Chapter 9
EVELYN
Dutch stood in the doorway, his face hard as granite, a hunting rifle held casually in his gnarled hands.
His presence filled the room—solid, unmovable, like the rocks that surrounded our town.
Unlike Wade, unlike Carol, unlike Beth, his eyes were clear and focused, blazing with a fury I’d never seen in the usually taciturn shopkeeper.
“Been watching this town go sideways for days,” Dutch grumbled. “Folks acting strange. Speaking strange. Moving like they’re all sharing one brain.”
He wasn’t affected, I realized, almost dizzy with relief. Thank God he was okay.
Beth’s head snapped toward the new threat, her attention divided, her grip on Sophia’s shoulder loosening just a fraction. It was barely anything—a millimeter of space, a fraction of pressure released—but in that moment, it felt like the difference between life and death for my daughter.
“Figured something bad was happening when Carol Ruper went an entire conversation without gossiping,” Dutch said, taking a slow step into the room.
“Then I saw the kids marching out of school in perfect lines. Walking like little soldiers onto a bus, not a peep. Just wrong. And now this?” He frowned at Beth.
“Appreciate the assist,” Trent said.
Dutch nodded. “What’s the play, son?”
Myriad emotions crossed Trent’s expression as he stared at Sophia. Just for a heartbeat, then he swallowed hard and locked it all down behind the soldier’s mask again. “We need to separate them without those scissors going anywhere near the girl’s throat.”
Dutch shifted his weight, the floorboards creaking beneath his heavy boots. “Got a clear shot from here.”
“No,” I gasped. “Beth’s not herself. She’s being controlled.”
“I know that,” Dutch snapped. “But that don’t change what needs doing if she makes a wrong move with those shears.”
I couldn’t tear my eyes from Sophia, from the scissors still pressed against her throat, from the purple sweater I’d helped her put on this morning when everything had been normal and safe.
The butterfly pin on her collar caught the fluorescent light, its tiny wings seeming to flutter with my daughter’s rapid, terrified breathing.
Beth’s gaze darted between us, that strange flicker in her eyes intensifying.
The real Beth was fighting harder now, her internal struggle visible in the trembling of her hand that held the scissors.
Desperation rolled off her, and I couldn’t imagine the horror of being trapped in your own body while someone else pulled the strings.
“Beth,” I said softly, using the gentle voice I’d once used with frightened children in my classroom. “I know you’re still in there. I know this isn’t you.”
The scissors wavered slightly. A bead of sweat rolled down Beth’s temple, and she made a sound like a wounded animal.
Dutch took another careful step into the room, positioning himself at an angle that forced her to divide her attention between him and Trent.
He kept the rifle steady, his weathered hands rock-solid despite his age.
“Been watching you with these kids for years, Beth Morris. You’d sooner cut off your own hand than hurt one of them. ”
Something like recognition flickered across Beth’s face—a ghost of the warm-hearted, chaotic woman who baked cookies shaped like dinosaurs and cried during school plays.
Trent’s eyes found mine across the room, a silent message passing between us. Now.
I coiled every muscle, weight shifting to the balls of my feet, hands ready to grab, to hold, to protect. My entire existence narrowed to my daughter’s small body, to the scissors at her throat, to the space between us I needed to close.
Trent lunged forward with explosive speed, one hand clamping around Beth’s wrist, forcing it away from Sophia’s neck. His other arm locked around Beth’s waist, trying to control her body. His left side moved stiffly, but he didn’t let it slow him down.
I moved at the same instant, covering the few steps to Sophia in a heartbeat.
My hands found her shoulders, and I yanked her backward, away from Beth’s loosened grip.
The fabric of her sweater stretched as I pulled, and then suddenly she was free and in my arms, her small body trembling against mine.
“Mommy!” The word was more sob than sound as Sophia’s arms locked around my neck.
I backed away, clutching her to my chest, unable to look away from the struggle playing out in front of me.
Beth was fighting, really fighting, with a strength that seemed impossible for her small frame.
She moved like she had hand-to-hand combat training, twisting free of his hold and striking with the scissors, aiming for his neck. He blocked her.
“Get Sophia back!” He grunted as Beth’s fingernails raked across his cheek, drawing blood in four parallel lines.
I retreated toward Dutch, Sophia’s face buried against my neck, her tears soaking my skin. Beth hissed—a sound I’d never heard from a human throat—and managed to slam her elbow into Trent’s ribs with enough force that I heard the impact from across the room.
