The Storyteller by Jodi Picoult

offer of marriage, but that was just a different kind of deal with the Devil. Then again, if I were homeless, how long would it be before the beast that was preying upon the people of our village found me?
    From the corner of my eye I saw someone approaching. It was the new man in town, leading his brother on the leather leash. He walked past me without even glancing at the bread, and stood in front of the empty wooden plank where the butcher usually set up his wares. When he turned to me, I felt as if a fire had been kindled beneath my ribs. “Where is the butcher?” he asked.
    “He isn’t selling today,” I murmured.
    I realized he was younger than I’d first thought, perhaps just a few years older than me. His eyes were the most impossible color I had ever seen—gold, but gleaming, as if they were lit from within. His skin was flushed, with bright spots of color on his cheeks. His brown hair fell unevenly over his brow.
    He was wearing only that white shirt, the one that had been beneath the coat he traded the last time he’d been in the village square. I wondered what he had been willing to barter with today.
    He didn’t say anything, just narrowed his eyes as he stared at me.
    “The merchants are running scared,” Baruch Beiler said. “Just like everyone else in this godforsaken town.”
    “Not all of us have iron gates to keep the animals out,” answered Damian.
    “Or in,” I murmured beneath my breath, but Beiler heard me.
    “Ten zloty,” he hissed. “By Friday.”
    Damian reached into his military jacket and pulled out a leather pouch. He counted the silver coins into his palm and flung them at Beiler. “Consider the debt paid,” he said.
    Beiler knelt, collecting the money. Then he stood and shrugged. “Until next month.” He stalked toward his mansion, locking the gates behind himself before vanishing into the massive stone house.
    From their position in front of the empty meat stall, I could see the man and his brother watching us.
    “Well?” Damian looked at me. “Didn’t your father teach you any manners?”
    “Thank you.”
    “Perhaps you’d like to show your appreciation,” he said. “Your debt to Beiler’s paid. But now you owe one to me.”
    Swallowing, I came up on my tiptoes, and kissed his cheek.
    He grabbed my hand and pressed it against his crotch. When I tried to push away from him, he ground his mouth against mine. “You know I could take what I want anytime,” he said softly, his hands bracketing my head and squeezing my temples so hard that I could not think, could barely listen. “I am only offering you a choice out of the goodness of my heart.”
    One minute he was there, and the next, he wasn’t. I fell, the cobblestones cold against my legs, as the man with the golden eyes yanked Damian away from me and wrestled him to the ground. “She already chose,” he gritted out, punctuating his words with blows to the captain’s face.
    As I scrambled away from their fight, the boy in the leather mask stared at me.
    I think we both realized at the same time that his leash was dangling, free.
    The boy threw back his head and started to run, his footsteps echoing like gunshots as he raced across the deserted village square.
    His brother paused, distracted. It was enough of a hesitation for Damian to land a solid punch. The man’s head snapped back, but he staggered to his feet and chased after the boy.
    “You can run,” Damian said, wiping the blood from his mouth. “But you can’t hide.”

LEO
    The woman on the phone is breathless. “I’ve been trying to find you for years, ” she says.
    This is my first red flag. We’re not that hard to find. You ring up the Justice Department, and mention why you’re calling, you’ll be routed to the office of Human Rights and Special Prosecutions. But we take every call, and we take them seriously. So I ask the woman her name.
    “Miranda Coontz,” she says. “Except that’s my married name. My maiden name was