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Cones and a construction fence block off the entire area, but I hopped it and descended down the small walls to the water. The reflection of the moon shimmers on the pond.

It’s been a day since his cousin brought me more clothes, but I’m trying to wear as little of it as possible. The undergarments are new, and I told him I could easily get mine, but he doesn’t trust me to stay out of trouble.

I take in my appearance once more and then shake my head. Guys look at girls. It doesn’t mean anything. That girl I kicked in the face is pretty perfect.

Or was. Before I kicked her in the face.

And she’s not my girlfriend. Hearing him say that kind of delighted me. Probably more than it should. At least I don’t have to feel guilty about living in such close proximity to her man.

I jog down the path, away from the pond, to a fire pit in a secluded, wooded area. Climbing the three rock steps, I cross the circular gathering area and lean over the side of the rock wall, pulling away the shrubbery. Buried underneath is the black duffle—or one of them—from Hugo’s trunk. I pull it up, rise to my feet, and slip the strap over my head, the bag hanging at my side.

I should just leave it here, but the bag isn’t waterproof, and the park crew will be repairing the pond, and they could find it. I jump down from the platform and run back up the path. I really hope they don’t have cameras here. I wouldn’t put it past Hawke to be regularly scanning footage of every corner of town. He’ll lock me up for good if he sees I snuck out.

But a shape appears ahead, and I halt, my boots grinding over the dirt path.

Shit. I stare, seeing three figures walking toward me.

I back up, and they stop.

“Don’t touch me,” I say, gripping the strap of the bag.

The one on the right tries—and fails—to hold back a small laugh.

“Where’s my son?” the middle one asks.

I take another step back, staring at him. Son?

I take in the height, the black hair and blue eyes, and the stoic stare like everything’s an inconvenience and he’s far too busy. Jaxon Trent. Hawke’s father resembles him in more ways than just looks.

I recognize the one on the left. Jared. His older brother. Hawke’s uncle. Dylan’s father. He put Shelburne Falls on the map and practically invented Fallstown. The Pirates have lived under a lucky star ever since. Fuck him.

The one on the right looks familiar, but I don’t remember from where. Blondie looks like a frat boy and a little out of place with these two.

Frat boy…

And then it hits me. He looks like Kade. Blond, blue eyes, lean but muscular build, and a cockiness in their eyes, because there’s nothing they don’t win at. That’s why this guy looks familiar. He’s the mayor of Shelburne Falls. I’ve seen him on posters.

“How did you know I was here?” I ask, ignoring Mr. Trent’s question.

A gleam hits his eyes before they dart up to the tree, and I notice a security camera.

Jesus Christ. I scowl. “You’re all creepers. Your whole family.”

The blond one shakes with a laugh, and I dig my eyebrows in deeper. No wonder Hawke is a little voyeur.

They approach, but I don’t move this time. There’s three of them. I won’t get away.

“We can protect you,” Hawke’s father says.

“I can protect you,” Mr. Caruthers clarifies.

He’s not only mayor, but he’s a lawyer. I’m pretty sure he prosecuted my stepfather on one of his many run-ins with the law back in the day.

These are the last people I would trust.

They don’t give a shit about me.

“I was a foster kid, too,” Hawke’s dad says, inching closer. “I know how it is. You get used to nothing feeling like home, but then you’re not even sure what that ever felt like anyway, right?”

I look ahead, his chest coming into view.

“Maybe you don’t remember something warm and safe,” he continues. “You just reminisce about a time when you didn’t know there was anything better.”

Like my brother. Some snacks and some Disney are all he needs to escape. He isn’t aware of everything happening around him.

“You get pushed around by people like us—adults—and you realize that no one really wants you.” His voice is almost a murmur, and I wonder what memory plays in his head right now. “You’re just a job. They feed you. They don’t talk to you. You get used to distrusting everyone.”

My throat grows thick. I force it down.

“But I was lucky,” he tells me. “I got out.”

“You’re lucky, because you’re a man.” I meet his eyes. “You can make kids and leave. One pregnancy, and a poor girl stays a poor girl.”