“Little help here,” Trent called to Dutch, never taking his eyes off Beth as she writhed in his grip.
Dutch handed the rifle to me and waded into the fray. From his pocket, he pulled a roll of duct tape. “Always carry it. Fixes most problems.”
Beth twisted violently in Trent’s hold, her movements too coordinated, too fluid.
She broke partially free, and before either man could react, she drove the scissors toward Trent’s neck.
He jerked back, the blades missing by inches.
Dutch grabbed for her arm, trying to control the weapon, and Beth spun on him instead.
The scissors punched into Dutch’s upper arm, deep enough that he grunted and staggered back a step. Beth wrenched them free, blood coating the blades, already turning back toward Trent.
“Dutch!” I gasped, clutching Sophia tighter.
“I’m fine,” he growled through clenched teeth, grabbing Beth’s wrist before she could strike again. “Just get her down!”
Together, the men forced Beth to the ground.
She bucked and thrashed beneath them, but Dutch pinned her legs while Trent controlled her upper body with his right arm doing most of the work, his left shoulder held at an awkward angle.
The scissors clattered from Beth’s grip, skittering across the floor to rest against the wall.
It was horrible to watch. Beth Morris, who sang silly songs about butterflies and helped kids tie their shoes, was now snarling and fighting like a rabid animal.
“Careful,” I found myself saying. “Don’t hurt her. It’s not her fault.”
“We know.” Trent’s voice was strained with effort. “She’s in there somewhere.”
He managed to flip Beth onto her stomach, one knee pressed against her back to hold her down. From his pocket, he pulled plastic zip ties. Dutch held Beth’s ankles together while Trent bound her wrists behind her back, blood from Dutch’s arm dripping onto the floor.
“It’s okay, Beth.” Trent’s voice softened, even as he tightened the zip ties. “This isn’t you. We’re going to fix this. You’re going to be okay.”
Beth continued to struggle, but with her limbs secured, her movements became less dangerous.
Her body bucked against the floor, her head twisting to the side.
For a split second, I thought I saw something in her eyes—a flash of the real Beth, terrified and confused, before the vacant stare returned.
“Is she... can you help her?” I asked, still clutching Sophia tight against me.
Dutch secured her ankles with more zip ties, his weathered hands surprisingly gentle despite the blood running down to his wrist, then he straightened and retrieved his gun. “First priority is getting you all somewhere safe.”
Sophia whimpered against my neck, her whole body trembling. I stroked her hair, murmuring nonsense words of comfort.
She was alive.
She was unharmed.
The scissors had left no mark on her soft skin.
I kept repeating these facts to myself, trying to slow my hammering heart.
“We need to check her for weapons.” Trent methodically patted down Beth’s pockets. “Anything she could use to hurt herself or us if the ties fail.”
Dutch nodded, helping with the search despite his injury. They found nothing else, just a small tube of lip balm and a folded tissue. Such normal, human things. It made what had happened to Beth seem even more grotesque.
“How are you not like them?” I asked Dutch, the question bursting out before I could stop it. “Everyone else in town...”
He snorted, pressing his palm against his bleeding arm. “Never trusted the town supply. Not since ’78, when the mining company dumped into the reservoir. Got my own well.”
Trent sat back on his heels, wiping blood from his scratched cheek. He winced slightly as he shifted his weight, favoring his left side. “Your paranoia might have saved all our lives.”
Beth had gone still on the floor, but her eyes remained open, staring at nothing. Occasionally, her body would twitch like someone having a bad dream. Was she in there, trapped inside her own mind, watching as her body tried to hurt a child she loved?
“What do we do with her?” I asked.
“Can’t leave her,” Dutch said. “Not like this. She might hurt herself trying to get free.”
“We have to leave her,” Trent said. “She’s too dangerous. Too unpredictable. And for all we know, they can track her.”
Sophia lifted her head from my shoulder, her face streaked with tears, to look at her teacher lying bound on the classroom floor. “Ms. Beth,” she whispered, and the heartbreak in those two words nearly shattered me.
“We need a safe place,” I said, forcing myself to think beyond the moment, beyond the terror we’d just survived. “Somewhere we can figure out what to do next.”
Dutch nodded. “Got just the place in mind. But we need to move fast. Won’t be long before the rest of them realize something’s wrong.”