Having the right instincts didn’t make him feel any better. He was going to die. And Ashley would be hurt, hunted, and slaughtered.

Nick had to find a way out.

The night creatures suddenly quieted, as if a larger, more dangerous predator was on the move. Nick’s ears pricked. Someone approached the cabin.

A moment later, the chain on the door shifted, then rattled. Nick felt Ashley startle awake.

“No,” she whimpered. “No, not again.”

“It’s okay,” he said, his voice rough.

“No, it’s not! It’s never going to be okay!”

The cabin was already chillingly cold, but when the door opened the night wind touched his body with an icy finger and he shivered. For the first time, he realized how frigid Ashley must be.

The door closed. The Butcher said nothing.

Nick heard the clinking of something metal, then Ashley screamed in pain.

“Stop! Don’t hurt her!”

Nick pleaded with the rapist as he struggled against the ropes. Ashley’s cries were continuous, falling off to sobbing, then a sudden scream pierced the cabin walls.

The rapist spoke little, just as Miranda had said. An occasional word-mine, forever -with grunts and sounds of exertion.

Tears sprang to Nick’s eyes. Of pure hatred. Of anger. Of helplessness. He heard the sick slapping of flesh on flesh as the Butcher raped Ashley and used something metallic to mar her flesh. Her breasts.

He’d seen Miranda’s scars. Now he knew how they got there.

How had she survived such brutal torture? How had she grown into the incredible, strong, fearless woman she was? His blinders were gone; he saw that Miranda was more than a victim, more than a survivor.

She was the victor.

Ashley screamed again and sobbed. The Butcher’s virtual silence was more disconcerting than had he shouted obscenities. As if being silent was to prove something to himself.

Nick didn’t know how long the Butcher stayed to torture Ashley. It was as if he didn’t know Nick was there-he ignored every plea, every curse, every accusation. But he finally left, chaining the door behind him. Ashley was silent.

Had he killed her?

No, he wouldn’t do that. He needed the hunt. She’d probably passed out. He listened with bated breath until he was confident she was still breathing.

Nick wanted to comfort the girl but didn’t know how. What could he say to take away the pain and humiliation of what she’d just endured?

Instead, he mentally prepared for escape. Maybe the Butcher would find it a challenge to hunt the sheriff. Nick devised psychological manipulations to encourage the Butcher to let him go.

You shoot weak women in the back. Aren’t you good enough to hunt down a man?

Women are easy. They cry and stumble and beg for mercy. What’s the sport in that? You let me out, you won’t be able to catch me. See what you’re really made of.

If Nick could taunt the Butcher into pursuing him, it might give Ashley a real chance to escape. He had to convince her to run in the opposite direction.

And not look back.

The Bitch had told him not to use the cabin anymore in case the cop had told someone where he was headed. She thought she was still running the show.

He didn’t mind sleeping outdoors, though. He had a forty-below sleeping bag, a space blanket, and hot coffee he’d picked up at a gas station after leaving his girl.

It had been difficult to concentrate on her when the damn cop wouldn’t shut up. He’d considered just killing him and getting it over with-he’d kill him eventually, anyway-but the thought of hunting a cop excited him. He’d be a tough opponent. He might even try to attack.

But the cop would lose, of course.

I’m at the top of my game.

He’d been thinking for a while about tying up loose ends. The Bitch had told him he couldn’t have Miranda Moore. That would change. The Bitch was no longer in charge.

He’d kill the one who got away. She’d been difficult. Haunted him, even now. When he looked at her picture, it brought bad dreams. He couldn’t fully remember the nightmare, only that he’d awake soaking in sweat, with an image of her slicing open his heart and eating it while he watched.

She would then morph into his mother.

He found his hands pummeling his sleeping bag. He forced himself to calm down. Don’t think about her . She was dead. Gone. Good riddance. Why even think of his mother?

It was Miranda. She brought back the damn memories. The one who got away.

The Bitch wouldn’t let him kill her, but he didn’t care anymore. If she said anything about it, he’d slice her throat, too.

Maybe he’d do it anyway.