Hey guys! Okay, so, I've FINALLY re-taken up writing this thing, and I have now finished the ENTIRE story.) SoI'll be posting it one or two chapters a day until it's done (there are 21 chapters total). And to those of you reading this, thank you sooo much for sticking with me!

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Everything was back there. And not just her money, her clothes, her phone book with her only ties to the outside world, the photograph of her parents that she'd kept since she was sixteen years old. Even more than that—her heart was there.

I'll never get it back, she thought, still walking because it gave her something to do. I'll never, ever love again.

He wanted to kill me. He looked right into my eyes …

His hand was raised to hit me, I was afraid… I swore I would never be afraid like that again…

And then, unexpectedly, she thought: I hope he's alright…

She stopped walking. She was nearly at the heart of town now. She was starving, and thirsty, and dirty and tired. She noticed that no one in the town was looking her in the face again. So much for time healing… those cuts from months ago seemed still fresh in everyone's memories.

I have to get out of here, she thought frantically. I can't stay.

I have absolutely no money.

Slowly, she turned around and stared back down the road toward where she'd come. She would go back. Mort had shown her where the spare key was. She would go back to his house at night, after he was asleep, let herself in, and take her things. Then she could be gone forever.

She felt sick with fear at the thought of going back in that house. She thought about asking the police, but some insane part of her mind still didn't want Mort put in jail. She only wanted to be gone. He could settle back into the life he had had before she came—secluded, sinister, but harmless—and live that way forever. She swallowed hard and forced herself to take the first step. The second was a little bit easier, although not much. It would be uphill all the way.

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"GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!"

The Southern voice was infuriating and calm. "You need me, Mister Rainey."

"No!"

" You done forgot that right now, but you'll remember."

"I don't need you. I need her! Get out!"

"You just sit back comfortable like last time—"

"Never—"

"—and let me take care of things. That's why you made me."

"I'll kill you!"

Then the voice laughed, a mirthless and chillingly evil. "You can't get at me, Mister Rainey. I'm in your head."

Mort whirled around, trying to prove him wrong. He was so sure he'd see someone in front of him, a Southern gentleman with dead-looking eyes and sallow skin. Someone he could fight, could kill. Last time there had been some one. But there was no one. He whirled around again. Still, he was alone. Alone. He caught his blurry reflection in the shovel lying on the ground. Just him.

He bent and picked up the shovel. "I'll kill you," he said more quietly to the reflection.

"Now, don't you go doing a fool thing like that."

But Mort hardly heard him. He was in control now. He could feel his own body again, his exhausted muscles, his aching throat, the warm tears streaming down his face. He wouldn't touch Marah. Never. The shovel was heavy and sharp and friendly. He swung.

The blade stopped an inch from his throat. Shooter's voice was ragged now, angry and forceful. "I told you… not… to be doing a fool thing like that."

"Damn it, you piece of shit, die!"

He swung the shovel again, but this time it was knocked out of his hands. Somehow he was on the ground, his hands and feet seemingly anchored to the ground. With a mighty effort he got his hands around his neck, tried to squeeze, but he could only apply the force of a small child.

"I'm stronger'n you, Rainey."

Mort didn't respond.

"You got no chance against me."

His hands were tiring. The muscles were easing, relaxing of their own accord.

"Don't be stupid. She never even loved you."

And that was Shooter's mistake. Because with those words Mort remembered. The nights of passion and the days of light and laughter and the whispered words and the kisses, stolen and returned and given freely, over and over. Then he remembered things he couldn't remember seeing—Marah terrified, on the ground, trying to scramble away from an unimaginable horror. Her face contorted with pain because cruel hands were holding her. Then tears running down her face, chanting words in a voice that was hopeless and sorrowful and broken, so very broken.

A surge of rage hit him, drowning out everything else. He wanted to die. He didn't want to kill Shooter, he just wanted to die. And the hands became strong, and Shooter's angry objections became a whisper, and the world was going dark, and he was happy because Marah was safe.

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He woke. His head was throbbing as if it had been split in two. Breathing was torture for his throat. It felt like his lungs had collapsed when he drew in air. His muscles ached. There was blood in his mouth.

It took him a moment to remember. Shooter. Shooter was gone. This time he wouldn't come back. Last time he'd been lurking in the dark memories. This time the memories were bright, vivid, searingly painful. There was nowhere for him to hide this time.

And Marah. Marah was gone, too.

He was glad. He told this to himself over and over again as he staggered to his feet, limped into the house, and collapsed on the couch. She's safe. I'm glad. I'm glad. I'm glad.

There was a paperweight on the table by the couch. It was made of glass, smooth and cool. He put it on his throat because he was too exhausted to get ice. He lay there telling himself he was glad, while the light from the windows dimmed, leaving him in the dark. After about half an hour, he pulled together all of his strength, stretched out his arm, and switched on the table lamp.

She's gone, and I'm glad. I'm glad.

I am.