She nods, her movements clumsy as I help her slide out of the back. Her legs buckle immediately, and I catch her weight against my body. Evan watches us with detached interest, like we're an experiment whose outcome he already knows.
"Inside," he repeats, gesturing toward the barn with the gun.
We move slowly, Trixie leaning heavily on me as we cross the frozen ground. The tall grass whispers against my legs, wet with frost that soaks through my thin dress. Each step feels like walking through water.
The barn looms larger as we approach, its weathered boards groaning in the wind. The double doors hang crooked on rusted hinges, and the smell hits me. Decaying wood, damp earth, and something else I can't place.
"We need help," Trixie murmurs against my ear. "Harris drugged me at the hospital. He took my phone. I couldn't?—"
"I know," I whisper back. "Stay quiet. Don't give him a reason."
Evan follows close behind, the gun now pressed against my back. "Keep moving."
We pass through the doorway into the cavernous interior. The headlights from the car casts long, distorted shadows across the dirt floor.
As my eyes adjust, I make out a small folding table with tools laid out in a neat row. Knives of various sizes. Rope. A battery-powered lantern. A black bag I don't want to imagine the contents of.
Evan has been here before. This was planned. This barn wasn't chosen randomly.
"Sit." He points to a spot near the table.
I guide Trixie to the floor, lowering her carefully against a support beam. Her eyes are clearer now, tracking Evan as he moves around the barn, checking the corners like he's confirming everything is as he left it.
"Why are you doing this?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. "Charlie is safe now. The adoption is finalized. You can't change that."
His face contorts between a smile and a snarl. "You think that's why I'm here? For custody?"
The gun swings toward me, and I fight the instinct to flinch.
"I'm here because you took what was mine. Not just Charlie. Not just her mother, Sarah." He steps closer, his voice dropping to something terrifying. "You took my purpose."
Trixie shifts beside me, her hand brushing against mine. I feel something small and cold press into my palm. Her hospital ID badge. The edges are sharp where she's broken it, creating a makeshift blade.
Evan doesn't notice. He's pacing now, the gun hanging loosely at his side.
"They called me a monster in prison. The other inmates. The guards. Everyone." His voice takes on a conversational tone, as if we're old friends sharing stories. "They don't understand. They never understood."
"What don't they understand?" I ask, buying time, working the broken plastic between my fingers.
His eyes find mine in the dim light. "That I was making them better. Purer. Women like Sarah, like the others, were flawed. Weak. I was helping them reach their potential."
Trixie's fingers tighten around my wrist. She's more alert than she's letting on, watching Evan with the same careful attention she'd give a difficult patient.
"The court ordered a psychiatric evaluation for you," I say, remembering what our lawyer told us. "They think you might be…"
"Insane?" He laughs, the sound echoing off the barn's rotting walls. "Is that what they told you? That I'm crazy?"
He stops pacing, suddenly very still. "I'm the only one who sees clearly. The world is broken, Morgan. People like me, we're the ones trying to fix it."
The gun rises again, pointing at my chest. "And you're standing in my way."
Outside a branch cracks in the distance. Evan's head whips around, gun swinging toward the sound.
For one second, his attention is diverted. Trixie squeezes my arm, a silent instruction, and I make my move.
I lunge forward, driving the sharp edge of the ID badge toward his wrist. I don't aim for the gun, as I know I can't take it from him. Instead, I slash at the soft tissue between his thumb and forefinger, the spot I remember from a self-defense class years ago.
Evan screams. The gun discharges, the bullet embedding in the ceiling with a shower of splinters. I grab for the weapon as it falls from his injured hand, but he's already recovering, his other fist catching me across the face.