Chapter Six
Cairo
“This is serious, Cairo! You’re going to tell me the truth, and you’re going to do it now!”
I puffed up my chest. “Tell me the truth and do it now!” I bellowed, then burst out laughing. “Very good, old man. You’ve been working on your bad-cop routine.”
My father, Jack Sharpe, glared at me like he wished he could change that fact.
Get in line.
“Everything’s a joke, isn’t it?” He threw himself down in the chair, facing me across the interrogation table. “There’s a burned corpse in the morgue and a town full of witnesses that saw you set him on fire. You’re looking at kidnapping, negligent homicide— possibly second-degree murder.”
“Actually, I’m not.” Leaning back in the chair, I folded my arms behind my head. “I’m not sure if you heard, but my father’s the sheriff and he’s fucking the judge,” I said. “You’ll make the charges go away.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Course you can.”
“A dozen camera phones recorded the incident. It had two million views on YouTube before it was taken down,” he replied, jabbing his finger on the table. A folder lay closed on his side. “This is bigger than me now.”
“Nothing’s bigger than us in our town.”
Twelve hours since the abrupt end to Ruckus Royale. The guys and I weren’t in our house for ten minutes before Dad busted in, rounding us up and carting us to the station. There wasn’t time for a cover story.
I peered at the wall, where either Jacques, Roan, Legend, or Arsenio sat for their own interrogation. What were they saying happened?
“Cairo.”
I shifted back to the loose-jowled, flabby-bellied man that kicked in his DNA for my existence. And I checked, sending in our samples for a paternity test. The guy was my dad, though you couldn’t blame me for making sure. His eyes were dark where mine were light. His hair thin, mine thick. His chin weak, and mine defined. Plus, the little detail of my mother’s history of having babies during their marriage that weren’t his.
“I can’t protect you from everything.”
My jaw clenched. “I’d take one thing, Dad. One fucking time, and this is it. I didn’t turn that shit into a flaming skewer. I’m your son,” I hissed. “You shouldn’t have brought me here. You should know I wouldn’t do this.”
“You’re right,” he said, voice soft. “I do know my son... and he’s smart enough to not get caught.”
Slowly, I dropped the chair legs on the floor, locking on to those eyes so different from mine. Dad was first to look away. Everyone was.
I’ve been told there’s something about my eyes. Personally, I had no idea what they were talking about.
“Come now, Pops, let’s not dig all that up again.” My smile made him flinch. “I did not kill Cavendish. We tested it out before Ruckus. Dug the wells, bought the sand. Our setup was safe, and that’s obvious, seeing as none of the other sacrifices caught fire.” I shrugged. “If you saw the video, you know the vamp hunters blundered in, fucking with the sacrifices. One of them even stabbed Cavendish. Why aren’t you talking to him?”
“Because Scott Cavendish did not die from a stab wound,” Dad gritted. “You could try to look upset about this, Cairo. A man died a horrible death in front of you.”
“Testing me for normal human emotions again? Give it up, Dad. I passed all three psych evals. I’m not a sociopath.” I saluted him. “Just garden variety screwed up by my parents like the rest.”
“I did my best with you! I gave you everything!”
I heaved a sigh. “This is boring me now. I’ve only played along because you’ve got to make it look good for the town. Prove you investigated. We’ve put on a show for long enough.” I made for the door. “See you the next time I’m arrested.”
“He didn’t die from a stab wound.”
Something in his tone stopped me with my hand on the knob.
“Scott Cavendish died when the container of gas placed beneath his feet exploded. It’s not surprising the other sac— victims didn’t meet the same fate,” said Sheriff Sharpe. “They were spared that addition.”
My mind worked, filtering through every second of the night before. “There wasn’t a gas container beneath his feet.”
“There was.” I turned as he removed a photograph from the folder and slid it across the table. “Buried in the sand.”
“I didn’t—”
“And we found this underneath it.”
Dad tossed the evidence bag on the table. The fucker got what he was after. My eyes bugged, brows blowing up in shock.
