Chapter 11
Ihave every intention of heading straight for the stairs but barely make it past the fireplace when the shrill ring of a cell phone cuts through the typical silence of the house. Freezing, I press my back against the stone hearth and listen.
He has a phone?
In all my time up here, I haven’t seen him on it or heard him talking with anyone. I even began to wonder if a cell would have service up here and how he was making contact with the “sources” he uses to bring things to the mountain.
But apparently, that’s an issue Weston has resolved.
The sound comes again.
Ring after ring after ring.
Whoever is calling is certainly insistent.
And Weston seems reluctant to answer; otherwise, he would have already.
I peek around the corner and find him staring at the screen, his knuckles whitening around the small phone. Whoever’s calling him, he looks pretty damn pissed at the interruption.
Another ring brings an annoyed growl before he swipes across the screen and brings the offending device to his ear. “What?”
His tone makes it clear to whoever is on the other end of the line that he doesn’t want to have this conversation.
He listens for a few seconds, his free hand fisting on the armrest. “It was not cozy…”
Cozy?
What the hell is he talking about?
I wrack my brain for anything that might give some context to his words as he goes silent again. Nothing about this house or the situation I’m in exactly screams cozy, nor would anyone use the word to describe The Beast or what he does as the head of the Barker organization. So, its use truly baffles me as he releases a long sigh.
“No.” The timbre of his voice lowers, like he’s trying to convince whoever he’s speaking with of his seriousness on the matter. “I’ll handle her.”
Handle who?
And what the hell does “handle” mean to The Beast?
Without even knowing what they mean, his words send a chill through me, replacing the heat I felt pressed up against him only moments ago. But his tense posture, annoyed huff, and seeming frustration with the other half of the call are not giving off warm and fuzzy vibes.
Certainly not cozy…
He’s silent for a moment, listening intently as he shifts forward and slams his fist onto the table, the sharp sound reverberating to me and rattling the glasses on the sideboard along the wall of the dining room. “You know this isn’t what I want.”
What isn’t?
My inability to unravel their discussion by only hearing one side makes frustration and unease boil through me.
They could be talking about anything. About anyone.
It might have nothing to do with me or the situation with Rosewood and Dad.
Weston must deal with these types of calls on a daily basis, making decisions that affect hundreds of people across the state. Just because I haven’t seen him do it before doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened every day since I arrived.
He’s good at hiding things, and he would surely have made certain I wasn’t around to overhear or see anything I shouldn’t. But he didn’t bother to check to make sure I was out of earshot when he accepted this call.
Because he was rattled by what just happened between us or by the call itself?
“You don’t have to worry about Fox. I’ll do whatever is necessary.”
A knife slices through my chest, robbing me of all the air in my lungs.
He ends the call with a muttered curse and shoves back his chair. The scrape of the feet against the wood floor makes me jump and race toward the front foyer to dart up the stairs before he can catch me eavesdropping.
His side of the conversation replays through my head as I make my way up, glancing over my shoulder to ensure he isn’t following.
That had to be about Dad, right?
He said he would do whatever’s necessary.
What the fuck does that mean?
The vision of the valley and gorge laid out before me, filled with bodies of Barker enemies, climbing from their graves in retaliation for what’s been done to them, flashes through my head violently.
Like a horror movie coming to life.
The Beast’s huge handprints wringing their necks, if they have them. Others headless, his precise axe skills on display.
I cringe and gag slightly, staggering a step right before I reach the top landing. Turning to stare down, I wait for him to reappear while I try to regain my composure.
He never does.
Either he stayed in the living room or snuck out through the kitchen.
I sink to my knees, gripping the banister to keep myself from falling over completely. For the first time since that initial night, I’m truly afraid of Weston Barker.
That part of him is so easy to separate and lock away when there isn’t any evidence of it glaring in my face—or ringing in my ears.
Weston might hurt Dad—or worse.
If this Rosewood situation can’t be fixed in a way that appeases the Barkers, there’s a very real chance I’ll lose him forever.
