Justine
It was the darkest part of the night when Justine woke. Although it was quiet, her head echoed with the sound that had woken her. Her children were asleep. She pulled the quilt closer around them. The air was still, and in the light from the lamp everything in the little room was in its place: the photographs on the table, the jar with Lucy’s hairpins, the bags of Lucy’s clothes in the corner. All of it, like Justine, alert. Waiting.
As Justine watched, the doorknob turned with slow stealth. The door pushed against the deadbolt, then fell back. Just as quietly, Justine climbed over Angela’s sleeping form and got out of bed. She stood in the middle of the room, her body rigid, watching the doorknob. Her skin prickled with revulsion. She knew what he wanted. He wanted to slip into