“I lost that,” I said, snatching up the charred remains of my wallet. “I tore the house and truck apart looking for it.”
“It was buried in the sand under Cavendish, son. You mentioned you were the one who dug his well. Poured the sand around him.”
“Yeah, but—” I snapped up, lips peeling back. “Hold the hell up. Don’t try it, old man. I told you it wasn’t me. I don’t know how that container got in there.”
He sat back, lacing his fingers on his paunch. The balance of power had shifted. And he knew it.
“Then, maybe you have a better explanation. Your wallet was found under the container. To a judge, it looks like you dropped your wallet and didn’t notice as you placed the container on top, then packed in the sand.”
Fury licked at my self-control. The man wouldn’t win any father of the year awards—for all that he thought he deserved them. But at the very least, he should know a decent father doesn’t look so smug when he accused his son of murder.
“Damn,” I said. “Sheriff truly is an elected position. All about the politics, nothing to do with the brains.”
“Careful.”
“If I lost my wallet in the middle of carrying out a brutal murder, don’t you think around the victim would be the first place I looked?” I snapped. “Here’s another for you: I tied up Cavendish, then I spread the sand, dug the well, and blindfolded him. I think he would’ve said something if he saw me shove a gas container in there.”
“There’s only your word that’s the order of events,” Dad said.
“The guys were there. They saw.”
“They could be lying to cover for you.”
I cocked my head. “Now, why would they do that?”
Jack didn’t say anything.
“The Bedlam Boys have built quite a reputation if even my own father thinks I’m a cold-blooded killer. We should do something about—”
“I want to know how. How someone can take a soul without losing their own?”
I snatched the folder, dumping out the crime scene photos.
“Son—”
“Shut up.”
“Cairo—”
“Quiet! You’ve said enough, accusing your own son of murder. The least you can do is be silent while I do your work for you.”
Silence filled the interrogation room. The only sound the shuffling of papers.
I pawed through them, looking for any sign of—
There.
Nestled in the sand and ash, was a slim piece of charred wood.
So that’s what that was.
I sat back in my seat, head bent to the ceiling, and considered, considered...
...and decision made.
“I did not kill Scott Cavendish,” I said clearly. “The four witnesses I have backing me should be enough for a jury, and for you. He did not die because of anything the Bedlam Boys did, but it’s obvious someone wants the world to think otherwise.
“After we displayed the sacrifices, we kicked back in the Drumlins and left them on their own out there for an hour. The gas containers were out there too. Someone stole my wallet and then took advantage of the perfect setup. Victim tied and blindfolded. A tub of gasoline just sitting there. We were framed.”
“Who would want to frame you? More to the point, who’d murder Scott Cavendish to do it? The only people in this scenario who have a motive are the Bedlam Boys. You’re on video trumpeting his list of crimes against you.”
I tossed the photo back on the pile. “We don’t kill for coming up short on payments. Dead men don’t settle bills.”
Dad winced. “Stop that, Cairo. Stop talking like some two-bit gangster.”
“How should I talk, Dad? We both know why I collect those payments, and why we don’t need anyone digging into them as a motive. If people knew what the Bedlam Boys really do, your right friends in the right places won’t be enough to save you losing this job, or ending up in the cell next to mine.” I neatly tucked the evidence away and slid the folder to him.
“The police are officially looking into the shitstains that crashed Ruckus and stabbed Scott Cavendish as their main suspects in his murder, and apologies go out to the Bedlam Boys for the suffering and suspicion they’ve endured. Agreed?”
It took him a minute but, jaw clenched, my father nodded.
“Agreed,” he said. “I’ll put Davidson and Andres on the Cavendish murder. They’re good, thorough cops. If someone has framed you, they’ll find out who.”
He rose from his seat. “I have other matters to attend to anyway. Someone abducted a girl from the university and locked her in a freezer in an abandoned house. She and her family should be coming in now to speak to me.”
I was already out the door. No idea why the guy was telling me his schedule. Since when did we chat?
Sunlight crested over the trees, telling all morning came to Bedlam, ending another night of bloodshed and chaos in the streets.
