free of his hold and striking with the scissors, aiming for his neck. He blocked her.
“Get Sophia back!” He grunted as Beth’s fingernails raked across his cheek, drawing blood in four parallel lines.
I retreated toward Dutch, Sophia’s face buried against my neck, her tears soaking my skin. Beth hissed—a sound I’d never heard from a human throat—and managed to slam her elbow into Trent’s ribs with enough force that I heard the impact from across the room.
“Little help here,” Trent called to Dutch, never taking his eyes off Beth as she writhed in his grip.
Dutch handed the rifle to me and waded into the fray. From his pocket, he pulled a roll of duct tape. “Always carry it. Fixes most problems.”
