Leslie was vaguely aware of sinking to her knees. Harriet was screaming and threatening to call the police, but neither Leslie nor Mordecai took any heed. Horror filled her to the point of overflowing, along with a small amount of resignation.

It was over. He’d won.

He was going to kill her or do something much, much worse – but no, she couldn’t think about that now. The very idea made her stomach churn and her headache worse, if it was even possible. If she hadn’t done what she did, he would have killed her family and, given his penchant for obsession, haunted her to the end of her days.

“What to do with you,” Mordecai murmured, leaning down so he could look at Leslie in the face. She didn’t meet his gaze. She couldn’t bring herself to see the triumph in his eyes; the horrible accomplishment that lit up his face with twisted pride.

“Can you stand,” he said, “or will I have to drag you by your hair?”

“I can walk,” she whispered in reply.

Nevertheless, he gripped her by the upper arms and pulled her firmly to her feet, brushing imaginary dirt away from her shoulders. “Does the woman ever shut up?” he asked, indicating Harriet with dangerous amusement.

A quick glance over his shoulder on Leslie’s part revealed that Harriet was much, much smarter than Mordecai had ever imagined. Leslie merely shook her head, pretending to be resigned to her fate – which, she reflected as the baseball bat bounced off the back of Mordecai’s head, would not be so bad after all.

He fell in a heap at their feet. Leslie, whose agony could no longer be ignored, soon followed.

---

She awoke to bright light and hushed voices. Briefly, she wondered if she was dead. It would certainly make sense after all that had happened. But as the world swam into focus and she recognized her parents and her uncle, death was an intangible relief.

“Oh, my baby!” came her mother’s cry. Maria Burroughs practically climbed into the hospital bed, showering her child with tears and frantic kisses. Leslie returned the embrace awkwardly until her mother composed herself and backed away. “If it weren’t for the nurses next door,” Maria sniffed with a small smile, “I’d knock your teeth out.”

“The police are waiting outside, Leslie,” Uncle Hank said. His voice was weary, and the expression on his face made him look much, much older than he actually was. “They told us to tell them when you woke up, so they could ask you some questions.”

“Well,” she whispered uneasily, “I’m awake.”

“Yes, and you’re doped up on about fifteen pain medications,” John Burroughs scoffed. “Really, they expect her to give legitimate answers like this? I cannot abide this law enforcement; they couldn’t even figure out how he escaped four years ago—”

She sat bolt upright, ignoring the dull stab of protest her head gave. Jennings. It wasn’t as though she’d forgotten about him, but for a few brief moments, she’d felt as though she could rest quietly without glancing over her shoulder. The last thing she remembered was Harriet swinging the bat. “Is he dead?” she blurted.

“No,” Hank said, shifting his weight. He grimaced. “I’m going to go get the cops; they can explain a hell of a lot better than I can.”

The police entered a few moments later, two of them standing by the door, while the third, not in uniform (Must be an investigator) knelt beside her bed to talk to her. While the gesture would have been somewhat comforting in any other situation, she had a suspicion that this was no mere gathering of facts.

“You’re not going to make me talk to him, are you?” she demanded before he could even say a word. “I don’t want to see him.”

“No one is asking you to speak with him,” said the man, not unkindly. “That’s impossible right now, anyway.”

She hated herself for asking it: “Why?”

“He escaped long before we arrived.” There was no emotion in his voice as he said it. It was as if he’d expected it, or that it didn’t surprise him in the slightest. Leslie would have been aghast, if she hadn’t expected it either.

“What do I do?” she whispered.

“Obviously you’ll be placed under the proper protection,” he said vaguely. “You’re of age now, correct?”

“Eighteen? Yes.”

“Good.” He steepled his fingers and looked contemplative. Whether it was an act or actual thought, Leslie couldn’t be sure. “Tell me, Miss Burroughs, how did Mordecai Jennings come to know of you?”

She was sure her swallow was audible; if it wasn’t, they were all deaf. She raised a questioning gaze to her uncle, who merely shrugged. She swallowed again and formulated an answer. “My uncle was his psychologist.”

“Spent a lot of time talking about you, did they?”

“I don’t know.”

“Revenge tactic, then.”

“He mentioned it…”

“We want to know exactly what transpired, in your own words.” The investigator’s tone was brisk now; businesslike and unsympathetic. “Leave nothing out, bring nothing in. This is extremely important to the investigation, and you are held liable if your account is found untruthful.”

Leslie told her story.

END.