Wonder if Mayam stood in the sun the morning after, cursing it for bringing an end, when it was only the beginning.
“What good is it having a mom who’s a judge and Sheriff Daddy if we can’t get out of a night in a jail cell?” Legend leaned on the column, stretching out a kink in his neck.
“We have a problem,” I said.
“Of course, we have a fucking problem,” Arsenio snapped. “We weren’t comatose the last twelve hours.”
I let the comment slide. “I know who killed Cavendish.”
“What?” Roan turned me to face them. “Who?”
“Didn’t put it together till I saw the crime scene photos. Something flew past me before the explosion, and it came from the second-floor window.”
“What are you talking about?” Jacques demanded.
“I— We were framed by the farm girl.”
“The farm girl?” Roan repeated. “Fucking hell, Jacques. When you piss a girl off, you don’t half-ass the job.”
“This isn’t about me,” Jacques said. “You don’t set an innocent man on fire for getting tied up and thrown in the back of a truck.”
“They were in the back of that truck together,” I mentioned. “I noticed them talking on the drive. Now I’m wondering about what.”
“Does it matter?” Legend asked. “You know who did it. Tell your old man and get her thrown in the cage.”
“No.”
Arsenio’s brows rose up his forehead, then the corner of his mouth. “I assume you have something more interesting in mind.”
I held my arms out. “You always did know me too well.”
“What are we going to do?” Roan spoke up.
“Remember Halloween two years back?”
Now they were all smiling.
“Good,” he said, filing past with the rest. “Always did love a hunt.”
RAINEY
I curled up in the middle of the scratchy sheets, watching the interview on repeat. I clicked to the start of the video, watching it again.
“It was horrible.”
Jennifer Wilson looked out from my screen. By her side, an older woman with her dark hair and a man with her pale skin held her tight as she gave her story from the town hall steps. A public, violent death and a pretty young woman abducted on the same night. The careers of more than a few Bedlam journalists would be made that day. These stories were going national.
“I was getting in my car when a shadow fell over me. I felt this sudden, sharp pain in my neck, then everything went black. When I—” Her lids swelled. “When I woke up, I was in the dark.”
“Miss Wilson! Miss Wilson!” they called.
“How did you escape?”
“I’m not sure. When I came to, I heard this voice saying everything would be okay.” She shook her head. “Part of me thinks I imagined it, but there had to be someone there. Someone busted the lock and opened the freezer for me to get out. But I didn’t see anyone.”
There was a reason for that.
I closed my laptop and flopped flat on my bed.
I stuck around to make sure Jennifer got home safely, of course, but after chasing that man, or woman, out of the house, my only thought was to get out before Jennifer saw me. If she did, she’d have questions.
How did you know I was here?
Who did this to me?
Some nutcase put me in a freezer to force you to kill him?
Did you do it?
How fast can the police get here?
It was as I was lying face-first in the dirt that I accepted I couldn’t answer those questions.
Because it wasn’t over.
No matter how much I tried to convince myself the person in the house wandered in by mistake or was some random squatter looking for a free bed, deep down I knew it wasn’t true.
Someone texted me the address after Cavendish’s death, then they waited for me inside.
A shudder rippled down my body. I hugged myself, holding my knees tight to my chest. It did nothing.
I was still cold. Still afraid. Still couldn’t breathe.
I did what I had to do. Cavendish had a partner and Jennifer doesn’t know anything about them. She didn’t know anything about Cavendish, either. That ignorance would keep her safe. The partner doesn’t have a reason to go after a woman who can’t point the police in their direction.
The woman who can do that is still me, and they know I won’t, because that means revealing my part in Cavendish’s death.
Reaching out, I slipped the black letter from my pillow. I wished I could say I was surprised when I found it on my doorstep that morning. I knew it was coming. Welcomed my fate even before I stepped up to the door.
Nicely done. You kept me on the edge of my seat with the will she, won’t she, then the grand finale, fireworks display. You know, you’re not the first we’ve played this game with. The sacrifices are as old as Ruckus Royale herself, and many have accepted the challenge of denying us what is ours to take.
