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“Some details were off,” the man adds.

They’d listened to the story the other night. Their story. They’d been in here, close, hearing the latest version of Carnival Tower, and he was truly in awe of how captivating those two were. He wanted to stay. To listen to them in the bedroom.

But it would’ve been wrong. She’s the boy’s story. Not his. That must be respected.

He’d taken Deacon away and let them have the tower that night.

Pulling open the door to the Rivertown tunnel, they walk down toward it.

“He knows we’ve been here,” Deacon says.

“I think so too.”

The boy is smart. He doesn’t fear them. Should he?

Should they fear him?

“You like this, don’t you?” Deacon teases. “You want him to find us. You want him to find her.”

The man stops in front of her picture. The one with her hair dancing around her and her eyes that always looked kinder than they actually were.

They pluck the portrait off the wall, staring at it. At the girl who hurt a Weston boy, and that was only the start of the carnival she would never escape.

Winslet.

“It feels like something is starting again,” he whispers to Deacon.

After so long…

He closes his eyes and breathes in a lungful deeper than he has in years, starved of oxygen and no appetite, but he’s hungry again.

Hellbent again.

Finally.

It’s happening.

He lets Deacon leave first as he trails far behind and detours into the surveillance room once again, and to the drawer of phones he’d found three visits ago that he told Deacon weren’t in here.

The phones they were looking for that he’s always known where to find.

Pulling out a present, he adds another one to the pile—a new one. A gift for the boy.

He leaves, carrying the portrait and with hot blood rushing through his veins.

Aro

Hawke shuts the door behind him, cutting off the obnoxious honking going on outside. Footfalls pound down the stairs, his uncle Jared descending in a rush as he tries to pull on a shirt. But then he slips on something and stumbles down a few steps.

“James!” he shouts, grabbing hold of the railing to catch himself, and I look down, spotting a pair of kid’s sneakers on one of the steps. “Your shoes!”

He barrels for the door, and we jump out of his way as he yanks it open. “Madoc, shut up!” he barks. “I’ll be there in a minute!”

He slams the door, Hawke’s other uncle starting to honk out “This Old Man” on his horn. Jared throws the door a glare.

But then someone behind me whines, “Dad…”

Jared looks up, a little breathless, and I follow his gaze over my shoulder, seeing Dylan glaring as the two girls beside her gape at her dad’s half-naked body. He cocks an eyebrow, pulling on his T-shirt.

When he finally notices us standing there, he looks between Hawke and I. “You sure this is a good idea?” he asks Hawke.

“She’ll stay in the car,” Hawke assures him, “and I’ll keep my eyes open.”

Jared looks at his nephew, thoughts going on behind his eyes that he’s not vocalizing. I don’t know why I want to shrink away. Some of this is my fault, but not all of it.

Jared turns his attention to me, looking down like he thinks even global warming is my fault.

“I’m gonna cut you a break,” he tells me, “because I got into a ton of trouble at your age, too, but if you pull any shit, we’ve got problems. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know me?” he asks.

I nod.

“Then you know I don’t fool around.”

“I’ve heard things,” I say, wanting to look away, but if I blink, then he’ll feel all superior, and I’m guessing he’s used to feeling like that with people a lot.

“Like how I don’t make threats,” he goes on. “I make promises. And if anyone messes with my family or my shit, I can be petty as hell when it comes to grudges.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard.” I try to hide my smile but not completely. “I heard you were sooooo petty in high school, some chick ran off to Canada or something to get away from you…”

“Oh boy…” I hear Dylan mumble.

Hawke rubs his forehead.

But I don’t stop. “And that you were so obsessed with her that you continued your stupid grudge when she got home…”

Jared’s eyes flare.

“But she was pretty sick of your shit by then,” I tell him. “So, she humiliated you and destroyed your car in front of the whole school.” I chuckle. “You cried—”

“I didn’t cry!” he shouts. “Is that what people are saying?”

His eyebrows pinch together, kind of adorably.

“I didn’t cry.” And then over my head to his daughter. “I didn’t cry!”

I fold my lips between my teeth so I don’t laugh.

“And it was France!” he spits back. “Not Canada. And she destroyed my car for no reason. It wasn’t even my fault!” He spins around. “I didn’t cry. Tate!”