Chapter 7 Dane
DANE
"This is a terrible idea," I say for the tenth time as we pull into the parking lot at the diner and I see the ridiculous outfits some of the people streaming through the doors are wearing. When I agreed to this shit, I didn't think I'd be the only one with sense in my head.
"You've mentioned that." Sloane checks her reflection in the visor mirror, adjusting the slinky black dress—the same one she wore the night I found her.
I picked up heels for her in town last week, practical black pumps that she's somehow made look dangerous.
My flannel shirt hangs over her shoulders as a jacket, completely undermining whatever aesthetic she's going for.
"I think you look great as a grumpy hermit. Very authentic."
"I'm not in costume."
"Exactly. You're playing yourself. Method acting." She grins at me, and I realize she's actually excited about this. Two weeks of fear and paranoia, and a small-town Halloween dance is enough to make her happy.
I cut the engine and pocket the keys. "Remember the rules. You're Sarah, my sister. We grew up in Vermont. I joined the army, you went to nursing school, we haven't seen each other much until recently."
"Got it. Boring backstory, no details, stick to the script." She opens her door and steps out into the cold night air. The dress is completely inadequate for October in the mountains, but she doesn't seem to care.
The diner's been transformed on the inside.
Orange and black streamers hang from the ceiling, fake cobwebs cover the windows, carved pumpkins line the entrance.
Music pulses from inside—something current I don't recognize.
Through the windows, I can see dozens of people in various costumes, laughing and drinking.
Ellie greets us at the door, blonde hair sprayed an alarming shade of purple, wearing what appears to be a witch costume complete with pointed hat. "Dane! Sarah! You made it!" Her green eyes are bright with alcohol and excitement. "Love the costumes. Very… minimalist."
"We're not big on dressing up," I mutter.
"Clearly." She ushers us inside, where the noise level increases dramatically.
The diner's tables have been pushed to the walls, creating a makeshift dance floor.
A DJ set up in the corner pumps out music while people gyrate with varying levels of coordination.
The bar along the back wall is three-deep with locals getting drinks.
Miles waves from across the room, stocky frame squeezed into a superhero costume I don't recognize, and Travis is dressed as a biker, which is basically his everyday look with more leather.
Mira works the bar in a red devil costume that shows more skin than any outfit I've seen her wear, amber eyes tracking me as we enter.
Christ, I didn't know she'd be here or I'd have dropped Sloane off at the door and left.
"Drinks?" Sloane asks, already heading toward the bar.
I follow, staying close. The crowd's thick, mostly people I recognize from around town.
Gideon Strath from the hardware store is dressed as a scarecrow and Eamon Holt, who plays Santa every year, is ironically dressed as the Grim Reaper.
Sheriff Carver stands near the door in his sheriff's uniform—either he's in costume as himself, or he's on duty.
Either way, his presence puts me on edge.
Mira pours us drinks—beer for me, something fruity for Sloane. "On the house for the antisocial hermit who finally decided to join civilization."
"Thanks," I say dryly, dropping a twenty in the tip jar anyway.
Sloane takes a long drink of whatever concoction Mira made her, then turns to survey the room. "This is fun. When's the last time you did something fun?"
"I have fun."
"Cleaning your guns doesn't count."
Before I can respond, Ellie appears with a group of women I vaguely recognize from around town. "Sarah! You have to meet everyone. This is Monica, she runs the bookstore. And that's Rachel, she teaches at the elementary school. And you know Mira from the bar."
The women descend on Sloane, pulling her into their circle, asking questions about where she's from and how long she's staying. I watch from a few feet away, nursing my beer, as she transforms into someone I barely recognize. Animated, laughing, telling stories that have the group in hysterics.
"—and then Dane decided he could fix the sink himself," she's saying, gesturing wildly. "Spent three hours under there with a wrench, came out soaking wet, and the leak was worse than when he started. Had to call an actual plumber, who fixed it in ten minutes."
The women laugh. I've never had a plumbing disaster in my life. The sink works perfectly.
"He sounds like a handful," one of them says.
"You have no idea. Growing up with him was a nightmare. He once tried to build a treehouse and nearly burned down our neighbor's garage."
Also completely fictional. I move closer, intending to pull her aside and remind her that embellishing too much makes the story hard to track. But she sees me coming and her smile widens.
"Speak of the devil! Ladies, my dear brother has decided to grace us with his presence." She raises her glass in a mock toast. "Tell them about the time you got stuck in that tree trying to rescue a cat."
"That never happened."
"Oh, it absolutely happened. He was up there for two hours before the fire department came. The cat climbed down on its own after five minutes."
The women laugh again, and I realize she's doing this on purpose. Creating a version of me that's harmless, bumbling, the opposite of threatening. It's actually smart—makes me more human, more approachable, less likely to be scrutinized.
But it's also annoying as hell.
Miles appears at my elbow. "Your sister's a riot. Is she always this much fun?"
"She has her moments."
