She stares out the window, toward the stretch of dark lawn beyond it, as if Ashford House might rise out of the shadows if she stares hard enough.
“Now those boys are restless,” she says. “They’re watching. Waiting.”
I get a chill at the ominous way she says that.
“Jackson knows it,” Lou adds. “That’s why he keeps pushing. He wants chaos. A crack big enough to force his way through.”
I think of Carrson in the woods. The knives. The bag. The way he moves like being out there is the only thing keeping him going. There’s more at stake. I see that now. A reason beyond himself that drives him out there, day after day. He’s the only thing standing between a world where Jackson rules, where anyone smaller or weaker becomes collateral.
I turn back to Lou. “You’re worried.”
“Of course I am.” The words snap out before she reins them in. Her fingers twist the napkin in her lap, creasing the fabric. “The conflicts of men always spill over into the world of women.” Her gaze drifts around the room, lingering on the sisters. “The more tension there is at Ashford House, the more it shows up here. The men’s hands get rougher. Their words…” She exhales quietly. “Crueler.”
I picture that. A house full of men circling, testing each other. If things didn’t work out the way they want, who would they take that frustration out on? Who’d suffer?
Lou waits, lets me follow that thought until I reach the end.
“It’s my job to protect the women here, and, for that, I need Carrson.” She releases the napkin, smoothing it once before folding her hands on the table. “But he was never taught how to lead people. Only how to survive them.”
She inches closer. “He listens to you,” she says. “More than most.”
I blink, surprised.
“I just…” She trails off, then shakes her head slightly, like she’s already said too much. “I think he could be different. If he wanted.”
Her gaze holds mine, and she doesn’t have to say it.
She thinks it’s me. That I could change him.
She’s wrong.
I don’t want to change him.
I want to be him.
Chapter twenty-one
Stray
Carrson
I’m standing outside Becky’s last class of the day, Ancient Civilizations, leaning against the bricks as students stroll by with backpacks slung over their shoulders.
She likes this one. Tells me about it when I walk her out to the clearing so she can study and I can work out, her voice going thoughtful as if she’s figuring things out as she says them. Yesterday itwas Rome, not the empire but the structure beneath it. A handful of families dictating everything. The right to rule inherited, protected, reinforced through alliances so tight they might as well have been chains. Bloodlines tracked. Preserved.
She watched me as she spoke like she was waiting for my reaction.
I told her it was interesting what people choose to admire.
Movement out of the corner of my eye has me looking up. Jackson. The reason I’m here. He’s been following her, lurking, ever since he saw her at Ashford House, and maybe I feel a little guilty about that. About putting her in his path.
That’s why I pick her up after school every day. Walk her back and forth to the clearing.
And now here he is, in the flesh. He doesn’t hesitate. Angles straight toward me like this was always where he was headed, like we’re meeting up instead of him inserting himself. He plants himself beside me, shoulder to the same wall, close enough that anyone looking might think we’re friends instead of not-so-secretly planning each other’s demise.
“Carrson,” he says.
I nod and that’s all, knowing my silence bothers him. