Chapter 3
Trips
Clara’s silence differs from mine. Hers seems to be armor she’s building for herself, resolve speaking in every inhale and exhale.
Rage colors mine. Months of practice managing the fury that lives under my skin, learning to control it so it can’t control me, and I’m ready to snap. I’m just grateful I didn’t take it out on Jansen’s sister. She’s not the one who deserves it. Not at all.
That honor belongs to fucking Smith.
He shot Clara.
That wasn’t the result, but he’d meant to kill her. Had Jansen not fallen from the sky like a goddamn guardian angel, he would have. Smith’s a master marksman. The only member of my father’s staff with better aim is Falk.
That Clara is even sitting beside me, unharmed, is a miracle. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to kill everyone involved.
When Falk pulled a gun from another guard’s holster, sliding it into my palm and dropping the keys in my pocket, before shoving me toward Clara’s ghost-white form on the stairs, my father’s sick grin stretched wide as he took in the chaos in his courtyard, I didn’t think.
I shot.
But not at my father. As much as I want the man dead, I didn’t trust my aim.
Between the adrenaline, fear, and rage rushing through me, with Clara just a few feet away, and no opportunity to practice in what feels like forever, I shot wide on purpose.
But my face must have been grim enough for my father to see it as the warning it was, and he disappeared into the house, giving us a chance to get the hell out of there.
After that fucking half-assed surgery that shouldn’t have worked but somehow did, I’d scanned the space, looking for a camera. I hadn’t been able to find it.
There’s no way my father didn’t know exactly where we were. There’s no way he didn’t see us do something we shouldn’t have done. Damned if we do, damned if we don’t. His favorite trap.
I grabbed Emma’s phone after Clara texted RJ and added my own coded request to see if the footage was stored or a live feed. Not that I’ll get the answer, not the way we’re about to be locked down, but hopefully if the guys know how screwed we are, they can take steps to keep Jansen safe.
If only it were just his body that was in trouble. But breaking into my father’s estate, scrambling on the roof going who knows where to do who knows what, when last I heard he was in a secure facility—the other guys will have their work cut out for them.
Add to it I know their patterns, how they react to stress, with both Walker and RJ pulling away from the group? It’s bound to be a mess over there.
But I can’t worry about that.
No.
I have to worry about the woman beside me and what’s waiting for us when we get back.
Sure enough, guards surround the car once we reach the front gate, escorting us down the drive to the house with weapons trained on all sides.
“We came back voluntarily,” Clara whispers. “This is overkill.”
“Intimidation is a tool like any other,” I whisper back, careful of the open windows and curious ears.
She glances at me. “One you learned from a master, I take it?”
I exhale, not needing to answer. She knows. She knows more about me than anybody else on this godforsaken planet. Maybe even more than I know about myself, considering this plan she had to convince me I was capable of enacting by her side.
On one of the last nights before we came back, with the fire snapping at the midnight air like it had something to prove, I’d been lying in my hammock enjoying the night sounds when the door to the RV screeched open.
I’d assumed it was Jansen, as Clara hadn’t been out in the middle of the night in weeks, so I was surprised when she stumbled to the fire.
“Bad dream?” I’d asked, already knowing the answer.
She’d wrapped her arms around herself, so I tossed her my blanket, the desert colder at night than I thought it would be when we went down there.
After a moment of hesitation, she’d walked up to my hammock.
“Scooch over and we can share.” And while I hadn’t wanted to be that close to her, too terrified that I was still a danger to her, I couldn’t do anything besides make space for her, bracing the fabric so she could get in with some semblance of grace.
She’d tucked the blanket over both our laps, hip to hip, our legs dangling off one side like the hammock was a porch swing. “We need to get used to this,” she’d said.
“To sharing a blanket?”
“To touching,” she’d said, gazing up at me, the fire painting her face in flickers of orange and gold.
I’d shaken my head, not ready for that. Not yet. “The plan, it puts too much on you. It puts too much on us, you and me. I don’t know if we can…if I can fake with you.”
She’d reached down, scooping up a book from the dirt, one that was now sandy and dog-eared. “I wish you’d go to therapy with Tia Maria. Books aren’t the same.”
“Clara, I can barely manage ‘Hola’ without feeling like the worst fucking gringo out here.”
