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Rose stepped out into the pale early moonlight and took half a dozen long, steadying breaths of
fresh air. She began to feel a little better, a little more herself, but she couldn’t let go of that fluttering
sensation. The feeling of having someone else inside her—a rube, no less—looking at her private
things. The pain had been bad, and the surprise of being trapped that way was worse, but the worst
thing of all was the humiliation and sense of violation. She had been stolen from.
You are going to pay for that, princess. You just messed in with the wrong bitch.
A shape was moving toward her. Rose had settled on the top step of her RV, but now she stood up,
tense, ready for anything. Then the shape got closer and she saw it was Crow. He was dressed in
pajama bottoms and slippers.
“Rose, I think you better—” He stopped. “What the hell happened to your hand?”
“Never mind my fucking hand,” she snapped. “What are you doing here at two in the morning?
Especially when you knew I was apt to be busy?”
“It’s Grampa Flick,” Crow said. “Apron Annie says he’s dying.”