And then she went out; not after her daughter, but after her son.

FINDING LAUREL WASN'T that hard; though Emma had always tried very hard to be a normal soccer mom, she'd never been able to shake the habits she'd acquired when her life was ripped to shreds. For years, she'd lived in a state of caution, of paranoia, of fear so pervasive it was existential. So while she let Laurel have leeway, she kept a tether on her. The cell phone had a tracking feature, and if there was one thing Laurel would never, ever discard, it was her cell.

Tyler was definitely moving quickly. The signal that Emma locked in was on the freeway. Emma mounted her own cell phone into the console of her van, put the revolver under the seat where she could easily grab it, and set off in pursuit. She kept the speed reasonable until she was safely on the interstate; it was late enough that the traffic was lighter, and speeding cars were nothing new around here anyway. She weaved in and out of traffic, following the blinking light of her daughter's mortal danger as it sped west, and she felt absolutely sure that her life-the life she'd constructed-was over.

I'll take him with me, she thought. One way or another, this stops here.

She was gaining on the signal by the time they'd hit the outer borders of Fort Worth, out into what was officially the countryside . . . and that was dangerous, because the cell coverage would get spotty the farther out from population centers they ran. That might be the intent, she realized. She needed to catch them before the signal disappeared.

She floored it, blowing past slow-moving trucks and sedans and semi tractor-trailers, some whose drivers blew their horns in warning; she didn't heed them, didn't care about the consequences of what she was doing. She'd been waiting for this, she realized. Whether she'd been able to acknowledge it consciously or not, she'd been waiting for this to happen every moment since Laurel's birth.

There was a kind of freedom in knowing it was finally here.

She caught up to the signal.

It was a truck. A cattle truck, rattling along in the night, full of scared and shifting cows on their way to the end of their lives.

She could imagine Tyler, smirking, coming alongside the cattle truck, taking Laurel's cell, tossing it into the stinking hauler. Easy enough to do, especially if it was stopped at a light. His idea of a joke. That made sense, because his father would have found it hilarious.

The realization hit her like a bullet.

My daughter could be anywhere.

Emma pulled over to the shoulder in a spray of gravel; her tires skidded, and she almost went over the steep shoulder, but she didn't care. She couldn't get her breath, and her heart was pounding so hard and fast it filled her ears with a furious drumming. A desperate silent scream was locked inside her vocal cords.

And then she heard the cheerful sound of her cell phone's ringtone.

She put the van in park, shook her trembling hands to get feeling back into her fingers-that was how hard she'd been gripping the steering wheel-and then yanked the cell phone off the console. The screen read PRIVATE CALLER. No number visible.

She didn't say h.e.l.lo.

She didn't need to.

"Don't you just love modern technology?" the voice from her nightmares said. "I f.u.c.king love it. Makes everything so easy. Just-reach out and touch somebody."

Her phone made a little chirping sound; she had a text message. She opened it and saw a smiling photo of Laurel, taken with a flash. Laurel, inside Tyler's car.

"You know who this is, don't you, Emma?"

She couldn't answer, didn't want to answer, the way a child puts the covers over her head to hide from the monster in the bedroom. She could feel his attention fully on her, like the scorching heat of the sun in the desert.

"Do you want her back?"

She swallowed painfully, licked her lips, and said, "Yes." It took everything out of her, but she did it.

He laughed. She reached down under the seat and took hold of the gun; she put it in the seat next to her, as if its mere presence could protect her from that laughter.

But nothing stopped the sound from crawling inside her, touching her, taking her. That confident, utterly callous laugh-it told her he was certain he could repossess her.

"You've been watching us," she said; it came out more like a whisper than she wanted. "All these years."

"Nope. No point in wasting my time. You're predictable," he said. "One of your best qualities. Tyler's taken a liking to little Laurel, and good for him; a brother ought to care for his sister. He's bringing her to me for a proper introduction. If you want to be here for it, you'd better get back on the road."

"Where?" The fear had drained out of her, as if she just couldn't contain it anymore; it was too big, too vast. It had ruptured the skin of her and bled out, leaving her empty.

He gave her an address in Rockwall; at least an hour's drive east across the metroplex.