“She got you all these books, Trips. She wants to help.”
“And she doesn’t know much more English than I do Spanish. But I appreciate the books. You can tell her that.”
“You know the anger will never disappear, right? The same as my fear will always be with me.” She’d turned to me, graceful fingers taking my scarred hand in hers.
“We have to learn not to let the emotions control us. We’re in charge of our responses, have choices.
Even though sometimes it feels like we’re trapped in our minds, we aren’t.
” Her eyes were so goddamn earnest, with so much hope, that I’d nodded.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to that point. I’m still not. But her being that close made me feel crazy, out of control, the urge to put space between us before I fucked up again like a brand searing my brain.
“You can do this, Trips. I’ve seen how hard you’ve been working at controlling yourself. Jansen’s been trying to get a rise out of you for two weeks, and you haven’t snapped at him once.”
That fucker, I’d thought, his increasingly annoying behavior suddenly making sense.
“This will be different,” I’d said instead.
“It’ll be harder. The hardest. But despite everything, I’m going to trust you with this chance to prove you’re not a danger to me. Not anymore.”
“Clara—”
She’d squeezed my hand, then slipped from the hammock, strolling back to the RV before I could tell her she was an idiot to trust me.
Her voice halted my internal spiral. “You can do this. You will. And together, we’ll get you and Mattie free.” She’d turned back, her eyes darker than the sky behind her as she’d met my gaze. “I promise.”
I hadn’t been able to tell her it wasn’t her promise to keep.
It was mine alone. That it’s all but impossible to protect someone so hellbent on running headfirst into danger.
But still, I’ve tried. My father hadn’t schooled me in finesse growing up in this prison masquerading as a home.
But she’s expected nothing but finesse from me since the first moment they hauled us here in August.
I’ve been perfecting it on the fly, trusting her plan even when all I want is to take control and get us the hell away from here, promises be damned.
I park the SUV at the bottom of the stairs—whatever blood Jansen left already washed away—the guards who aren’t surrounding the vehicle back at their posts or sent home for the night.
Punching the button to turn the car off, needing some outlet, even a small one, to make it through what happens next, I glance at the woman beside me. There’s blood on her blouse; her full lips press a tight line across her face. She swallows, nods, then gets out of the car.
I follow, trusting her to figure out how to play this. But she doesn’t even make it to the landing before Falk shows up, his face grim. He trots down the stairs and heads to the rose garden. Clara and I follow, our entourage trailing us, their guns remaining at the ready.
Clara keeps that steel in her spine, no hint of terror escaping her armor.
My heart clenches.
This was the woman I knew was in there a year ago.
The one who broke herself down to shed layer upon layer of restraint, years of forced passivity and false perfection, only to become the kind of person with enough faith in her plan, in her team, to trust that the guns surrounding us are nothing but pageantry.
Not worthy of her notice when there’s something much bigger on the horizon.
Falk weaves through the roses to the center, where my father, my brother, and, inexplicably, a downtrodden Mattie wait.
They pull two chairs for us across from Father, Mattie slouched into the last chair.
I try to catch her eye to figure out what’s going on, but she won’t meet my gaze.
She does, however, grab Clara’s hand and squeeze it once under the table.
My father picks up his scotch, sniffing it like the forbidden drug it is for his diseased liver. We wait in silence, and this silence too, differs from the car.
This is waiting for the executioner. And once again, Clara sits calmly, watching my father with her exacting gaze, no longer pretending to be anything innocent or demure. Meanwhile, my brother watches her with the intensity of a predator, his congenial persona gone.
Would my dad send me to jail for killing his eldest son? Or would he pull all the strings he has at his disposal and make his death disappear? I wish I knew, but it’s not an answer I can find by interpreting the way he stares at the glass of liquor like it’s his salvation.
Shouting from across the way has me straightening, anxiety warring with curiosity over the consequences of our actions.
When Smith gets dragged over, bloodstained and furious, my father grins. “Ah, the last guest has arrived. Did you find his blood-type for me, Falk?”
“Yes, sir. AB negative.”
My father’s grin falters. Not a match. “Pity. Hopefully, we’ll find one soon.”
Searching his victims for an unwilling organ donor—the man has no scruples.