I’ve managed to push away that fear over the past few weeks since Dad was here because I believe in him and know he’ll do everything in his power to make things right—both for himself and especially for me. I thought the fact that so much time has passed without anything happening or any word meant things were going well, moving in the right direction.
But maybe I was wrong.
About a lot of things.
I have to help him.
At the moment, I don’t have a clue how, but there has to be something I can do to save the most important person in my life, even if Weston has repeatedly told me to stay out of it.
My eyes drift to the library doors.
Weston said there are records, things going all the way back to the beginning of the Barkers in America. There has to be a clue about who or what Rosewood is and maybe, just maybe, I can figure out a way to end all this.
Hope blossoms in my chest, helping ease some of the panic that threatened to drag me into a full-blown meltdown.
Struggling back to my feet, I stare down at the foyer for one more brief minute, picturing how different it could be, how much more welcoming if the man who lived here actually wanted anyone to stay.
He clearly doesn’t. Not even me. He went out of his way to ensure I understood that at the table before he took that call.
Which leaves me with one singular mission—to find a way to save Dad by uncovering what I can about Rosewood and leveraging it with Weston.
I push open the library doors and step inside. The normal smell of the books and leather is altered, a heavy scent of sex still lingering in the air after last night.
Despite how unsteady I feel right now, those memories, those feelings, all come rushing back, and I find my eyes drifting to the table where it all began.
A box sits on top with a note resting on the lid.
This should be what you need.
I lift the lid and find all the supplies I asked for to help restore some of the older volumes in the collection.
It’s ridiculous how much my heart swells at the gesture. Technically, it’s for him, to ensure everything in here stays preserved, but it’s also a gift for me because it allows me to do something I love while I’m here, a way to occupy my time and make me happy doing something I’m good at.
He has no idea that I’ll be using access to the records to unravel the Barker mystery and try to save Dad.
It might make sense to start with the books Weston keeps on the other table, the papers he’s constantly examining and writing on. But something draws me to the older volumes.
Start at the beginning.
It’s impossible to understand anyone without learning their history first—who they are, where they came from, what values and dreams drive them.
I grab a pair of gloves from the box and tug them on as I move over to the glass cabinet, the one housing the most ancient volumes, and scan the spines. Most of them are blank, so old they don’t even have anything written on them—just worn, degrading leather.
This is where things started for the Barkers, for Weston.
I pull open the glass pane and grab the first one all the way to the left, what is, presumably, the oldest volume. A mere inch thick, nothing more than old parchment wrapped in desiccating animal skin, the tome still somehow sits heavy in my hands, like the weight of its contents far exceeds the actual number of pages it contains.
Moving past the shelf where Weston had me pinned last night, I push the flutter and ache between my legs to the back of my mind. If I want to get anywhere with my project, it will mean setting aside everything else for the time being—which is healthier for my sanity, anyway.
I take the book with me to the table Weston uses and settle in, opening it carefully to ensure I don’t damage any of the pages.
Old ink seeped into even more ancient parchment.
My breath catches at the date in the upper right-hand corner: 1667.
Holy shit.
The age of the writing isn’t the only reason for the shock coursing through my body.
This isn’t really a book at all.
It’s the diary of a Barker, from long before they ever moved here.
Something feels wrong about reading it, about delving into the past of the family who put Dad and me in this situation, but I can’t help him if I don’t get a handle on what the Barkers want from him.
Or what Weston wants from me.
It doesn’t take long to get swept into the elegantly scrawled words and the journey of the man who eventually brought the Barkers to the new world.
What Western told me is true.
He was a scholar, a librarian, a man who knew that knowledge meant power and wanted to ensure his family always had it.
This was the start of it. The start of everything the Barkers have built their empire on—fear. Knowing anything and everything they can to blackmail and threaten, then when people don’t comply, they either ruin their lives or take them.
And this man was the one who set that ball rolling.
I drag my eyes away from the page and back over to the case. Volume after volume of diaries and ledgers, likely filled with stories and detailed accountings that will create the true picture of the Barker family.
All right at my fingertips.
Why wouldn’t Weston keep these locked up or move them so I can’t access them?
Maybe deep down he wants me to know, wants me to understand him, no matter how aggressively he might push me away. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
With Weston Barker, it seems there isn’t any easy way to discover the truth.
