Page 26

Past

T ruman goes home. Says his parents won’t be okay with him spending two nights away.

Says that he’ll stop at the library later and see if there’s more to print off and go over. Find out more about Marcy. The sight of him walking away does funny things to my gut. I busy myself with the chickens and goats, purposely avoiding the matted grass where Papa’s body last was.

In the ruckus of the barn, I let myself break down. The goats circle me, crying out alongside me. They nudge and prod at me with their snouts, uncertain what to make of me.

I clean up the cabin. Read some of the articles on my own, anger growing with each new word I read.

Anger at these families. These monstrous people who commit heinous acts.

The emotion festers inside me. I’m flushed and dizzy, my chest tight with it.

I want to strip from them what they’ve stripped from me. And I could, couldn’t I?

Isn’t this what Papa trained me for? To be ruthless and cunning? Don’t I have the skills to fit right into their life? Right under their noses and secure my revenge from inside their world?

A headache worms itself into my temples.

By the evening, the sky is a bruise of purples and grays.

My head throbs in rhythm with the crickets’ chirps, mocking me with their persistent song.

I try to eat a cold dinner, knowing I need to keep my strength up for whatever comes next.

Knowing Papa would insist I be disciplined enough to not let my anger get the better of me.

Darkness settles over the cabin like a heavy quilt. With it comes a thick loneliness that fills up the small space, spilling into every corner. I turn on the radio and let its tuned-out buzz keep me company while I straighten the papers, scanning them once more.

I find myself wishing for Truman, seemingly my only ally, only outlet in all of this grief and anger.

Sleep eludes me.

I get up before sunlight finds the horizon, making lists in my head about what needs doing—what comes after chicken feed and goat milk? How far am I willing to take this? I make myself something to eat.

Outside, a dull yellow grows above the trees when I hear footsteps through the open windows. My heart lurches before my brain can catch up. A figure emerges from the brush, breathing hard.

I grab the pistol, check to make sure it’s loaded and that the safety is off.

Truman holds up his hands in surrender when I push open the door, gun aimed at his chest.

“I know! It’s barely light yet.”

A wave of relief sweeps through me.

“Mom wanted to make sure you didn’t starve without proper food.” He hefts a bag, shaking his head at the improbability of it all. “I mean, it’s not proper food at all, it’s just snacks, really, but still…”

I tuck the gun into the waistband of my pajama bottoms and grin.

Truman breezes past me straight into the kitchen and begins unloading the goods. When everything is out on the table, he turns to me.

“The gun’s a little much, don’t you think?”

I give him a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”

“Were you scared, alone last night?”

I shake my head. “Not really. Just didn’t know who was coming. Better safe than sorry right?” I set the gun on the table.

Truman shrugs then wraps his arms around me. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be here.”

His arms feel just right holding me. I relax into them slightly as he rubs my back.

Truman wants to make a plan.

To go to the FBI.

Tell them who I am .

“The day he died, that was the day you had to stop looking to him for any answers. You’ve gotta figure it out for yourself now,” he says.

“He wouldn’t want that. He said as much in his letter.”

“He’s not the boss anymore.”

I glare at him. “Don’t talk about him like that to me.”

Truman throws his hands up in surrender.

“Sorry,” he says.

We’re lying on the living room floor when it happens. We’re talking. Truman’s telling me that in a month he leaves for college. That he was excited to go—couldn’t wait, but now the idea of leaving me alone here, makes him upset.

“Come with me,” he says.

I roll my head to the side to look at him. “What?”

“Get on the bus with me. Come to South Carolina. We can make a stop in North Carolina too, see if we can meet with that journalist, Marcy.”

“I can’t just come with you. Where would I live? What would I do?”

But the thought ignites a deep curiosity in my belly. See more of this world. Experience anything besides this cabin in the clearing and this tiny town.

Truman props himself up on an elbow and stares at me. His gaze feels charged and oppressing.

“I have a single. That means no roommate. I can sneak you in. You can stay with me.”

He pushes an escaped strand of my wavy hair out of my face. I suck in a sharp breath. He leans in, slowly, until his mouth is inches from mine.

Truman freezes, his eyes searching mine for the permission he already knows I’m going to give. We lean into each other until our lips touch. My head spins in the way I imagine what falling feels like—floating and tumbling all at the same time. Just the way it reads in one of my books.

My body’s buzzing. Truman pulls away, his eyes locked on mine. We’re both smiling like idiots and I can’t make it stop. I don’t want it to.

“Maybe,” I whisper, more a breath than a word. “I’ll consider it.”

He flops back onto the floor beside me, an exhale of relief, and we lie there quietly, a mess of arms and legs.

“I didn’t think you’d agree,” he finally admits.

“I didn’t think you’d kiss me.”

Truman kisses me like he’s memorizing every inch of my mouth, like the world could end any second, and he wants to make sure he’s tasted every single moment of me first. His hands cradle my face, rough but careful, like I’m breakable—precious.

When we finally pull apart, I’m breathless, my lips tingling from the heat of him. He presses his forehead to mine, eyes dark and searching.

“I never asked, when’s your birthday? You’re eighteen soon right?”

I swallow hard, suddenly shy under the intensity of his gaze. “Tomorrow, actually.”

His whole body tenses, then softens, and something unreadable flickers across his face. “Jesus, Kid,” he breathes, shaking his head like he can’t believe it. “You should’ve told me.”

I shrug, feeling small but not in a bad way.

His fingers tighten just slightly, like he wants to argue, but instead, he just kisses me again—softer this time, slower, like he’s savoring me.

“It’s important,” he says against my lips.

Truman helps me with the goats, his big, capable hands surprisingly gentle as he rubs down the smallest one, making sure she’s warm enough.

He helps me gather eggs, careful not to break a single one, even when I catch him watching me with an expression close to awe in his eyes.

It makes my stomach flip, the way he looks at me—like I’m good—a person worth looking at.

We sit in the yard after chores, legs stretched out, sipping sweet tea while the sun starts its slow descent behind the hills.

That’s when he finds it—the journalist’s contact information, in one of the pages he printed out at the library.

He types out an email on his phone, hands shaking just a little, telling her we need to talk.

That we have information she might want. That we need her help.

Then we wait.