The clock on the bedside table read 2:14 AM. Victor's breathing was heavy and rhythmic, the deep sleep of a man who believed he had finally won.
Libby moved like a ghost. She slipped out from under his arm, her bare feet finding the cold floor without a sound. She grabbed her hoodie from the chair, pulled it over her head, and crept toward the door. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she forced her hands to stay steady. She had a plan this time—a route through the garden, past the gatehouse, into the woods.
She reached the door and turned the handle. It clicked.
The light from the hallway spilled across the floor like a wound.
"Going somewhere, Libby?"
Victor was sitting up in bed. His eyes were wide, bright, and terrifyingly awake. He didn't sound angry. He sounded disappointe
