But still, I understand his reluctance to accept it when we’re here. Home. It’s hard not to feel her here. It’s impossible to forget how right she felt, and how neither of us could get enough of her.
She was never a choice for me, though. It was always going to be my brother.
Lifting my eyes, I see the little island, dark out on the lake in the distance. “She’s gone.”
Just then, a shuffle hits my ears, and I jerk my head. A young girl stands six feet away, dressed in some colonialsoldier costume. One of the Caruthers, I assume. No one in this town knows us anymore, but we know most of them.
She gapes at me, her gaze dropping to the unconscious Deacon with his wrists tied in front of him and his mouth taped shut.
She takes a step back, but when I don’t chase, she stops.
“Aren’t you gonna…” Her eyes lower to Deacon again and back up to me, “…kill me?”
I hide my amusement. “Aren’t you going to run?”
She pinches her brow. “I was going to, but you didn’t move. Aren’t you scared I’ll tell someone?”
I turn back to my brother, picking up the syringe, capping it, and slipping it back into my pocket. “No.”
“What does that mean?” she blurts out. “I could tell somebody if I wanted to.”
“I know.” I soothe her pride. “I’m just not concerned about it.”
“Why?”
I heave a sigh and stand up straight. “We’re all living on luck, and mine will run out just like yours someday.” I spin toward her. “If today’s the day, I’m ready.”
“Have you killed a lot of people?”
She thinks my brother is dead.
“I’ve never killed a child,” I say, skirting the question. “It’s one of the many lines I won’t cross. So go tell someone. Whatever happens to me, happens.”
She doesn’t move, though, leaning to the side so she can see around me. I’m not even disappointed. I can still make people run from me, but I have no interest in scaring a kid.
“What will you do with him?” she asks.
I’m not even sure yet. Take him out of state, most certainly, but I can’t take him back to New Orleans right now. Too easy to escape. “I like your costume.” I smile instead. “What are you doing out here so late?”
“My dad said to wait in the car.”
I chuckle under my breath. Their family seems to breed and nurture independent women. Aro Marquez, Dylan Trent, and even shy, quiet Quinn Caruthers. I move between the kid and the car, so she doesn’t catch a glimpse.
I hold out my hand. “Manas Doran.”
She moves in closer and shakes it, not the slightest bit timid. “A.J.”
I see the resemblance now. “You look like your father,” I tell her. “Your brothers look more like your mom.”
She tilts her head, quizzical. She’s going to ask her dad now if he knows me, and he won’t have the slightest clue who she means.
Turning back to my brother, I search the area, making sure we didn’t drop anything. “What does A.J. stand for?”
“Adalia Junior,” she says. “After my dad’s nanny.”
“Adalia.” I nod. “I like it. You should go by that.”
“I tried, but it’s hard to retrain people.”
