43
ANSON
Twill had no idea where Keith lived; she didn’t even know his last name.
But she did know where he was staying, at least for the night, because after an hour in the limo, they’d taken her there.
He and his buddies had booked a cottage on Charleston Harbor for the weekend.
Some kind of boys’ getaway. A small two-bedroom place with a kitchenette and water views built on short pillars that raised it several feet off the ground to avoid flooding.
It was a little after three in the morning when Twill and I arrived in a car borrowed from Ruddy’s parking lot.
One he said wouldn’t be missed for a few days.
We left the car down the street and approached the cottage on foot, sticking to the trees surrounding the property.
The limo was long gone; there was only a dark green Ford Expedition in the driveway.
“Are you sure this is it?”
She nodded. “That’s Keith’s truck.”
We were both dressed in dark clothes. Twill’s hair was pulled back in a ponytail under a black ball cap. I handed her a pair of latex gloves pilfered from the Quick’s infirmary before tugging another pair on my hands.
This is a really bad idea, Champ. This is the kind of bad idea that leads to bad choices that become bad circumstances, all ending in a big steaming pile of bad.
It’s noble of you to want to defend this girl, but it’s not your fight.
Frankly, the longer you stay around these people, the deeper your hole seems to get.
And let’s be honest—she made her particular bed before she lay down in it.
“There’s no excuse,” I muttered.
“What?”
I glanced at her, embarrassed. “Sorry, just talking to myself.”
She gave me an odd look, and I quickly changed the subject. “Do you remember the layout?”
With a nod, she turned back toward the cabin.
“The doors off that front porch open on a combination living and dining room with the kitchen in the back. All wide open. Keith took the bedroom on the left. The fucker probably lit a hundred candles in there trying to make it look romantic. Like that mattered, considering what they did to me on that bed and on the floor.” She drew in a deep breath and pushed the thought from her head before going on.
“There’s another bedroom on the right with two double beds.
I’m guessing the other two guys are in there.
It’s also possible only one of them took the room, and the other is on the pull-out couch in the living room.
No way to know without breaking in. There’s a second door around the back.
That one is better if you want to get inside.
It opens on a back hallway between the kitchen and a bathroom with views of the living room.
If someone is sleeping in the living room, at least we could surprise them that way. ”
Although wooden shades were closed on the windows, flickering candlelight was visible from what must have been Keith’s room. The rest of the cottage appeared dark, though. No signs of movement. “Were they awake when you left?”
Twill shook her head. “Only Keith. The other two had been passing a bottle of rum back and forth all night. They passed out about two hours after we got here.”
“What are their names?”
“What does it matter? Asshole One and Asshole Two. Go with that.”
She was right, of course; their names meant nothing. We were here because of their actions, not because of who they were. Knowing their names would not change what would come next. Our actions were defined by their actions and—
“Anson?”
I’d slipped away again, if only for an instant.
Twill seemed oddly dialed into me and picked right up on it; nothing slipped by her.
She had this hyperawareness. Like she was somehow moving and thinking at a faster speed than the rest of us.
Mother and Father had been like that, too, particularly in the moments before a kill.
“We’ll enter through the back,” I told her.
“I’ll pick the lock and go in first.” Reaching into my pocket, I took out my newly acquired knife and opened the blade.
“I’ll check the living room first. If nobody is in there, I’ll go to the bedroom with the two guys, and you can take care of Keith. Unless you want me to kill all three.”
“You’d do that for me?”
I nodded.
Champ . . .
“I’m not sure if that’s sweet or demented, but I like it.” She glanced down at the knife in my hand. “Are you sure that’s the way to go?”
Her hands were empty. “Did you bring something better?”
Reaching into her pocket, she took out a small tube and a wrench. She pressed the tube into my free hand.
Superglue.
“I’ve got a better plan,” Twill said. Before she could explain, she was on her feet, running for the side of the cottage.
She’s crazy, that one.
I didn’t need Father to tell me that. I was aware.
I ran after her.
I imagine that made me a little crazy, too.