You will not be the last, but you are the first to create a game just for you.
This time it’s personal.
You’ll forgive me if I skip the shit about birds and metaphors. That was never my style.
It’s our turn to play, and it’s different rules from here on. I’m going to come up with something extra fun for you. Starting with choosing someone you actually care about to motivate you to not leave things to the last minute.
Where’s that sister of yours, by the way?
Stay psycho, bitch.
Love ya. XOXO
I dropped my hand, letting the letter flutter to the floor.
Once again, it’s between me and my stalking shadow.
No, they weren’t a shadow. At least those go away in the dark.
I jumped at my phone going off. A text from Paris.
Paris: I feel bad about pushing you to go to Ruckus. I had nightmares all night.
Me: It wasn’t your fault. It’s that poor man I feel sorry for. Did he have family?
For someone who vomited three times the night before and twice that morning, I was lying like an expert bullshitter.
Paris: Heard on the news his parents moved out of town a few years ago and he lived with his girlfriend. I don’t know what’s going to happen. People think my brother’s responsible for this.
My stomach contracted. I was thankful there was nothing left in there to heave. Say what you will about Cairo, and there was plenty I had to say about him, he was Paris’s brother and she loved him. What she was going through right now was my fault.
This was why I didn’t want friends. They were another stone on my chest, crushing me with guilt.
Me: Cairo’s dad is the sheriff. He won’t arrest his own son without undeniable evidence.
And likely not even then.
A flash of anger tightened my grip on the phone. Look at that, there was room for me to feel something other than guilt. One thing Jack Sharpe succeeded at during his reign, making me a lifelong enemy.
Paris: Cairo and Jack have a rough relationship, but you’re right, he won’t let Cairo go down for something he didn’t do.
Paris: Today’s a shit day to go with an awful night. How about we hang out tonight? Just me, you, a bowl of popcorn, and a stack of Doctor Who dvds. You in?
My smile didn’t reach my eyes. There was nothing I wanted more than to spend a night the way I used to. With my favorite people and my favorite doctor.
I closed out the text window and called Ivy.
The dial tone sounded on repeat till Ivy’s voice filled my ear.
“Hey, this is Ivy. You know what to do.”
“Ivy, it’s Rainey. I know you’re busy living your big-city life with your own big-city demands, but— but I could really use my big sister right about now. I’m sorry for l-last time.” My throat constricted around the words. “I hate that we fought. I said a lot of stupid things that I didn’t mean, but I do mean this: I love you. You’re my best friend and always will be.
“Please, call me back,” I whispered. “I just want to talk to you. Please.”
I ended the message and waited. Half an hour passed. Then one. Then two.
Ivy did not call.
Wiping my face, I typed my reply to Paris.
Me: That sounds amazing. I can’t tonight, though. I’m going up to the farm to get some things. I’m running low. Doctor Who marathon tomorrow night?
Paris: Tomorrow it is. We’ll do it at my place. I’ve got a killer theater setup in my room. Just wait until you see it. You’ll never want to leave and we’ll be weirdo hermit ladies together.
Me: Lol. Not sure if we qualify as hermits if we do things together. Either way, I’ll bring the caramel popcorn.
Paris: Yay! Thank you so much. I need to get my mind off everything.
I tossed my phone somewhere behind me, not caring that it fell off the bed.
There’s nothing to worry about, Paris. This would all be over soon.
Climbing off the bed, I went to my closet. My work to find Cavendish mocked me with every article and string. In the end, I didn’t really know anything at all. I saved a life, but it wasn’t mine. I became a monster to stop a monster, and a new one sprung up in his place.
I tore down a picture of a kookaburra. It was a laughing jackass. I could hear it mocking me.
“Tick ticking tock, Rainey.” I ripped off a string. “Why is nothing as it seems?”
The map of Bedlam fell as confetti on my feet.