"Emma?" She'd thought that she couldn't be afraid anymore, but the sound of her name in his mouth made her shudder. "You be careful on the roads, now. Wouldn't want you to miss this."

She didn't wait for him to hang up. She put the phone back into its holder on the console, put the van in drive, and sped away, sliding into traffic just ahead of a Mustang. The young man in the pa.s.senger seat flipped her off as the small car whipped around her. She didn't care.

She took the next exit, U-turned, and floored the gas headed back the opposite direction.

He'll wait, she thought. He'll want me to see. He'll want me to know.

She had to pray that was true.

THERE WAS SOMETHING eerily unsurprising in the utter middle-cla.s.s normality of the subdivision. The brick wall at the entrance bore the words SERENE Sh.o.r.eS. To justify the "sh.o.r.es," there was a large pond right inside; it was probably charming in the daytime. Now, there were only the indistinct pale shapes of ducks dotting the bank and dark smooth water, and the trees looked frozen and twisted. She drove around the pond and then turned right. The streetlights lit up the front of a McMansion, built on the same pseudograndiose lines as its neighbors looming only a couple of feet away, maximum houses on minimum lots. There was something vile about this ultimate horror hiding here, in this neat, pretentious suburban neighborhood.

She pulled up to the closed garage door. Tyler must have put his car inside. She prayed Laurel was in the house. Emma shut the engine off, dropping the keys and her cell phone into one pocket of her leather jacket and jamming the revolver into the other. She picked up her purse with the file stuffed inside, took a deep breath, and opened the van door.

The front door was flanked by two Chinese temple dogs, staring off into the distance; there were leaves and spiderwebs and a wrinkled flyer for a tree-tr.i.m.m.i.n.g service jammed in behind the one on her right. As she looked down, half crazy with fear, she suddenly had a premonition, a strong one. She'd learned not to ignore those; if she'd listened to the first one she'd ever had (I really need to catch a ride home from school today, not walk home), she wouldn't be in this fix now.

So she took the gun from her pocket and put it down in the shadow between the temple dog statue and the brick wall.

Then she rang the bell. A cheery little three-note chime sounded from within, and only a second or two went by before the door swung open.

Tyler was standing there.

He didn't say a word. He took a step back, avoiding her gaze. That was smart. If her stare were able to kill, he'd be writhing on the floor. She stepped inside. The door closed behind her with a soft, final click. She clenched her teeth and walked on.

The entry hall had striped wallpaper. The house smelled like lemon furniture polish and vanilla-air freshener, not the warm scent of things baking. The art was of the Thomas Kinkade school: cozy cottages bathed in sunshine.

"Sorry about this," Tyler said, his face turned away. "I really am."

She didn't speak. She couldn't. There must be something of her in him, but he was his father's puppet. She followed him down the hallway, past darkened doorways, to a brightly lit living room. The monster's lair.

The lair gave a good imitation of a homey den. The monster and her daughter were sitting on the sofa, having some flowery-smelling variety of hot tea. There was a muted TV program playing on the wide-screen television set. Tyler's influence could be seen in the room-gaming equipment, wireless controllers dumped on the coffee tables, empty soft drink cans on the pa.s.s-through bar to the kitchen. Everything about the room was . . . normal, and at the same time completely fake, as if the monster had ordered a room of furniture from some store ad and positioned the pieces exactly as they'd been in the photograph.

There was one personal touch: a single photograph, framed and centered under a spotlight on the wall . . . a posed image of her and Laurel, done years ago for a Christmas card. How did he get that? She couldn't think about it, couldn't worry about that now.

She said, calmly and firmly, "Laurel, please come here."

Laurel's father looked up at her and smiled. He wore the same skin she remembered. It sent a seismic shock through her . . . like the house, he was bland, nondescript, brown hair (dusted now with silver) and brown eyes. His skin tone was medium, too; a dozen witnesses would have given him a dozen different nationalities, depending on their preconceptions.

He couldn't be picked out of a crowd, and that was the point. The entire point.

"Emma," he said. He sounded pleased. "Have a seat, we were just talking about you."

"Laurel, please come here."

Laurel took a sip of her tea and settled in deeper on the couch. "I'm fine, Mom." Emma couldn't read her voice, and Laurel was looking at the creature in the man suit. Was she really oblivious to the danger?