The towering pine looms over me, broad, wiry branches spread out across the forest canopy, swaying gently in the wind. Beautiful and strong, yet as big a hazard as there is out here.
Precariously close to the workshop and the clearing where I do most of my work, the next major winter storm could bring it toppling down on the building that holds all my supplies. Things necessary to play my role as The Beast.
I can’t afford the time it will take to rebuild and replace anything I might lose in a mess like that, especially during winter. Which leaves me here today, doing what I should have taken care of years ago—eliminate the threat.
Just like a lot of things out here, beauty often means danger.
This tree may be what I’m looking at now, but Callista is a prime example of that primitive truth.
One so ingrained in nature that it’s a wonder anyone still succumbs to it.
Yet, that’s precisely what I did.
I knew that staggeringly beautiful woman would be my undoing the moment she looked up at me with those wide doe eyes. Nothing that lovely and perfect can exist without being dangerous, and without knowing it, she’s created an even more precarious situation than this tree threatening to crush me and my workshop.
She couldn’t have known what sliding onto my lap today would initiate. That it would expose us both to the type of scrutiny we don’t need when we already live in a damn fishbowl. She couldn’t have known that I’m not the only one watching the camera feeds. And her naivety will be the means to her downfall—and mine.
We may have been safe in the library, where nothing gets recorded to protect the very necessary privacy of what I do there and the information contained within those walls, but once she descends those stairs, every movement is tracked, every step analyzed.
There is no other reprieve from the prying eyes in that house.
And apparently, we looked rather “cozy” in a way that drew far too much unwanted attention.
It’s forced my hand and made it impossible for me to pretend to be unaffected by her. And that knowledge has made me vulnerable and her a greater target.
I wish I could undo it, find a way to remove the menace in the same fashion I’m about to this tree. Swinging an axe has always come naturally, and burying it in the neck of anyone stupid enough to threaten someone I care about despite my best attempts not to.
If only…
This world is never that easy. Things aren’t that simple. Nothing with Callista will ever be, either. Not with her father under the Barker thumb, not when she entered my life in this fashion, certainly not when I’ve just pushed her away and shot her down, embarrassing her and making her feel as though she isn’t enough.
When in reality…she’s everything.
Spinning the axe in my hand, I walk around the pine again, assessing the thick trunk, determining the best angle to cut to ensure it falls well away from the workshop and doesn’t get hung up in the other trees.
Tree felling is a science.
One that must be learned from a skilled lumberjack in order to do successfully. After so many years, the process has become well-rooted in my brain, so I barely have to think about it before knowing exactly what to do and how.
Still, Father’s voice pops into my head, explaining various angles, how to make the face cut, demonstrating the felling wedge on a tree just like this before he toppled it. But the memory that might have been warm, a perfect father-son teaching moment, quickly morphs into most of my interactions with the man.
Anger.
Harsh words.
Strong hands.
Fists connecting with my face and my ribcage.
Because I did it wrong.
Because I was ten and hadn’t yet mastered the task.
Because I failed him.
And Barkers do not fail at anything.
Except me.
My failure looms larger than the tree. It’s what keeps me here on the mountain, cursed to wander the forest and occupy the house in misery for the rest of my life.
Even Callista can’t undo all the damage done by that one decision that snowballed into something so huge I never could have seen it coming.
I swallow the bile rising in my throat and refuse to give in to those feelings right now, instead setting to work, swinging the axe and burying the blade deep into the trunk.
It sticks in the wood, and I jiggle it free, then go again.
Powerful muscles built on a lifetime of hard labor on the mountain go to work instantly, allowing me to create the ideal directional notch before I switch to the other side and drive deep, taking out massive chunks with each swing to work on the felling wedge.
The sound of the axe striking the tree echoes across the clearing and down through the gorge. Each thwack vibrates through my brain and my chest the same way the contact does up the handle into my arms.
Some of the tension created by the woman in the house starts to ease, but more shitty memories of Father and growing up here on the mountain move into its place. Most days, I can keep them at bay. But today is one of those that it’s impossible.