“To die is my birthright, de Souza. But to die ripping out a piece of your soul, that is my honor! Did you get what you wanted, Cavendish? Were you honored?!”
I screamed, raking my nails down the pictures, articles, and letters, losing a few in the process.
Gathering it all up, I tossed it in the wastebin, struck a match, and set it on fire.
Fire was the best way to end something. With this being the last time I’d sit in this cheap room and read another black letter, the send-off had to be appropriate.
Face soaked and eyes puffy, I packed the little I had and carried it out to the bus stop. Frankie rolled through with the 99 bus twenty minutes later.
“Rainey, love, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I replied as I got on.
“It’s all this terribleness on the news, isn’t it? Uh, what is this town coming to?”
I sat close to her, resting my bags in the seats. It was just me and Frankie. No one had reasons to drive out to de Souza Farm these days. No one except me.
“An innocent man burned alive for the entertainment of naked, hooting jackals, then some sweet girl snatched off the street in broad daylight. A friend of mine is talking about sending her daughters to that boarding school a couple of hours away, Epsilon Academy. Breaks her heart to be apart from them, but it’s not safe in Bedlam these days. Mind you, when was it ever safe in Bedlam?”
Frankie spent entire rides in silence. Passengers preferred to be on their phones than talk to her. The result was she talked the ear off of anyone that would listen. That ear was mine and she was welcome to it. If she was talking, I didn’t have to.
“That young woman, Jennifer, I think her name is. She said someone rescued her,” Frankie continued on. “No doubt about it, she didn’t get out of a locked freezer bound and gagged on her own, but you have to ask why they didn’t stick around? They’re a hero. Why not receive your deserved praise?”
“What’s your theory?” I asked, wiping my face on my sleeve.
“I think the person who put her in there had a change of heart. Couldn’t go through with it, so he let her out and ran. The coward couldn’t face her when he attacked. He couldn’t face releasing her either.”
“Do ruthless psychopaths change their minds? Suddenly grow a conscience?”
She snorted. “My cheating bastard of an ex-husband didn’t when he emptied our bank account and ran off with my yoga instructor, so I’m betting not.”
I almost cracked a smile. I’d been hearing about that cheating bastard since the day he skipped out. Three months and he still managed to come up with new ways to torture Frankie. The latest was dodging child support while at the same time sobbing to their friends and family he had to leave because Frankie stopped loving him years ago. I guess we all have a monster in our lives.
“I’m going to miss this, Frankie,” I admitted. “There’s not a lot of people you can have a good bitch session with.”
“Any time, love, but what do you mean you’ll miss it? You going somewhere?”
I nodded. “I decided to move back to the farm.”
“Move back? Why? You got the motel in town so you’d be closer to the university. No one wants to wake up at six in the morning to ride around in this dusty old heap with me.”
“You’re the only company I’d want at six in the morning, Frankie. I told you, you’re one of the few people I can talk to.”
“Aw. You’re such a sweet girl, Rainey. Your grandmother would be proud of you.”
I dropped my gaze. “She wouldn’t.”
“I say she would.” She twisted in her seat, giving me a firm look. “Abigail was one of my closest friends. She’d ride with me those days that old clunker gave her trouble, and always gifted me a bag of peaches like it was part of the fare. After I finished my route, the two of us would grab a beer and I’d listen to her brag about her beautiful, talented granddaughters. If she could see you two now, her heart would burst with pride.”
Tears fell with every word. “I didn’t know you guys were so close.”
“Oh yeah,” she said, a tinge wistful. “You three were pretty tucked away, working sunup to sundown keeping the farm going, but your gran got out every now and then. For a good ole bitch session.”
I laughed. “Did she tell you about the goat?”
“Did she! Oh my goodness, I heard so much about the exploits of that randy goat, I started getting jealous. He had a better sex life than mine.”
“We could not figure out how he was getting in the pen.” I cracked up. “The girls kept getting pregnant, and when Gran found him in there, she’d chase him through the fields, shrieking about turning him into a plate of curry goat. We finally found out he was getting in because Ivy was leaving the gate open when she snuck out.”