"You two close growing up?"
"Not particularly. Different interests." I keep my answers short and vague, impossible to verify.
"Yeah? What was she into?"
"Books, mostly. School. She was the smart one." All generic enough to be believable. "I was more interested in getting into trouble."
"Military straighten you out?"
"Something did." I take another drink, watching Sloane work the crowd. She's moved on to another group now, Ellie keeping her supplied with fresh drinks. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes bright, and she's laughing at something Gideon just said.
And she's fucking gorgeous, even when she's lying and humiliating me. It almost makes my dick hard watching her, but then a brother wouldn't think about his sibling that way and I have to keep control of myself or I'll be the one blowing our cover, not Sloane and her antics.
An hour passes. Then another. Sloane's thoroughly drunk now, her movements looser, her laugh louder.
I've cut myself off after two beers—someone needs to drive, and watching her work the room requires a clear head.
She's told at least a dozen ridiculous stories about our fictional childhood, each more elaborate than the last.
I'm standing near the wall, trying to be invisible, when Miles walks up to me again, but this time, he looks like he's all business. "Hey, Strouse. I meant to catch you earlier. Got another package for you at the post office. Courier dropped it off this morning."
My blood runs cold. "Another one?"
"Yeah, same deal as last time. Just your name, no return address. I figured I'd save you a trip, dropped it in your truck bed on my way in." He gestures toward the parking lot. "Hope that's alright."
"That's fine. Thanks." I keep my voice level, casual, but every instinct is screaming at me to get to that truck.
Another package means another message, another piece of whatever countdown we're trapped in.
This makes the third time this dirtbag has tried to rattle my cage, and it's starting to work.
But Sloane's across the room, drunk and loose-lipped, and I can't leave her unattended. She's already told these people too much, created too many details that don't match reality. If I disappear and someone asks her the wrong question, she might slip or say something that exposes us both.
I move through the crowd toward her. She's on the dance floor now, moving to the music with Ellie and two other women I don't know. When she sees me approaching, her face lights up.
"Dane! Come dance!"
"We need to talk."
"Later. Dance now." She grabs my hand and pulls me toward the center of the floor. I resist, but she's insistent, and making a scene will draw more attention than just going along with it.
The music is loud, bass thumping through the floor. Bodies press close on all sides, and Sloane moves in front of me, hips swaying, completely uninhibited. She's having fun, actual, genuine fun, probably for the first time since I found her in the town square.
I lean down, putting my mouth near her ear so she can hear me over the music. "You need to ease up on the stories. You're giving people too many details."
She pulls back, looking up at me with that bright, slightly unfocused gaze. "What are you going to do, kill me?"
The words are light, teasing, said with a laugh. But they land hard anyway and I don't care for it. But she doesn't wait for a response, just spins away, dancing with Ellie again, leaving me standing there in the middle of the floor.
I stay on the floor and let her pull me back in, let her twirl under my arm when the song changes to something slower. She's not a good dancer—too loose, too uncoordinated from the alcohol—but she's enthusiastic. And when she stumbles, I catch her, hands on her waist, steadying her.
"Thanks," she says, looking up at me. We're close now, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her hazel eyes and smell whatever fruity drink Mira made her on her breath.
"You're drunk."
"I'm having fun." Her hands rest on my shoulders, and we're swaying now more than dancing. "When's the last time you had fun?" I glance around, but the music is loud enough that no one's paying attention to us.
"No one can hear me…" she slurs, and I scowl at her. My senses are on high alert. I want to go home where there are fewer eyes and less risk.
So when the song ends, I push through the crowd with her arm in my hand. She's laughing at something Mira said, gesturing wildly with her glass, but I've had enough.
"Time to go," I say loud enough for others around us to hear. She's wasted, and watching her body move around in that slinky dress has me all worked up. I'm not superhuman. I don't have the ability to make my cock stay a slug all night.
"Already? We just got here."
"Three hours ago. And you're drunk enough that staying longer is a bad idea."
She pouts but doesn't fight me. "Fine. But you're no fun."
"Add it to the list." I guide her toward the exit, nodding at Ellie as we pass. "Thanks for having us."
"Anytime! Sarah, you come back whenever you want. We need more fun people in this town." Ellie winks at her, already wasted herself.
The cold air hits us as we step outside and Sloane shivers, pulling my flannel back around her shoulders. The parking lot is less crowded now—some people have already left, others are inside for the long haul.
My truck sits in the far corner where I parked it. And there, visible even in the dim light, is a box in the bed.
I unlock the passenger door and help Sloane inside. She slumps against the seat, eyes half-closed, the alcohol and exhaustion catching up with her.
"Did you have fun?" she asks as I start the engine.
I glance at the box in the rearview mirror, then at her. "Yeah. I did."
It's not entirely a lie. For three hours, we pretended to be normal people living normal lives. But make believe doesn’t save you from reality, and whatever is in that box will be my next clue as to what game this guy is playing.