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“You bury what you can’t carry,” I said. “You burn what you can’t bury. You leave nothing that can lead back to you. No body. No blood trail. No questions.”

I pulled a folding shovel from my pack and made the boys help me bury the organs and remains. We covered the disturbed ground with leaves and branches before packing the meat.

Luke talked while we worked. “It made that sound when it fell. Can we do this again tomorrow? I want to use the knife first next time.”

We carried the packed meat back with us. The walk to the SUV took longer. Blood covered the boys’ hands and sleeves. Luke kept talking about the knife and the sounds.

I watched them and knew the lessons had started to take hold.

Fatherhood did not change me. It gave me two more tools for the work. Luke had taken the knife without hesitation. Seth had followed the trail without missing a sign. Luke would need control. Seth would need the nerve to act. Either way, they would be shaped for the world I understood.

When we returned home, I took them through the mudroom before Samantha could see the blood. I showed them how to remove all traces from themselves, stripping off every outer layer and washing their hands and forearms at the utility sink until the water ran clear. I sent them upstairs to shower while I sealed the stained clothing inside plastic bags. The scent of gunpowder and fresh blood still clung to my jacket and skin.

Samantha was in the bedroom when I joined her.

“Did the boys have fun?” she asked. Her eyes moved over my clothes. “You were gone longer than I expected.”

“Yes,” I said simply. “The boys needed real lessons. Nothing compares to the woods when teaching your sons what they’re made of.”

She nodded, but her gaze lingered on me a moment too long. The television murmured low. I poured a drink and caught the tail end of the local news report.

“…authorities have confirmed at least three killings in the past six months near the outskirts of the city. In each case, the victims were dismembered and found with a distinctive cut extending across the mouth, matching the signature associated with the Brentwood Butcher. Police have not confirmed that the murders are connected to the original case, which went cold seven years ago, but investigators are now considering the possibility that the killer has resurfaced.”

I stood there sipping the scotch, a slow smile spreading. They were already looking for me again. The move from Brentwood hadn’t erased everything, but that was manageable. I would adjust my methods and space things out while we settled. They would chase ghosts. I always stayed ahead.

When the report ended, Samantha looked over at me.

Suspicion was adorable. Proof was impossible.

I had spent my entire life making people believe exactly what I wanted them to believe. Samantha was no exception. The boys were becoming what they needed to be. The school could keep its concerns.

I knew better.

Chapter 37

Maggie

The buzzer went off at the same time it did every morning.

I opened my eyes and stared at the concrete wall beside my bunk for a few seconds before forcing myself up for morning count.

Seven years.

I’d been in prison for seven fucking years.

By now, I knew the routine without anyone having to tell me what came next. Get up. Get dressed. Stand where I was supposed to stand. Wait to be counted. Eat when they told me to eat. Shower when I was allowed to shower. Go back to my cell when they decided the day was over.

I stood with the other women for count, while the officers moved down the line.

Seven years ago, I had a beach house, expensive clothes, a driver, and enough money that I never had to worry about paying for anything. I used to complain that Richard controlled when I could leave the house.

I almost laughed whenever I thought about that now.

Breakfast was the usual slop. Oatmeal that tasted like wet cardboard, powdered eggs, coffee so weak it might as well have been brown water. I ate, tasting nothing. My body had filled out some since they dragged me in here all skin and bones. The mirror in the bathroom block showed a woman who looked older than she should, fine lines branching from the corners of my eyes, blonde hair gone dull and brittle no matter how many times I rinsed it under the weak shower spray. Prison aged you in dog years. But inside, I still felt like the same woman who’d walked into that courtroom believing love was enough.

Laundry duty came next. The smell of bleach burned my nostrils, mixing with the ever-present stink of sweat, cheap cigarettes, and mildew that clung to everything. Concrete walls pressed in, the constant sounds of voices and clanging doors never stopping. I folded sheets and inmate uniforms until my hands cramped, the same motions, the same thoughts circling.

Richard.