“That’s the de Souza women for you. You gals do what you want, when you want. I hope your gran remembered that when she found out about Ivy’s late-night adventures. Lord knows Abigail wasn’t shy about hopping out a window to meet Joseph Deerfield. She was head over heels for that boy.”
“Oooh, who’s Joseph Deerfield?”
“Your real grandfather.”
I gaped at her. Frankie saw my face and howled.
“I’m just kidding, sweetie. She gave their baby up for adoption long before your father came along.”
“Frankie!”
The woman laughed so hard she nearly crashed the bus.
We spent the rest of the drive swapping old stories and laughing about the good times.
“I loved living on that farm with Gran and Ivy.” I rested my cheek against the cool glass. “Mom and Dad died when I was little. I never got a chance to know them, but Gran didn’t let us be sad. Life was movie nights, camping under the stars, archery lessons, and randy goats. I loved every minute of it.” My smile faded. “And now they’re both gone.”
“You still have your sister.”
“Ivy never comes home.”
“Your grandmother’s death was hard for both of you.” Frankie rolled to a stop beside our busted-up, faded sign. “Maybe it’s too difficult for her to be here. Too many memories.”
“Maybe.”
Frankie stopped me on the top step, grabbing my hand. “Are you sure about this, dear? Technically, you shouldn’t be on the property at all, but that aside, what good is it you sitting in that empty place all alone? Why not stay with me? I know you’re tired of that dreary motel. I have a spare room that’s yours until you find an apartment in town.”
“That’s nice of you, Frankie. Truly, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, and for Gran. You’re a kind, loving person, and one day you’ll find someone that appreciates just being with you is better than an affair with a thousand leggy yoga instructors.”
“Thank you, Rainey,” she said softly.
“It’s sweet of you to let me stay, but I’ve lost Gran, Ivy’s gone, and I was kicked out of the farm. There’s only one of those I can do something about. Tonight, I want to be home.”
She nodded. “Go, love, and fuck those jerks for making you leave in the first place. Your name is on that damn sign. That’s all I need to know about who owns it.”
Waving bye, I set off from the bus, down the long drive to the farm. The main gate was chained shut, I climbed over the thing and kept going.
Yes, I was kicked out of the family farm. Six generations of de Souzas on this patch of land, and the one to lose it, was me. Well, it wasn’t all on me. When Gran died without a will and a farm in deep with the bank, they told me and Ivy to get our grown asses off the property. They were selling it to developers and there was nothing we could do about it.
Ivy and I tried to fight, but in every story where the poor orphan girls fight against the corporation, how many times did the orphan girls win?
We were removed—forcibly in Ivy’s case. The animals were sold and the crops harvested by whoever was willing to pay the bank for the privilege. I lost my grandmother and home in a day. Shortly after, Ivy left Bedlam.
Like I told Paris, anyone who asks about my life apologizes a dozen times before the conversation is over.
I wandered up the gravel path. The farm rose out of the hill, drawing me home to fresh-baked cookies and Ivy playing her music too loud upstairs. I broke the lock on the front door and met with musty damp and silence. Sometimes, I didn’t know what was worse. Being this miserable or the memories of being happy. If I had a terrible childhood, at least I couldn’t count how many steps I hit on the way down.
Shutting the door behind me, I made my way in the dark. It’s been years and no one’s bought the farm, leaving it sitting empty for my constant visits. They had yet to put a lock on this place that I couldn’t break into. I wasn’t above breaking the windows either.
Down in the basement, I turned on the old generator. I only had a few things in the kitchen and living room hooked up, but it was enough for a relatively comfortable night out of the motel and in my home.
I went back up to the soft glow from Gran’s favorite porcelain lamp, rescued from the estate sale, and a sweeping breeze from the tiny floor fan by the fireplace. Closing my eyes, it all came back to me.
The rocking chair and worn leather couch took their place by the front door. Rolling out from the wall, a plush brown rug covered the aged hardwood. Ivy’s two-seater plopped down by the fireplace. She stretched out, legs kicking over the side, sipping iced tea through a straw. Light and warmth spread through the space, anticipating her arrival.
