1. Sawyer
Chapter 1
Sawyer
present
The dice clinked in my palm as I scanned the ballroom, filled with people celebrating my brother and his wife’s first anniversary. As the new leader of our family business, every social gathering was an opportunity. I made small talk, using my charm to put the guests at ease. It was easier to control others when they believed you were on their side, and I was good at that.
As I complimented the dress of my brother’s aunt-in-law, one of my men moved forward.
“Hatchcom Focus is in the building,” he said.
The owner of Hatchcom Focus had accepted my invitation. I was looking forward to meeting with him.
“And Ross?” I asked.
“No signs of her yet.”
Wilder, my older brother, crossed the threshold. I put the dice in my pocket and shook his hand.
“Thanks for coming,” he said, his voice monotone, revealing his lack of desire to be hosting this party. We were on the same page then, though, I was much better at hiding it. “When I disappear later,” he nodded toward the double doors leading to the pool in the back, “Watch the place for me.”
So he had a tryst planned with his wife. How romantic.
Not.
“Happy Anniversary,” I said. In the past, neither of us had cared about women or family. It was surprising that my brother suddenly did. But I always respected him. He wanted privacy with his wife? Then so be it.
I shook his hand once again, and Wilder parted ways. I jingled the dice in my pocket. The day my father had given them to me was the day I realized they were a symbol of the erratic nature of life. That day, I was ten years old. It was my first real test.
Wilder had his chin lowered, his face swollen and covered in blood. Two men squeezed my brother’s arms, forcing him to kneel in silence.
What is this? I had asked.
My father showed me a revolver with a blue design curled like veins around the grip.
You want the farm, don’t you, Sawyer? he had asked.
Wilder was the oldest son; he was more likely to get the leadership position. But I wanted it more than him. I wanted to prove myself. I was younger, but I was capable.
Yes, I said.
You like games, too, right, my son? my father asked, his tone oddly warm. He took out two dice, red with silver dots, black edges around each corner. An even total, and he walks away. But odd? My father grinned, his canines gleaming in the dim fluorescent lights. You take my gun and pull the trigger.
He rolled the dice, then totaled the numbers .
Odd, he said.
He pocketed one dice, then rolled the other. Now, for the number of bullets. I leaned over to see what number he had rolled, but he stowed the dice before I could see it. He turned his back to me, loading the gun’s chamber. The cylinder spun with a rolling click-click-click , falling into place. He aimed the gun at my brother and I froze in place.
I had watched my father before. I knew what he was capable of.
Then he stepped toward me, his shoes cracking on the cement.
Are you willing to do anything for the farm? my father asked. To kill? To die? I didn’t say a word, and he balled his fist. Because I didn’t raise any damned coward for a son! He smacked me in the chest and I landed by Wilder’s feet. The wind knocked out of me and I heaved.
After I caught my breath, I stood up, straightening my chest, ready for the next blow.
You shoot that gun, he bellowed, or so help me, I will shove you into that incinerator alive.
I locked eyes with my brother. He gave a slight nod, knowing exactly the kind of situation I was in.
If I went through with it, my brother might die. And if I didn’t go through with it, I would die.
Do it, Wilder said.
I didn’t ask you a question, my father howled at him. He back-handed Wilder, but my brother stayed silent. Martyrs, my father muttered. They always die first.
I knew what to do.
Pull back the hammer.
Line the sights. Aim. Fire.
But screw that.
I flipped around, aiming at my father’s head. His eyes widened, but the gun clicked and nothing happened. Wilder lurched forward, trying to help protect me, but the men held him in place. My father took a giant step and bashed his arm into mine as I shot again, a bullet hitting the wall. My father wrenched the gun from my grip.
I didn’t think you had it in you, he said.
He shoved me into the ground, beating into my head until blood pounded in my ears and my face was so swollen, I could barely see. Then he put the gun in my hand, forcing me to my feet, making me face my brother. He choked me, blood rushing to my face, and my finger slipped, releasing the trigger, but the gun simply clicked. No bullet. My father dropped his hold on me, grabbing the gun, then growled.
He put the barrel to my temple, letting it click and click and click and click until it dawned on him. His eyes lit up with amusement.
He had rolled a one on his dice, then. One bullet.
There were no bullets left.
You’re lucky, he said. My body quivered, weak from adrenaline. He threw the dice at my feet, and I imagined right then, that he was rolling for his own life.
Odd.
And now, my father was dead. The Feldman Farm was mine.
As the new leader, I had gotten rid of the archaic rituals my father held onto, like the Feldman Trial, in which sons competed for the leadership role, and the Feldman Offering, where we sacrificed our wives. Not because I didn’t enjoy a little murder, but because I had my own games to play. Twisted, personal games. Games that could break a person’s sense of self, a condition that was worse than death.
My fingers twitched around those old dice, begging to roll them again, my eyes scanning the ballroom. Finding the staircase, I walked up to the balcony, which had a view of the drop-off point. I tossed the dice between my hands as Fiona Ross’s old car rolled through the parking lot. She stepped out of the vehicle, her shiny brown hair bouncing, a fake smile on her face, not a real care in the world. A tingling warmth filled my head. It was time to play a new game.
Footsteps tapped on the floor behind me.
“She’s arrived,” one of my men said. “Should we watch her, sir?”
When it came to Fiona, I preferred to watch her myself.
“I’ll be down in a minute,” I said.
An even number, and she’d walk away. An odd number, and I’d lock her into my game tonight.
Even.
She pulled a jacket tighter around her body and I smirked to myself.
She was still free. For now.