“This will be different,” I’d said instead.
“It’ll be harder. The hardest. But despite everything, I’m going to trust you with this chance to prove you’re not a danger to me. Not anymore.”
“Clara—”
She’d squeezed my hand, then slipped from the hammock, strolling back to the RV before I could tell her she was an idiot to trust me.
Her voice halted my internal spiral. “You can do this. You will. And together, we’ll get you and Mattie free.” She’d turned back, her eyes darker than the sky behind her as she’d met my gaze. “I promise.”
I hadn’t been able to tell her it wasn’t her promise to keep. It was mine alone. That it’s all but impossible to protect someone so hellbent on running headfirst into danger. But still, I’ve tried. My father hadn’t schooled me in finesse growing up in this prison masquerading as a home. But she’s expected nothing but finesse from me since the first moment they hauled us here in August.
I’ve been perfecting it on the fly, trusting her plan even when all I want is to take control and get us the hell away from here, promises be damned.
I park the SUV at the bottom of the stairs—whatever blood Jansen left already washed away—the guards who aren’t surrounding the vehicle back at their posts or sent home for the night.
Punching the button to turn the car off, needing some outlet, even a small one, to make it through what happens next, I glance at the woman beside me. There’s blood on her blouse; her full lips press a tight line across her face. She swallows, nods, then gets out of the car.
I follow, trusting her to figure out how to play this. But she doesn’t even make it to the landing before Falk shows up, his face grim. He trots down the stairs and heads to the rose garden. Clara and I follow, our entourage trailing us, their guns remaining at the ready.
Clara keeps that steel in her spine, no hint of terror escaping her armor.
My heart clenches.
This was the woman I knew was in there a year ago. The one who broke herself down to shed layer upon layer of restraint, years of forced passivity and false perfection, only to become the kind of person with enough faith in her plan, in her team, to trust that the guns surrounding us are nothing but pageantry. Not worthy of her notice when there’s something much bigger on the horizon.
Falk weaves through the roses to the center, where my father, my brother, and, inexplicably, a downtrodden Mattie wait. They pull two chairs for us across from Father, Mattieslouched into the last chair. I try to catch her eye to figure out what’s going on, but she won’t meet my gaze. She does, however, grab Clara’s hand and squeeze it once under the table.
My father picks up his scotch, sniffing it like the forbidden drug it is for his diseased liver. We wait in silence, and this silence too, differs from the car.
This is waiting for the executioner. And once again, Clara sits calmly, watching my father with her exacting gaze, no longer pretending to be anything innocent or demure. Meanwhile, my brother watches her with the intensity of a predator, his congenial persona gone.
Would my dad send me to jail for killing his eldest son? Or would he pull all the strings he has at his disposal and make his death disappear? I wish I knew, but it’s not an answer I can find by interpreting the way he stares at the glass of liquor like it’s his salvation.
Shouting from across the way has me straightening, anxiety warring with curiosity over the consequences of our actions.
When Smith gets dragged over, bloodstained and furious, my father grins. “Ah, the last guest has arrived. Did you find his blood-type for me, Falk?”
“Yes, sir. AB negative.”
My father’s grin falters. Not a match. “Pity. Hopefully, we’ll find one soon.”
Searching his victims for an unwilling organ donor—the man has no scruples.
I ready myself to take another life as my father pushes to his feet, inspecting Smith like a squirmy half-squashedbug stuck to his shoe. Still alive, but too stupid to know he’s already dead, still desperate to get away.
Smith plays his part to perfection, bucking and twisting in the arms of the other guards. “Chair,” my father says, and Falk brings one around.
The guards get Smith tied down tight, and despite his best efforts, he’s not going anywhere.
“Clara,” he says.
I dart my eyes to her, and she slowly stands, but doesn’t move closer than an arm’s length from my father. “Yes?”
“Do you know how to shoot a gun?”
No. No no no no no.
I bound to my feet, but Falk pushes me back down and restrains my arms, my brother helping with a glint in his eyes that would scare me more if I weren’t so terrified about what was about to happen.
