But none of her scenarios had anticipated the blind rage that darkened her world when Zeke said those four words.

You. Both. Sicken. Me.

She was moving before any conscious thought told her to move. Pushed by indignation so deep that her very cells forgot their need for survival, she lunged for the counter, scooped up the frying pan, and blindly swung the cast iron weapon with all of her strength as she turned his direction.

To her surprise, the back of his head was there, in the skillet’s pathway. His skull stopped the pan’s momentum with a loud, hollow thunk.

He didn’t cry out. He didn’t have time to mount a defense. He didn’t even try to turn.

He simply dropped to his knees, swayed there for a second, then toppled over, face down, unmoving.

Kathryn stood over him, breathing hard, at a complete loss. She’d hit him. She’d hit Zeke. She’d knocked him out.

This simple realization was quickly followed by another one.

He’s going to punish me for this. He’s going to kill me.

Her hands were trembling and she dropped the skillet without meaning to. It landed on his leg and clattered to the wooden floor.

Oh my God, oh my God, what have I done? He’s going to kill us all!

But Zeke wasn’t getting up to kill them all. He was just lying there. He was still alive—she could see his lungs expanding with each breath—but he wasn’t moving his legs or arms, and as long as he couldn’t move those, he couldn’t punish or kill anyone.

All of these thoughts trained by so many years under Zeke’s guidance flew through her mind before a far more obvious one took root.

He’s unconscious. Which means I can call 911 without him knowing.

Kathryn spun and took two steps toward his office before another thought pulled her up short.

What if he woke up? He’d come after her! She had to tie him up!

She spun back and stared at his large frame on the floor, expecting movement even as she looked. She had to hurry before he did wake, but for that she needed rope, and there was no rope here that she could see. Maybe outside or in the shed, but what if he woke while she was out looking for something to tie him up with?

No, she couldn’t risk it. She had to tie him up right now, while he was still unconscious, and she had to tie him up good because he was a bull. There was only one way to do that.

Kathryn grabbed the hem of her skirt with both hands and ripped as hard as she could. The cotton fabric resisted at the hem, but then tore past, leaving a long split up her thigh.

Working in frenzy, begging that form on the floor to remain still, she shredded the bottom of her dress, tearing off four strips before deciding she could wait no longer.

Dropping to her knees, Kathryn straddled Zeke’s thighs and reached for his right arm to pull it back. It was then that he groaned and tried to lift his head off the floor.

The change came so unexpectedly that Kathryn cried out, jumped back, tripped on her heels, and went sprawling to her seat beyond his feet.

Zeke grunted and shook his head. Started to push himself up.

No! No, no, no . . .

Blinded once again by panic, Kathryn dove for the fallen frying pan, grabbed its handle, scrambled to her knees, and, with all her might, brought the skillet back down on his head from behind.

Zeke dropped to his face like a bull that had just received a million-volt surge of electric current.

Thump.

She sat back on her heels, panting. There. There, he was down. Still breathing but down.

She had to hurry.

Straddling him, Kathryn started with his hands once again, pulling them behind his back. This time he stayed out.

She wound a strip of cloth around both wrists and tugged the tie tight. Then wound a second strip overlapping the first, this time using her heels for leverage as she cinched the knot as snug as she could.

She quickly did the same at his ankles. And then, to be absolutely sure, she tore off another two strips and bound one around his arms at his elbows, and the second around his knees.

That made six bindings, but that wasn’t good enough either, was it? She tore off a seventh strip of cloth and bound it around his mouth so he couldn’t yell out and alert Claude or anyone else posted outside.

She stood up and stared at her handiwork. Zeke lay facedown on the wooden floor, bound and gagged like a hog. Not by the strongest ropes, but without any leverage he would be hard-pressed to break any of the bonds.

I’ve stopped him, she thought. I’ve tied Zeke up.

It took a moment for this thought to become real for her because the very idea still struck her as somehow impossible. Nothing could stop Zeke. That’s just the way it was.

And yet there he was, out cold, like a side of beef.

So why was she just staring at him? She had to make a call, so why was she just standing here if he was bound up like a dead bull?

She’d done that?

Slowly the significance of her accomplishment settled into her mind, and with each breath her resolve to do what she’d come to do grew.

This is what it means to walk through the valley of the shadow of death, she thought. Eden claimed to be a water walker. Maybe this meant that she too was a water walker.

Somehow she doubted that.

Didn’t matter. She was going to save that water walker.

“Don’t move,” she said, jaw firm. Then she turned her back on Zeke, walked into his office, crossed to the desk, and lifted the phone.

“This is for you, Eden,” she whispered, and with her forefinger she pressed the number 9, then 1 and another 1.

A female operator answered after the second ring.

“Thank you for calling 911, please state the nature of your emergency.”

“Yes . . .” She lost track of what words to use.

“Ma’am, please state the nature of your emergency.”

“Yes . . . I . . .”

“It’s okay, honey. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Kathryn drew a deep breath.

“I would like to report a kidnapping,” she said.

A hesitation.

“Who’s been kidnapped, Ma’am?”

“Alice Ringwald, daughter of the late congressman James Ringwald, was taken from her home in Greenville, South Carolina, five years ago. She is being held at 2090 Rosecrans Road south of Interstate 10 out of Lafayette, Louisiana. Please inform the FBI, I’m sure they have a file.”

“Are you sure about this, ma’am?”

“Of course I’m sure. I have the man who kidnapped her bound up on the floor in the next room.”

“And do you have his name?”

“His name is Zeke Gunner and he’s the devil.”

Another short pause.

“And how do you know that Zeke Gunner kidnapped Alice Ringwald, ma’am?”

“Because I helped him do it,” she said. “Please hurry.”

Then she dropped the receiver in its cradle and walked back into the living room.

There, she thought. There. I’ve undone it.

Now what? But as soon as the question presented itself, she knew exactly what now.

Now she would wait and let the chips fall where they would fall.

Kathryn walked to Zeke’s preferred high-backed, upholstered chair in the corner of the living room, poured two fingers of his preferred Scotch into a crystal glass on the side table, and sat down.

Zeke’s body remained where she’d left it, back slowly rising and falling as he breathed in darkness. Not so much now, was he? No, not at all.

She leaned back, crossed one leg over, and swirled the Scotch in her glass. Eden wouldn’t do it this way, she was sure of that. She would probably just walk on down the street, having no worry. After all, she could heal her own leg.

No, Eden wouldn’t do it this way, but then Eden probably wouldn’t do it at all. And either way, she wasn’t Eden.

She was Eden’s mother. And as her mother, she wasn’t going to let anyone hurt her again. Ever. Not Claude, not Zeke, not herself.