"Why?" I whispered, my voice barely audible. I moved slowly, like I was facing a wild animal, putting myself more fully between Peanut and my son. "Why would you pretend?"
His broad shoulders lifted in a casual shrug. "It made Charlene happy. Charlene always has to be happy."
Something snapped inside me—all the fear, all the confusion crystallizing into pure, white-hot rage.
"You son of a bitch!" I hissed, stepping forward and delivering a resounding smack across his cheek. "You scared my son! You made him think—you made us all think—" I drew back to slap him again.
Peanut caught my wrist easily, holding me at arm's length. "Had to happen. Charlene needs to be happy."
"Let go of my mama!" Teddy's voice cracked behind me, high and desperate.
"It's okay, baby, stay back—" I tried to wrench free, but his grip was iron.
"You know what else had to happen?" Peanut's eyes locked on mine, and there was something almost gleeful in them. "The fire."
My blood turned to ice. "What?"
"I set it," he said simply, matter-of-factly. "Would've worked too, if that peacekeeper hadn't been so close by."
The world tilted. "You—you tried to—Why?" The word came out as a sob.
His expression shifted, something almost like pity crossing his face. "Because Charlene wants Cristox." He shook his head. "You have to go away so my sister can have him. Simple as that."
"Simple?" I choked out, disbelief and horror warring in my voice. "You tried to murder us because your sister has a crush?"
"Not a crush," he corrected patiently. "When Charlene wants something, she gets it. That's how it's always been. Once when I was little, my dad gave me a toy—a red firetruck with working wheels and a little driver inside. Charlene wanted it. Dad never gave her toys, only me. When I refused to hand it over, she grabbed me by the arm, shoved me to the ground, and snatched the toy right out of my hands. I scraped my knees and cried all night, wanting my toy back. I thought my dad would take it back from her. But he whipped me for crying and said Charlene was more of a man than I'd ever be.”
Listening to his tale, I realized there was a strange family dynamic between Peanut and Charlene—some dysfunction thathad shaped his mindset long before the head injury. Whatever happened in Peanut's childhood had made him capable of violence—of murder.
My mind reeled, pieces clicking into place with sickening clarity. "Craig," I whispered. "Oh God, Craig. Did you—"
"Had to." No hesitation, no remorse. Just a cold, simple fact. "He found out I tried to steal moonshine from Clemon Peters. I was going to use that to set the fire, you know? But Clemon almost caught me and told Craig, so he started asking questions. I had to switch to shuttle fuel instead. It was harder to get."
"You killed him." The certainty settled in my bones like lead weights.
"He was going to tell Charlene. I couldn't have that." Peanut's grip on my wrists tightened, grinding the bones together. "And then Clemon started running his mouth, telling people he saw me trying to steal moonshine. So I killed him too. Loose ends. Can't leave loose ends."
Loose ends. That's what we were now—me and Teddy. He'd just confessed to two murders, and we were the only witnesses.
"You're going to kill us," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
Peanut's silence was answer enough.
Everything slowed down, crystallizing into sharp focus. Teddy standing behind me. Peanut's hands on my wrist. The darkness closing in around us. I had one chance. One moment to save my son.
"RUN, TEDDY!" I screamed and threw my entire body weight forward into Peanut.
He stumbled back, surprised, his grip loosening just enough for me to wrench free. I heard Teddy's footsteps behind me, scrambling, the sound of small feet on grass.
"Go, baby, go!" I shouted, spinning to see him dart past.
But Peanut was faster than I expected. His arm shot out and caught Teddy by the shoulder, shoving him hard. Teddy hit the ground with a sickening thud that made my heart stop.
"No!" I lunged for them, but Peanut was already turning back to me.
Teddy had pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, dirt smeared across his face. He opened his mouth and from his small chest came a roar, not a scream, not a cry, but a roar. Deep and guttural and fierce. The sound of a Stranac warrior, primal and defiant.
My little boy, my baby, roaring like his father.