Emma wanted nothing more than to launch herself across the coffee table, grab her daughter, and get out of that room, but she knew that was what he was waiting for. She focused on him. If she'd brought the gun inside, she would have tried to kill him now . . . but she realized that wouldn't have worked. He was expecting instant, unreasoning violence.

So she said, "What name are you using these days?"

His eyebrows raised, as if he was very mildly surprised. "The same one I've always used, Em. Charles Wilson. I noticed you changed your name, though. Laurel, did you know your mom used to have the last name Kazinski?"

"What?" Laurel blinked, and her bright, accusing eyes focused on Emma for the first time. "How much more haven't you told me? G.o.d, Mom. My real name is Kazinski?"

"Your legal name is Saxon," Emma said. "Everything he tells you is a lie, Laurel. Believe me."

"Why should I?" her daughter shot back. "You've lied to me my whole life. What about Tyler? Even if you couldn't keep him, why didn't you tell me I had a brother somewhere out there? And you told me my dad was dead!"

I hoped he was, Emma thought. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw Charles-this was the first time she'd ever known what he called himself-put an affectionate hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Don't be too hard on your mom, kid," he said. He patted gently. He left his hand there. Every nerve in Emma's body screamed at her to do something.

"Your mom went through a very hard time," he told Laurel. "Look, I was no prize; I admit, I left before you two were born. Your mom went into a tailspin, and she had to be treated for depression. She gave your brother up for adoption because she was so angry at me. I'm just happy that I came back to my senses after that. I was able to get him back."

"But-but you didn't look for us? For me?" Laurel looked up at him, and for the first time, she frowned a little. "Why not?"

"Well . . . I did talk to your mom. But she told me she didn't want me to be part of your lives. Then she moved away and changed her name. It took me a long time to track you guys down again, and once I did, I wasn't sure I ought to contact you. It was Tyler who made that decision. Right, son?"

Tyler, leaning against the wall, nodded. Could he really have grown up in this house, with this . . . thing? He was staring down at his feet, looking remote and almost disinterested . . . but that was a mask, Emma thought. He was scared.

Almost as scared as she was.

"Laurel," Emma said. She reached into her purse, and Charles's stare came to fix on hers. She saw the pulse of yellow fire in his gaze, but she was ready for it this time. Although it terrified her, she didn't let it stop her. She took out the file and handed it over to her daughter. "He's lying to you. This is the truth."

Laurel opened the folder and gasped. She clapped a hand over her mouth as she stared at the first photo of her mother's battered, misshapen face. She turned it over. The next one was of the damage to Emma's torso. Laurel gave a high-pitched noise of denial. When those pictures had been taken, Emma had been hardly older than Laurel was now.

Charles smiled. He didn't look away from Emma's face.

Laurel turned the pages with a trembling hand and looked up with horror in her eyes. Finally, something had gotten through. "Mom!" The word was soft, almost m.u.f.fled, and Laurel closed the folder and tried to get up to come to her.

Charles's hand on her shoulder held her back.

"That wasn't me, sweetheart," he said, not even making an effort to sound concerned. "I was her boyfriend when that happened. She was already pregnant by me when she was raped. I freaked out; wasn't my finest hour, Laurel, I know that. But I came back. I came back."

"Mom?"

Emma held her hand out. Laurel slipped out from beneath Charles's hand and went to her, and as Emma put her arm around her, she felt a surge of strength.

"He's lying," she said flatly. "He attacked me on my way home from school when I was seventeen. I never knew his name, but I knew-I knew what he was."

"And what am I?" Charles asked, and tilted his head to one side. "Go on, Emma, tell our daughter what you think I am. Let her know just how insane her mother really is." When Emma didn't take the bait, he sighed. "Laurel, your mom is sick. I'm sorry, I wish I didn't have to tell you this, but she thinks I'm some kind of demon, and you and Tyler-she thinks you're both some kind of demons, too."

"Not Laurel," Emma said. "Just the boy. It's always the boy, isn't it?"

"You're insane," Charles said. "Laurel, do you hear what she's saying? How crazy that is?"

