Chapter 20 The Final Straw
TWENTY
THE FINAL STRAW
LYLA
The campsite breaks through the tree line, Earl’s red truck glaring like a beacon. If we’re keeping this place secure, we’ll need to find him something less obvious.
We step into the clearing, nerves still strung tight, muscles coiled even though we’re “safe.”
Edith spots us first. Her eyes lock on Earl’s limp, and she’s moving before anyone else can speak. “Oh, thank God! You’re all okay.”
She collides with him, arms wrapping tight, face buried against his neck. No protest. No teasing. Just his grip tightening like an anchor. She cups his face, presses a kiss to his lips, rests her forehead against his. “You scared me,” she whispers.
I look away.
“Mom!”
A small, choked cry—Poppy. Her tear-filled eyes lock on Clair, and she runs.
Clair drops to her knees, arms wide, catching her midstride.
“I’m here, honey,” Clair breathes into her hair, holding her like she’ll never let go.
Poppy’s shoulders shake with silent sobs.
Clair rocks her, murmuring reassurances, then carries her toward their car.
Edith turns back to the rest of us. “Pete came running in, saying there was a swarm at the school. That you all got separated and—”
“Where is he?”
Jacob’s voice cuts through like a blade—low, controlled, lethal.
Edith freezes. Her eyes flick toward the far side of camp.
Oh, Pete. You should’ve kept running.
Jacob’s stride is swift, shoulders rigid, every muscle coiled with barely restrained fury. Violence thrums off him in waves. He reaches Earl’s truck, Pete hunched in the driver’s seat, fumbling with wires, desperately trying to hot-wire the damn thing.
Are you fucking kidding me?
Jacob’s hand clamps on to Pete’s collar, yanking him out so hard that he practically flies from the truck.
Pete stumbles, boots scraping against the dirt, but before he can get his balance, Jacob’s grip shifts, fingers wrapping around his throat, dragging him into the center of the clearing, and slams a fist into his jaw.
CRACK.
Pete drops like a sack of bones, gasping, spitting blood. No one moves.
Edith’s face drains of color, her wide eyes darting between Jacob and Pete, confusion bleeding into fear.
Barbara and Jessica rush from the van, Barbara’s voice sharp. “What the hell is going on?”
Pete’s hands come up, trembling. “Jacob, wait—I panicked—”
Another punch. Then another. Bone crunches. Skin splits. The wet, grotesque smack of skin splitting under impact.
Pete’s body jerks with every brutal hit, his head snapping back, blood streaking down his chin, his nose, his mouth.
Jacob doesn’t stop. Not until Pete is a barely conscious, gasping heap on the ground, his face a mess of swelling and red.
Fisting Pete’s shirt, Jacob hauls him close. “You put lives in danger. I can do whatever I want to you, you piece of shit.”
He shoves Pete back.
He hits the dirt with a grunt, dust rising in frantic little clouds as he scrambles away, his limbs weak and useless.
A single, chilling sound cuts through the thick, pulsing silence.
Click.
The safety comes off. Jacob levels the gun at his head. For a breathless moment, I think he’s going to pull the trigger. I’m not sure I’d stop him.
Pete is frozen, barely able to blink, his chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked bursts. His entire existence hinges on the pressure of Jacob’s finger against the trigger.
And then—
A single hand.
Resting against Jacob’s shoulder.
Barbara doesn’t try to force him down. She just stands there beside him.
Jacob’s jaw flexes, the tendons in his neck pulling tight, his fingers twitching against the grip. Tension hums like a live wire, crackling, dangerous. Then, with a measured breath, he lowers the gun. “Leave.”
Pete staggers to his feet, but Jacob steps forward, his voice a quiet death sentence. “And if I so much as hear that you’re headed toward Trish’s family farm, I will shoot you on sight.”
Silence grips the clearing.
“What did you do, Pete?” Edith whispers.
“He locked us in,” I say.
The words land like a blow. Edith staggers back, disgust in her eyes. Pete scans the crowd for pity. Finds none.
Pete looks up, his bloodied face searching the crowd for anything—sympathy, pity, even a begrudging defense. But all he finds is a wall of cold, unyielding stares. He shifts, his mouth opening like he wants to say something, to plead his case, but there’s nothing left to say.
Leon steps forward, yanks Pete up, shoves him toward the tree line. I envy the controlled rage in Leon’s body as he tries to keep it in check because I have a feeling that if we all weren’t here, Pete’s body would never be found.
A flash of silver glints in the fading sunlight as he tosses a small knife at the dirt near Pete’s feet. One weapon. No food. No water.
Leon flips him off, his expression carved from stone, positioning himself between Pete and the rest of us. The message is clear: if Pete so much as twitches in the wrong direction, he’ll have to go through Leon first.
Pete snatches it up. The silence stretches, pressing in around him like the creeping darkness at his back. And then, without another word, he turns and disappears into the trees, swallowed whole by the branches.
No one speaks or moves.
Jacob’s fists drip red, knuckles raw. His whole body vibrates with barely contained rage.
And I can’t look away.
It’s brutal, honest, familiar. The hunger for justice without rules or mercy. It matches mine. I want to tell him it’s okay to be a weapon when the world demands it.
I know what other people would say. That it’s twisted. That watching someone unleash their wrath and knowing, deep in my gut, that I would have done the same—that it makes me a monster.
Maybe they’re right.
But when you’ve spent your life hunting serial killers, tracking them down, seeing the aftermath of what they leave behind, you start to see yourself as something else.
A necessary evil.
An executioner where the law fails. Or, in this case, where there is no law at all. Justice lives in my hands. And I’m perfectly fine with that.
Jessica moves toward him. Her arm outstretched, reaching for him. Before she can take another step, Trish cuts in.
Her body is a barrier, planted firmly between Jessica and Jacob, and the look she shoots is a warning.
Don’t.
Jessica freezes.
Her hand pauses midair, fingers twitching. For a second, her gaze shudders—uncertainty, hesitation—but then it hardens.
Bitter. Calculating. But she takes a step back.
Trish lays a hand on Jacob’s shoulder. “Come on, Chief. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He lingers, eyes locked on the tree line where Pete vanished, like he’s memorizing it, branding it into his mind. But then, finally, he exhales and lets her lead him toward the van.
People drift toward their own vehicles, retreating into small pockets of comfort. I stay rooted. So does Jessica. The scent of blood lingers.
I try to make him look back. To see me standing here. To know I understand the weight he’s carrying, because I carry it too.
But he doesn’t.
He keeps walking, letting the night pull him farther away.