Chapter 30
Dallas
“The canals are rising!” Macon shouts somewhere in the house. “No one goes over, get everyone back!”
I sit on the edge of the bed, staring into the woods behind the house, registering only certain things. The palms whip in the wind and rain, the afternoon sun covered by clouds, and my family moves around the house, closing shutters and stowing the deck furniture.
Eyelids heavy, I close them, trying to think about how to fix everything I did wrong, but I can’t get past the one thing that keeps chipping away at my head.
He never wanted me.
He came back to beat us. All of it was pretend.
He was working me. Distracting me, maybe?
How could I not have seen that?
Lightning strikes, and I hear my nephew cry out. “Daddy!”
The house whines in the storm, windowpanes rattling, a shutter flapping somewhere, and I know I should be out there, helping, but I turn up the song on my phone. “Take Me Back to Eden.”
Mariette’s needs to be secured. Other residents need help. Hurricane parties are happening as people batten down the hatches and settle in to do the only thing they can—drink.
But I just want to drown out the rest of the world and be anywhere else.
My eyes burn, and I lean my elbows on my knees, bowing my head. I don’t think I can say no to him. I can tell myself it’s because he’s threatening the Bay, and he made it clear that if he has me, he’ll be gentle with them, but when he told me to get in the shower last night, I was excited.
The truth is I didn’t want him to let me go.
I rake my hand through my hair. “Fuck.”
All he wanted all along was revenge, and I was so damn stupid to think I was in control. He was able to overcome me, and for some reason, it’s not unexpected. I kind of deserve it.
But in ten years, he’ll be fucking everything in that Den, broken and not even realizing he’s addicted to the power, the dominance, the escape…He’ll up the ante so he can feel excited, just like his father.
I squeeze my lids, still closed. Just like me.
I don’t want…
I shake my head. “Fuck,” I grit out, swiping away the wetness in my eyes with my forefinger and thumb.
“I don’t think we have enough beer for this!” Trace shouts from downstairs.
Krisjen chimes in, “I want the kids camping out in Paisleigh’s room!”
“Why?”
“Because no one can find the floor in yours!” she yells at Mars.
I listen, no interest in helping or trying to problem-solve any of this shit.
“The Salazars are evacuating.”
“So are the…”
But I’ve stopped paying attention. People are moving inland to stay with relatives in case we lose power, and if I were them, why would I come back?
With the curfew and now the treasure…
Callum was wrong about one thing. The Bay knows about the treasure.
Macon knew they’d find out one way or another, and it would look worse if we were caught keeping it from anyone, but what Callum doesn’t know is that it’s ours.
It was found in Jaeger graves by Jaegers, so the elders voted and came to the decision that we’d invest it in Sanoa Bay—homes, education, business grants, security—and we’d do everything possible to keep it a secret from St. Carmen, unified in that cause. We were not going to make them richer.
Which meant living small to avoid detection. No one bought sports cars or indulged in lavish vacations. It was never spent on anything without approval from the elders.
Now it’s lost, and everyone will see that as a failure by my family. This loss, coupled with the stress of the curfew, has taken away their confidence that we can guide the community forward.
And I know I’m not responsible for Callum’s decisions, but it’s hard to believe that. If it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t have done any of this.
I’ve been fucking useless, and he’s going to thrive, becoming someone I will hate—he already is—and I don’t know what to do.
“Where the fuck is Dallas?”
Army’s voice sounds more desperate than angry, like he’s trying to run in two directions.
“He’s here,” Liv says from the hallway. “Just leave him—”
My phone pings, and I hear others go off around the house. Swiping up my cell, I see another emergency weather warning, my eyes finding the boldface words.
*Lockdown in effect until 6/30 at 5 AM.*
*Please stay in your homes.*
Lockdown. No one on the roads from now till morning, and it’s only the afternoon.
Callum probably left with Anna-Katherine this morning. He wouldn’t want to be inconvenienced with a storm. They’re probably holed up in a fancy hotel, and she’s having a great time in the pool.
But then again, he wouldn’t leave the treasure, provided it’s still with the police. He’d stay close to it.
I toss the phone down.
Enough.
My stomach caves in, empty of food, water, and liquor. The walls of this house feel like they’re pushing in on me, his face still staring at me from his bed.
His eyes were different. They didn’t look at me the same way.
Rising, I pick up the backpack and dump out any shit I have left over from going fishing weeks ago and start stuffing clothes in. Just a couple of changes of clothes. I can grab what I need down the road.