"Is it?" Emma backed up, toward the doorway. Charles, sitting calmly on the sofa, didn't move; he watched, still toying with her, still smiling that unsettling little smile. "Is it really? I'm not letting you have my daughter, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d. No way in h.e.l.l."

"h.e.l.l," he repeated, and he moved his gaze from her to Tyler, who was between them and the hallway. "Funny you should say that, because I've got nothing to do with h.e.l.l. That's a concept that came long after me. I'm not the devil, you know. I'm just . . . well. They call me a Witness."

Laurel took in a sharp, trembling breath, and Emma knew just what was happening-the ground was moving under her world. She'd thought it was all malls and boys and simple, though sometimes brutal things . . . but maybe her mom was crazy, and maybe her dad was, too. Her rapist dad.

Maybe it was something worse. Maybe neither one of them was crazy.

"Witness to what?" Emma asked.

"Witness to the end," he said. "I'm here to see it."

"See what?"

"Everything," he said. "I must watch the human race forever. I have to look like one of them to do this. But bodies wear out, and I have to make new ones. Only the most special women will do, Emma. Like you. Like our daughter." He laughed, then shook his head. "I know it sounds sick. It's just the way things work for Witnesses. Nothing personal."

Nothing personal. He'd said that-she remembered it as clearly as she did the feeling of the blood running down her cheeks, of her broken teeth grinding in her mouth. As she remembered the cruel, relentless weight of him on her, and the taste of her own desperate, m.u.f.fled screams. She remembered that phrase, the dispa.s.sionate way he'd said it then. He'd made it almost a chant. Nothing personal, relax, nothing personal . . .

The memory made her lose control.

She still had the knife, and instead of doing what she should have done-lunging for Tyler with it, forcing him out of the way-she went for Charles. For the source of the evil, not its issue. She dove over the coffee table and right into him as he sat on the couch.

And he didn't even try to stop her.

She sank the blade deep in his guts and pulled up, muscles straining and twitching with the pulse of adrenaline, and something inside her that had been bottled up screamed and jumped and capered with delight.

He was smiling. He was still smiling, she had to make him stop smiling.

Then it was too late to think about what she was doing, there was blood gouting all over her, and he was falling sideways, so much red gushing out of him, all over her, and his eyes rolled back in his head but not before she saw that last guttering flash of poisoned yellow in them.

He never stopped smiling.

Over the roaring in her head, Laurel was screaming. I killed him, Emma thought as she staggered to her feet. It felt good, but it also felt strangely distant. I killed the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, finally. He'll never touch me again. It tasted like victory, but felt like a loss. It occurred to her, slowly, that she'd just killed her daughter's father in a particularly gruesome way, right in front of her.

But when she turned toward Laurel, she realized that Laurel was screaming for an entirely different reason.

Tyler had moved away from the wall. He was in front of his sister, staring at her, and his eyes were flickering, igniting into a bright, hot, poisonous yellow. Her son said, grinning, "Thanks, Mom. Knew I could count on you to do the hard part."

Her instinct was to rush blindly at him, to wrest Laurel away, but she knew better; that was what he was waiting for. Instead, Emma backed away, to the still-twitching corpse of the dead man, and pulled the knife free of his body.

Tyler's grin dialed down from glee to business.

He lunged forward to seize Laurel's wrist even as she tried to run. He pulled her into a tightly enveloping embrace. "You really should go, Mom. I don't think you're going to want to see what comes next, do you? You've kind of already been there. Wouldn't want you to get flashbacks and crack up again. . . . Hey, sis, did you know that dear old Mom spent six months before we were born scratching padded walls and mumbling to herself? And then spent another year after she gave me up getting high? Dear old Mom, the crackhead. They didn't even let her hold you until you were nearly two, after she detoxed."

"Stop," Emma said. She'd never, ever told her daughter about those dark, awful days; she'd tried to forget they ever existed. She took in a deep breath and took a step toward him. Her grip was too tense on the knife, and she deliberately relaxed. "Tyler, you're as much a victim as I was. You never asked for any of this, and now . . ."

"Sorry, were you talking to someone? Because I know you weren't talking to little Tyler, that squirming bundle of joy you almost killed when they tried to put him in your arms. If you'd had your way, little Tyler would have had his baby neck broken before he took his first breath. Right?"