What happened with Callista ripped open the part of me that I had long since sealed off, and now, the memories come like a tidal wave.
Every swing of the axe brings a new one.
Each piece of wood that goes flying reminds me of a fist or a foot.
The man has been dead for decades, but it hasn’t changed anything. Not really. His ghost lingers here, along with those of our enemies, even though his body lies where it should, in a beautifully marked plot here on the mountain along with the rest of our ancestors—not at the bottom of the cliff or hidden away in a makeshift grave designed to cover our crimes.
I’ve become a master at hiding things—people, truths, wants, needs, and desires. Until last night, I thought I had succeeded in completely vanquishing the last three from my life. That I would never want or need or desire anything or anyone enough to give in.
And now that I have, everything has come crumbling down like this tree soon will.
It starts to creak, and I step back and analyze it, making sure it’s going to fall as planned. Once it’s down, I can chop it into manageable lengths and store it for use on the property.
Nothing goes to waste out here—and nothing is ever forgotten.
The land holds memories as well as I do, which is why everyone knows Barker Mountain means death.
Leaves rustle behind me.
My back stiffens as I turn and glance over my shoulder.
A flash of silver appears between the trees…
“It isn’t a good time, and you’re too close to the house. I told you to stay away from it, away from her.”
I can’t wait for a response, returning my focus to the tree as it starts to topple away from the clearing. It begins its descent slowly, then quickly accelerates, slamming down twelve feet from the workshop, making the ground shake under my boots.
Several birds take flight from the surrounding trees, startled by the sudden interruption in their day, and I watch them fly off into the blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds that hover over the higher peaks.
Taking a long, slow breath, I try to let the peacefulness of this mountain overcome the complications and harsh realities that have been plaguing me.
It starts to work.
Tense muscles unwinding.
Shoulders relax.
Hands flex.
I close my eyes for a moment to take a few more deep inhalations of the clean air, then return my focus to the downed tree, staring at the rings in the trunk.
At least a hundred years old, maybe more. It stood proud and tall on this mountain for far longer than I have. Yet, I took it down so easily. If only that were possible in life, to eradicate memories instantly, to rid yourself of people who try to manipulate and control you.
It would make it a lot easier.
Another rustle of leaves and a snap of a twig draws my gaze back to the edge of the forest, but he’s better at hiding this time.
“Go.”
It’s a simple command, one he should follow, but he likely won’t. Stalking around the woods and the house, keeping an eye on me, and assessing his target. But I’m not going to let anything happen to Callista.
The only way to truly protect her now is to keep her at a distance, to ensure she stays safely ensconced in the house, anywhere I am not. So she doesn’t create more problems or interfere with things that could get her killed.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I curse as I pull it out.
I should have left this blasted thing in the trees where I tossed it, but I inevitably went back to retrieve it not long after. Because ignoring these texts and calls only draws greater attention to what’s happening here when I want all focus out there. On Callista’s father and what he’s doing to make amends for his massive fuck-up.
The message waits on the screen.
Do I need to handle this personally?
That tension and anger I thought I had finally relieved myself of rushes back with the simple question.
Because there’s nothing simple about it.
Despite my insistence that I will handle Callista and ensure she doesn’t cause trouble while she’s here, doubts still linger about my ability to follow through should she act.
If she tries to leave…
If she discovers something she shouldn’t…
No. I told you. I will handle Callista. You worry about her father and Rosewood.
I turn back toward the house, the third floor peeking up from above the trees only a few hundred yards away. Large windows look down on the valley, providing a perch from which to monitor the graveyard rather than simply enjoy the stunning vista.
A flash of movement there stalls my breath.
Callista…
She’s up there right now, enjoying the space I offered her, poring over whatever novel she’s found to keep her entertained, or maybe she’s found the box of supplies that finally got delivered this morning that I left for her as a peace offering. I knew our conversation wouldn’t go well, and I had hoped it might appease her somewhat.
But it’s a temporary solution to a much bigger problem.
She can’t stay permanently.
I need to get her off my mountain and away from me because I won’t be able to keep my hands off her for long.
And I won’t be able to protect her from what’s to come.