“Ivy, sit like a lady.”
“Like this?” She flung her legs open, touching the wall and floor at the same time.
Gran laughed. “Looks right to me.”
She carried the tea tray from the kitchen, setting it on the coffee table. “Rainey Day? Why are you standing there, love? Come join us. The only civilized way to end the day—”
“—is with good company and a cup of tea,” I finished.
I stretched out on the rug, grabbing my throw off the armchair on the way. Snuggling the imagined threads around me, I saw Gran like she was truly there, pouring out chamomile tea and dropping two sugars for me. A spoonful of honey for Ivy.
“What’s wrong, love?” she asked me. “You’ve got your stormy face on.”
“Am I going to get these rain and weather puns for the rest of my life?”
“Fraid so.” I felt the ghost of her kiss on my forehead. “Tell me, sweets. What’s wrong?”
“Everything’s wrong, Gran.” Tears spilled down my cheeks. “You died.”
“Died? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Ivy left.”
“Sitting right here,” my sister sang.
“I’m alone.”
“You’re never alone, baby.” Sixty years and most of them doing farm work, Gran wasn’t a delicate senior gently wrinkling in an armchair. Her skin was tough and leathery from years under the beating sun. Hard labor toughened her arms, making her squeeze the jelly out of me when we hugged. Even so, I saw the traces of the young beauty she used to be. I saw the kind eyes she gave my father, then me.
“The thing about family is you can always make more.”
“What will my family think of me after what I’ve done?” I rasped. “I had to do something terrible, Gran. Does it matter that it was for the right reason?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“How many innocent people were hurt?”
A vision flashed of me stealing Cairo’s wallet while I kissed him, and stuffing it beneath the sand.
“I should’ve faced the consequences, but I couldn’t resist trying to hurt him one last time.” My anger swelled, bringing my perfect scene under haze. “I’ll never forgive the sheriff for what he did. This time, the son pays for the sins of the father.”
“That’s not how it works, Rainey Day.”
I laughed harshly. “Isn’t it? That explains why I feel so guilty I can barely breathe. Cairo’s bad, Gran. He’s rotten straight to his core. But what does it say about me that I let someone else face the punishment I was too scared to? I’ve been running from this ever since I got the first letter. Even after releasing that arrow, I’m still running.”
“It’s never too late to make it right. Pay penance.”
“How?”
She smiled, soft and sad. “We don’t get to decide, Rain. The chance will come to right your wrongs. It always does. For those who truly want to make amends, they won’t miss it.”
“I know what you mean,” I whispered as they faded. “This is my chance, Gran. I won’t miss it.”
I stayed for a while—lying on the floor, imagining I heard the old sounds of this place. Fridge humming. Ivy banging around upstairs, dancing. Gran in the kitchen, mumbling to herself as she totaled the bills.
The microwave was hooked to the generator. It popped my popcorn to perfection and filled the space with warm butter—soothing as I watched a few episodes of Special A.
I laughed a few times. Felt like the last few days—the last two years—washed away.
When I finished, I left my things inside and headed out the back door. The entrance to the old chicken coop swung on rusty hinges. The eee, eee, eee followed me out in the field. It was still echoing through the night as I disappeared through the tree line.
My feet carried me over roots and around dips expertly. I knew these woods better than the critters who called it home. As I passed, I collected flowers. Little weed-like buds, but pretty in the way they were determined to survive.
Moonlight peeked past the trees, daring me to come out and enjoy its full attention.
Black Widow Hill wasn’t really a hill so much as a slope. It wasn’t truly dubbed after a spider, so much as it was named for the shiver that crawled up your spine as you crept near the cliff edge. This place wasn’t a sweet scenic spot for couples.
It was a graveyard.
I kneeled down beneath the tree, resting my flowers where the roots stretched to touch me.
