I duck behind the inn's woodpile and try to slow my breathing. My name is Vincent, and I've been running for two days. Every step away from that cabin is a step toward something like a life again. I just need to reach the next town before he finds me. Inside the inn, I hear a stranger asking about me. A woman with blond hair and sharp blue eyes leans on the bar. She describes my face to the keeper in a low, patient voice. I should run. Instead, I freeze. She finds me anyway. She smiles like we're old friends and offers a ride. I climb in because my legs are shaking and her eyes look kind. She drives me back up the hill, to a warm cabin with glowing windows and flowers on the porch steps. The door opens before she knocks. They tie me to the chair together. While she ties the knot, my fingers brush something tucked beside the cushion — a coil of frayed rope and a knife crusted brown with old blood. My stomach drops. I lift my eyes to him. "Vincent," I whisper, "whose blood is this?" He crouches until we are level. "You weren't supposed to find that yet," he says.