“Don. Hi.”
He stares at me for a moment, then gives a barely perceptible nod.
“What can I do for you?”
“Wildfires.” He spits out the word like it’s an insult.
“What?”
“It’s fire season. I wanted to tell Grace to prepare the land. This—” he sweeps his hand across the forest. “It’s like pure gasoline. They need to take care of their property. It’s irresponsible.”
“I’ll tell them,” I say. He nods again, and just as he turns to leave, I blurt out, “What happened to Caroline?”
“I don’t know any Caroline,” he says, after a pause.
“Yes, you do. You told me not to be like the other one. Something like that. It was a warning. Why?”
He stares at me, and I feel like I’ve been transported into a Western and we’re both about to draw our weapons. Amazingly, he blinks first.
“She wasn’t happy here. That’s all I know.”
“Was she murdered? Did they kill her?”
“I don’t know about a murder,” he says, turning to walk away.
“Why did you warn me, then?” I call out after him, but he doesn’t respond. I think about chasing after him, but I can already tell it’s a miracle he said what he did. He’s not telling me something, but I’m not sure what it is.
I pick up the gardening gear and carry it back to the old barn. As I approach, I hear a strange, inhuman cry of protest. I hold my breath as I approach the barn and peer at the door. But before I can make anything out, someone taps me on the shoulder.
“It’s rude to spy, you know.”
I turn to find Grace.
And she’s covered in blood.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I step back, right into the edge of the corrugated iron wall. It cuts into my back, and I wince with pain.
“Oh, honey!” Grace says, her voice dripping with faux-concern. “Are you OK?”
I drop the bucket of gardening tools and step along the barn wall.
“Where are you going?” she says, reaching out to grab my wrist. I pull away before she can touch me. “If you’re curious, I can show you what’s happening.”
“It’s fine,” I mutter.
“Please. I insist.”
I want to run away, but then I hear a man’s voice—Jesse. I glance at her red shirt, her blood-smeared arms.
“Where’s Bradley?” I ask.
She looks confused at the question, then laughs, a single rough bark into the air. “It’s a weekday afternoon. He’s at work.” She beams at Jesse, who appears at the doorway to the barn. “Just like me. I’m researching.”
“I can’t believe you talked me into this. I haven’t been on a farm since I was eighteen.” Jesse wipes sweat from his brow with his forearm and leaves a smear of crimson. “What’s up, Brie?”
“You can take the boy out of the farm,” Grace says in a sing-song voice. “Brie here thinks we’ve murdered Bradley and we’re chopping him up to feed to the proverbial chickens. Don’t you, sweetheart?”
