Ward Butler stood in the doorway, a furious glower on a face that already seemed permanently bent in a sneer. “Move,” he growled, gesturing for her to come out from the corner. She squinted; the dim light in the hallway seemed bright after the total darkness of the closet. She considered refusing, but it wouldn’t help her. Stomach churning, she stepped slowly toward him, peering down the hall. She’d expected a crowd of cultists, begging for another try at a lynching, but it was quiet. Not even Rolfe was with Butler this time, and it made everything seem ominous in a different way. “Let’s go,” he said, pointing with his rifle back down the hall, over the trip wire and into the main hallway, which was also empty. “Where?” she asked, glad to discover her voice didn’t squeak. It came out strong and clear, as if she still had some say in what happened to her. “Upstairs,”