I ready myself to take another life as my father pushes to his feet, inspecting Smith like a squirmy half-squashed bug stuck to his shoe. Still alive, but too stupid to know he’s already dead, still desperate to get away.
Smith plays his part to perfection, bucking and twisting in the arms of the other guards. “Chair,” my father says, and Falk brings one around.
The guards get Smith tied down tight, and despite his best efforts, he’s not going anywhere.
“Clara,” he says.
I dart my eyes to her, and she slowly stands, but doesn’t move closer than an arm’s length from my father. “Yes?”
“Do you know how to shoot a gun?”
No. No no no no no.
I bound to my feet, but Falk pushes me back down and restrains my arms, my brother helping with a glint in his eyes that would scare me more if I weren’t so terrified about what was about to happen.
“What?” Mattie asks, not getting it, not yet, never having been subjected to the bloodbath that is our family’s legacy. At least not firsthand.
My father doesn’t shift his focus from Clara, but he answers Mattie.
“You see, dear daughter, I’ve been shielding you from the truth about this family, and the truth about this girl who will soon join us.
She might act sweet, but she’s not. She’s a criminal.
A thief. A woman who gets off on violence done to others.
A monster I’m going to control. Just like I control your brothers. Just like I control you.”
He turns to my sister, his blue eyes ice. “You do not sneak out. Not once. Not ever. And you especially do not sneak out with condoms in your purse.”
Trevor chuckles. “He should know enough to bag it before he taps it.”
My stomach rolls. I glance at Mattie, but she’s staring at the ground.
My father continues his monologue. “You were supposed to be my sweet, innocent daughter, ignorant of all this. But choices have consequences. And yours will remove the wool from your eyes, allowing you to see the truth of the people around you.” He twists to Clara. “So, I’ll ask again. Do you shoot?”
She dips her chin. “I’ve been taught, but I’m not a great marksman.”
It’s hard to become a great marksman when you only had two months of shooting lessons with an ancient shotgun in the desert. But we sure as shit tried to make her one.
“Even a novice can’t miss at this distance,” my father replies.
He nods to Falk, who has no choice but to hand his sidearm over, knowing it’s his fingerprints all over the inside of the thing, even if Clara’s fingerprints will now decorate the outside.
I break free without Falk’s strength, desperate to protect her from this, but Trevor slams me down with a chuckle. Fratricide becomes a real possibility, but my father flashes me a single warning glance.
The message is clear: there were cameras.
There are still further consequences. I don’t need to hear from RJ to read that in his gaze.
God-fucking-dammit-on-a-shitified-cracker.
I hate the man. The blood from his still-beating heart dripping on my cracked knuckles wouldn’t assuage the weight of fury in me.
But I stay seated.
There’s too much to lose. For now.
Clara takes the weapon, but does nothing, having never held a handgun before. Falk whispers to her, and with his directions, she steps in front of Smith, his vile words and bloody spit clearing the small distance between them.
Clara stares at the mess he’s made on the front of her blouse, yet another streak of blood on the silk. Then, with a shift of her weight and two hands on the grip, she shoots him, twice in the chest and once in the head, like a pro, like I taught her.
The gun gets whisked away, off to be stored for blackmail, my father’s face unreadable.
But as Clara steps back, her right hand clenches in her slacks, and despite the iron she’s decked herself out in, I see through it with that slight gesture. She’s not okay.
“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Trevor gripes, while Mattie sits silent and shaking, tears streaming down her cheeks.
My father strides away from the mess he just orchestrated. “You’re all dismissed. Falk, lock those two up—separately.”
As everyone scatters, the still-warm body of an enemy ignored by everyone except the guards responsible for cleaning up—and Mattie. Clara gets taken by another guard, while Falk and I trail her through the roses.
All I want to do is reach across the space between us and take her hand.
To hold her.
To be with her the way she was with me the first time I took a life.
But as the lock snicks shut on my usual room, I know I won’t get that chance.
And the frustrated roar I let loose once I have no other escape matches the ache in my chest.
We’re not even halfway to the wedding. How the hell are we going to last long enough for Clara’s plan to succeed?
And if, by some act of an indolent God, we last long enough to make it, who the hell are we going to be by the time we finish this bloody, brutal game?