“Do you think it’s possible Fred was a drug runner too?”
Ever tenses, eyes dropping to the large rust-red stain on the carpet, a leftover from one of the bad nights. His long, elegant fingers clench into fists.
“Do you think Fred could’ve done something that pissed off the Sons and made them kill him? I know we’re inventing that story about Renard, but could it actually be true for Fred?”
Ever’s hands relax.
“Because if they did…if theyaremurderers, and it happens to be Fred they killed and not Renard…” All the pieces light up in my head, guiding me to a single conclusion. “Then they would deserve to be framed.”
“If there’s one thing I’m certain of,” he says softly, “it’s that the Sons of Liberty deserve to go down.”
“It wouldn’t be such a sin, then—your plan. It would be justice, in a way.”
Ever’s face remains neutral. “You get to decide, Ruth. You tell me what to do.”
My own voice in my head, whisper-quiet:Be good and be spared the lake of fire.
But what is good here? I picture a scale. On one side: the heart of Renard Michaels, drug runner and would-be rapist. Fred Fortenot, abuser, possible drug runner. The Sons, drug kingpins, maybe murderers. And on the other side: Ever and me, trying to survive. The scale rocks back and forth with indecision.
And then Ever looks at me. And among the brown flecks that look like stars, I see it: fear. It’s a look I’ve seen before, and my response, like then, is automatic.
“Okay,” I say. “One last crime to end it.”
The scale tips.
18
JANUARY, NINETEEN YEARS OLD
A whole year exploring the deep forest and salty coast and Starry Swamp by foot, being bitten and scraped and burned by the sun, cold, and plant poisons, and still there was one place so foreboding I’d never been willing to go: Everett’s house. Where he lived alone with his father, his mother killed giving birth to him, a family history he’d spoken of for the first time only weeks ago, and only in passing, the subject too painful to dwell on. Although my heart had ached to know his loss, a small, selfish part of me had been happy when he told me, honored to be trusted with such an intimate part of him.
Now I stood in front of his house with dread settling like lead in my stomach. He was supposed to meet me at the library after work so we could take a canoe into the swamp, but he hadn’t shown. Normally he was predictable as a clock, all the more extraordinary since he didn’t own one, not a watch or a cell phone or anything, just seemed to know the time by the angle of the sun and stars. I’d searched for him everywhere: the Blue Moon, the gas station, even my house in case he’d gotten the meeting spot mixed up. But he was nowhere, which meant there was only one place left to look.
I wouldn’t have gone—would’ve simply let Everett stand me up—if itwasn’t for my sense that something was wrong. It was a dark, oily suspicion that crept through my veins.
The Duncan house was as bad as you’d expect from the rumors: the garage door was half-open, jugs of antifreeze and rusty tools strewn everywhere, a stained white T-shirt lying limply in an overgrown front lawn. The last person I wanted to face was Mr. Duncan, but his car wasn’t in the driveway, and either way, this was Ever, so I needed to be brave.
I knocked on the front door and no one answered.
I knocked again, harder, and the door opened of its own volition.
I toed inside, on high alert, then bit back a gasp. The house was in ruins. The coffee table overturned, a lamp lying shattered on the floor, the carpet streaked with sick yellowish-brown stains I could tell from the smell were liquor. It was ice cold, just as wintry inside as out, and I saw why the next second: the back door hung nearly off the hinges, bent outward at the wrong angle like a broken bone. I could see clear to the hundred naked pines in their backyard.
I drifted into the middle of the living room, unable to wrench my eyes away. A tale of violence was written in every wounded object.
And then I saw Ever.
“No,” I cried, and flew to the couch. Everett lay crumpled there, almost hidden among the dark cushions, one of his eyes swollen shut, his beautiful face marred by blood around his mouth and nose.
“Ever,” I urged, shaking his shoulders. He startled, his good eye flying open, the look on his face so profoundly afraid that seeing it felt like a stab to the heart.
“Ruth?” he whispered, voice garbled. He shifted and groaned, clutching his left arm.
I could feel the tears in my eyes, warm against the cold leaking in from the door. “What happened? Never mind. Get up, we have to go to the hospital.”
“No,” he said weakly, the words thick out of his swollen lips. “I’m okay.”
“You’renot. It looks like someone took a hammer to you.” I felt nearly hysterical, like I could do anything, pick him up and carry him all the way to Blanchard if I had to.
