“And they’ll know that if we don’t take everything. It’s gotta be a full robbery.”
Every instinct screams this is wrong, not how the plan’s supposed to go. I squeeze his wrist tighter. “You’re stealing money from men you just said have no qualms about killing people.”
“Don’t worry. We’re about to make it so they can’t go after anyone. Too much attention coming their way.”
When I don’t move my hand, Ever sighs. “I need you to relax, Ruth. Desperate times, remember? It’s them or us.”
I imagine Sheriff Theriot’s car rolling to a stop outside my house again, except this time he’s there to cuff and drag me away through a gauntlet of people that includes my red-faced father, screaming about murder and mortal sins, and the horror-stricken faces of every person in Bottom Springs. My grip on Ever’s wrist relaxes.
“All right, then. You take those stacks.”
Once we’ve gathered everything, Ever wrestles the safe back into the gray cabinet and shuts the door. “Earl might not even notice anything’s missing for a few days.” He grins. “You wanna go back out the way you came?”
I glare at him. While we’ve been in here, dusk has deepened, and now only shreds of sunlight remain. I can barely make out his face, but his teeth are clear, gleaming white. “Stop having fun with this. What we’re doing is seriously messed up.”
The teeth come closer and closer until Ever’s mouth is near my ear. My heart pounds at his proximity, at his cheek brushing mine, at the factthat it’s getting harder to predict him. “Come on, Ruth,” he whispers. “Admit it. You’re having atinybit of fun.”
There’s no heat from his body; what makes me lean into him is more like a magnetic pull. It hits me again, the instinct to tell him about Barry’s proposal. But the words stick in my throat. Instead, I whisper, “Not even a drop.”
He turns, catching my eyes, and grins wider. “Race you to the car.”
I roll my eyes, assuming he means to rile me up, but the second we’ve got the door locked, Ever takes off.
“Hey,” I call, panicked, and suddenly adrenaline hits in one big surge, fireworks exploding in my chest, nerves firing, urging me to action. I take off behind him, one hand clutching my pile of cash, running like I’ve robbed a bank, like I’m an outlaw, the bane of the West. Bonnie and her Clyde.
Ever’s already far ahead, ungodly fast, his laughter trailing behind him, high and ringing. I pump my legs faster, willing my body to match his, and that’s when the giddiness hits, the sheer absurdity of fleeing the scene of a crime, the elation of the thick wads in my shirt, the relief of not getting caught, the beauty of all the trees bending over the path, like they’re leaning in to watch us foolish creatures streak past.
Laughter bursts from me, and with it, despite the circumstances, comes pure, unbridled joy.We got the deed, the plan is working, there’s hope.
We flat out sprint the last hundred feet to the car. Ever pops the trunk and we dump the money and papers. He leaps into the driver’s seat and holds up a hand for me like I’m some kind of genteel lady, keeping me steady as I hop in. Ever revs the engine and turns his grin on me, a thousand stars in his eyes, moonlit skin glowing as the dusk deepens into night.
He must read something in my face because he shoves the car into drive and takes off so fast, I keel backward.
“Faster,” I yell, and he laughs. The car’s speedometer soars as we race down the backcountry road, kicking up plumes of dust. There’s nobody but us back here, no witnesses but the faint emerging stars, and I’m seized by the urge todo something—something else I’d never do.
I climb to my knees in the passenger seat and throw my arms wide, head back, letting the wind whip my hair like a red banner. The trees rush past us, the air thick with the smell of pine needles. Up ahead, fireflies flicker. I’m beyond giddy: the earth is wild and beautiful and I’m alive inside it.
Ever whoops, pressing his foot to the gas, pushing the car even faster. The wind buffets me, lifting me until I’m almost flying. We’re teenagers again, radiant and ungovernable. It’s night and that’s our time. I close my eyes at the crescent moon and howl, a loud, triumphant sound, a sound to announce myself. Ever’s laughter beside me is music.
But even now, in my rare freedom, I can’t escape the smallest seed of guilt. I’m Ruth Cornier, after all, and Iknowbetter—really, I do. I know how dangerous it is to climb this high. (I stretch my hands up to the stars regardless.) I know what it means to set yourself up for a fall. (Even still, I breathe deep from the air whipping past.) I have been here before, I have leapt, I have shattered.
I howl again. What do you call it when you know better, but—
20
JUNE, ELEVEN YEARS OLD
I’d never won a single thing in my life until today. I was sure it was coming, sure my name was on the tip of Mr. Blanchard’s tongue, the way he kept darting secret glances at me. I sat up straighter, practically buzzing with anticipation as he walked a zigzag route among the desks, bending over students’ shoulders to take a look at their poems.
Mr. Blanchard spent a long time bent over mine—so long I’d thought I’d combust from anxiety, the strangeness of having an adult so close I could feel the heat from his skin, the brush of his trouser leg, see the dark, wiry hairs on his hands. I had to sit on my own hands to keep stock-still and rigid like a good student, a good pastor’s daughter, a good girl. Luckily, I was well practiced in self-containment. Much better than the other students, who squirmed and yawned and whispered when they weren’t supposed to.
I could tell Mr. Blanchard appreciated my rigor. When he was finished reading my poem, he made a low hum of approval in the back of his throat. It was enough to get my hopes up. In regular school I was mostly ignored, quiet and well behaved enough to turn invisible. But here at Vacation Bible School, where the Godly children of Bottom Springs spent their summers, I had a leg up from a lifetime of studying the Bible under my father’s watchful eye.
“I’ve come to a decision,” announced Mr. Blanchard, moving to the head of the class. He folded his hands over his stomach, eyes gleaming as he waited for the whispers to cease.
Mr. Herman Blanchard was young as far as teachers went—only twenty-seven—and a study in contradictions. He was short and wore his hair combed over like an old man, despite the fact that he had no bald spots to hide. He dressed in the same outfit every day—ill-fitting khaki trousers and a white short-sleeved button-down—and wore thick glasses that magnified his eyes, making him look perpetually startled. As for his mannerisms, he leaned toward a kind of carefree impishness that estranged him from other adults—I once heard my father say Herman had the demeanor of a man who’d never faced the word no—but endeared him to children.
Herman was the only child of Augustus Blanchard, the rich man on the mountain, or so we called him, since he lived in the biggest house in Bottom Springs at the top of what passed for a hill around here. Augustus was considered a Godly man despite the fact that people rarely saw him. He came down from the mountain once every few months to attend church, where he walked around with a stiff back and refused to speak to anyone but my father. But the fact that Herman was his son, and that he would one day inherit the entirety of the Blanchard Hospital fortune, made him someone other adults were forced to treat with respect.