Pain hits my gut, and I pause, nearly hunching forward. My lungs constrict, and it hurts to breathe.
Fisting the pack, I shove it to the bed and walk from my room.
“Are the shutters secure in your room?” Iron asks, rushing by.
In my jeans and bare feet, I descend the stairs, hearing my family race around like a fucking tornado is on the house.
“Dallas!” Iron calls after me.
I glance at the pictures on the wall, my mother’s hair getting duller, her skin paler, and her body more frail as the years went on. There’s almost comfort in knowing I’ll never climb these stairs again after today. I haven’t been good for a single goddamn person, so why not move on?
Heading through the kitchen, I spot Trace kneeling in front of the fridge, stocking beer.
He twists his head toward me. “Hey, I got a couple bottles of that bourbon you like,” he says. “You want me to chill the rum?”
I ignore him and exit through the door that leads to the garage. In the corner, with the hoes and rakes and shovels, I find the thick handle of the ax. Trudging back inside, I come face-to-face with Macon.
“Oh, good,” he says, seeing the ax in my hand as he hauls some wooden planks onto his shoulder. “Grab those boards.” He gestures to the rest on the table. “Follow me up to Mars’s room.”
He leaves, and I keep walking, leaving the boards on the table as I climb the stairs behind him. He heads to the left to take the attic stairs to Mars’s room, and I go to the right, into his bedroom, and close the door.
Taking a chair from the wall, I lift my eyes to the rafter connecting two of the walls, behind his door.
It’s been sanded down and re-stained, but a sharp eye can still detect the spot where the rope hung.
A small curve in the wood sits just off-center, invisible to those who don’t know where to look.
Keeping the chair below me, I hop up, pushing through the pain, which has risen into my chest. Squeezing the handle with both hands, I rear back and swing. The ax cuts into the wood, the splinters cracking under the edge.
I swing again and again, planting one foot on the arm of the cushioned chair underneath my weight and hacking away at the beam.
It’s over. I’m not letting it stand anymore. I can leave this place, but not before I sever any proof that I was ever here. I don’t want my pictures on the walls, and I don’t want any memory of that day!
Bury it. Or fucking burn it. I want to know it’s gone.
Sweat starts dripping down my back, my arms burning as I peel the blade out of the wood and swing again, over and over.
“Dallas!” The door swings open behind me. “What are you doing?”
I lift the ax, ignoring Liv, and swing again, hearing the dull thud of the blade hitting wood.
“Army!” she calls.
I hack away, almost halfway through the thick rafter.
In a second, I hear my brother’s heavy footsteps as he enters the room. I jerk my head, holding the ax with my outstretched arm, his same green eyes flaring.
“Dallas, stop,” he tells me.
He checks out the broken rafter, his gaze flashing back to me. Liv stands behind him, and I hear more footsteps jogging up the stairs.
I keep going, growling as I cut again and again. I need it gone. I want to be free. I want to forget she was ever here.
“What are you doing?” Army asks, breathing fast. “Dallas, stop.”
Heavier footfalls reach the room, and I yank the ax out of the wood, turning and glaring at Macon as he walks in and lifts his head to see me.
“I don’t know how you can sleep in here,” I say, my voice thick with tears, with anger. “I don’t know why this is still here!”
I hack, bringing down the ax hard, the wood finally splintering in two. The bottom cracks, and I rear the ax back.
“Knock it off!” Macon yells.
I bring it down, but I’m grabbed from behind and find myself flying off the chair, my ax still stuck in the rafter.
“You’ve done enough damage!” he yells.
I stumble onto the floor, standing up and shoving him away. “I’m leaving anyway!”
I don’t know if the tears come then or if they were on my face when I had the ax, but my face is wet. Macon, Army, and the others standing outside the room—watching—stare at me.
Macon’s brow pinches together. “Because of him?” he yells.
Fuck this. Fuck everything. I don’t have to be here. He’s right. I made it worse, and I’m fucking miserable. Bolting past them, I shove past Iron and Trace, go into my room, and finish stuffing shit into my backpack.
I throw on a T-shirt, grab my cell and charger, and run past everyone, down the stairs.
“You’re not going anywhere!” Macon barks.
I hear them coming after me.
“Get the kids in their rooms!” he tells someone behind me.
I grab my shoes off the floor and reach for the door, and he grips the back of my neck, pushing me into the living room. Santos and my friend Tyson stand frozen, Aracely pausing in the kitchen.
“Everyone out!” he growls.
All three of them scram, and I let my shoes fall. I slam the side of my fist against a mirror, a shard splintering onto the floor.