“Mom, run!”

She heard the intruders.

She snatched up my photograph and scrambled through a hole in the back wall.

I followed her.

We had barely gone fifty yards when flames rose behind us.

The temple was burning.

Vivian hadn’t caught my mother, so she had set fire to the place where she had prayed for me.

“There she is!”

The men gave chase.

My mother was small and quick. She plunged into a cornfield and disappeared into the darkness between the stalks.

For a while, they lost her.

But Vivian ordered them to spread out and surround the field.

It wasn’t large enough to hide her for long.

My mother finally emerged onto an empty road.

There was nowhere to go.

Footsteps closed in behind her.

Then headlights swept across the pavement.

Hope lit her face.

She ran into the road and spread her arms, begging the driver to stop.

The car braked.

A man climbed out in gray trousers and a gray cap, its brim pulled low.

The headlights threw his face into shadow.

But I recognized him.

“No! Mom, don’t!”

Too late.

Julian caught her.

He pulled off the cap and smiled coldly.

My mother struggled. He drove a syringe into her neck.

Her body went limp.

I threw myself at him, screaming.

Nothing happened.

He shoved her into the car, then took out a baseball bat.

I saw what he meant to do.

“No! Stop! Julian, stop!”

The bat came down on her legs.

Her unconscious body jerked. A scream tore out of her.

I couldn’t stop him.

I couldn’t even touch him.

He looked down at his work with satisfaction.

“Let’s see you run now.”

If hatred could kill, he would have died a thousand times.

I would never forgive him.

Not in this life. Not in any life that came after it.

Vivian arrived, breathing hard.

“Slippery little thing. Come on. It’s late. Let’s get her there.”

They drove to a remote care home owned by the Whitmores.

Vivian spoke to the doctor as though she were discussing an inconvenient household item.

“She used to work for us. Her whole family’s dead. She can’t speak, and she’s mentally ill. Violent, too. She stabbed someone to death. Give her the prescribed medication and sedative injections every day.”

The doctor looked at my mother, then at Vivian.

There was doubt in his eyes.

But the facility belonged to the Whitmores. Asking questions would only bring trouble.

He agreed.

“She’s suicidal,” Vivian added. “Have someone watch her around the clock. Don’t let her die.”

My mother still had some use to her.

For now, that was the only thing keeping her alive.

It was the smallest, cruelest comfort.

I knelt beside her and brought my mouth close to her ear.

“Hold on, Mom. Please stay alive. Wait for me.”

My voice shook.

“I’ll find a way. Whatever it costs.”

They would pay for every drop of blood.