“I should probably say a few words,” I spoke to the ground. “I know, I know. I’ve never done that before, so why start now?” I rocked back, crossing my legs to settle in. “Seems like I should say goodbye. No one knows you’re here. There’ll be no one to visit you after I stop coming. That must be the worst thing about dying. Having no one to miss you when you’re gone.
“You’re in a good spot, though,” I said, leaning my head back to the cascade of glittering stars. “They’ll shine on you always, communicating lovelier things than I could manage.”
I got up, plucked another yellow flower at the base of the hill, and gave them that one too.
“Goodbye.”
My walk back wasn’t as surefooted. I stumbled over unseen roots and scratched my cheek on a low-hanging branch—cursed the damn thing too. It was hard enough making this walk without the ground tripping me up.
I’m doing this. There’s no turning back now.
The woods finally released their hold, returning me to the farm. I went inside the house, got what I needed, and continued to the barn.
The busted lock lay in a tuft of grass where I left it. I pushed inside the barn, breathing deep that damp-hay smell.
Here. Definitely here.
Crossing to the old cow pen, I took the rope off the hook.
My hands were steady as I looped it around the post, carried the length to the loft, and tied the noose. They didn’t waver as I threw it over the beam, and the end swung back to meet me. Perfectly, it framed my face, whispering that it would take good care of me. All I had to do was place it around my neck.
I turned away.
Finding a spot on the hay bales, I dragged my bag to me and fished out pen and paper. The average person doesn’t think about what they’ll write in a suicide note. I’ve given it more thought than most.
I wrote of losing Gran, and that without her protection, the shadows found us. I wasn’t strong enough to leave like Ivy, and in the end, was too weak to fight.
I thought I’d cry while I did this. My eyes were dry.
As awful as it was to picture Ivy’s face when she received the news, I knew this was right.
I killed a man. Gave him the most horrible death imaginable, as much as I wanted to plead duress, even knowing any jury in the world would agree, I couldn’t forget.
A coldness seeped into my veins before I picked up that gas container. Spite and cunning burned beneath my attraction as I slipped that wallet out of Cairo’s pocket. And when I loosed the bow...
Guilt, fear, and conscience plagued me to the very end. Just till the end. When the bow struck the sand, that was the beginning of a new feeling. One that had become foreign to me in the last few years, but if I was to put a name to it. The closest would be triumph.
I ripped through the page, tight grip pressing too hard. All the same, I forced myself to write:
I enjoyed it.
Scott Cavendish will never hurt another person or torture a single soul again.
If any justification of the good I’ve done should be said, let it be done by Jennifer Wilson. But I won’t do it. I won’t stand in front of anyone and say what I did was good, or right, or necessary. Even if they would say it is.
There was nothing good or right about the thoughts going through my head as he burned. And no one could question how wrong it was to place that wallet underneath him, framing Cairo Sharpe. His ass has a fair amount of karma coming, but this is my crime to pay for, not his.
Let this note serve as my final word and my confession.
Signed,
Rainey de Souza
P.S.
More people should visit Black Widow Hill. Scatter flowers. Speak to the trees. I think they’d like that.
I dotted the final period and placed the note on the bale. I set the bow I rescued from the Drumlins early that morning next to it. It was roped off with police tape, but all the busted windows and broken frames made it easy to get in. My bow hid where I left it—undisturbed.
Someone would come here and find this—me—eventually. I had a habit of breaking in, so the estate agent had a habit of sending the sheriff to roust me. Part of me hoped the sheriff was the one to find me.
And if I’m allowed one more petty thought, I hope the guilt eats him alive.
Closing the distance between the noose, I searched for a trace of regret and found none.
Maybe I could’ve found another way. There was hope of that until I received another black letter.
I refused to be drawn into this game again. Another human being’s life would not rest in my hands. Neither a life to take nor a life to save.
The new Letter Man or woman was about to lose their plaything.
The noose fell softly on my shoulders.
“I’ll stay psycho to the very end, bitch,” I said into the air. “But you’re not going to touch my sister.”
Taking a deep breath, I climbed onto the wooden banister.
See you soon, Gran.
I stepped off.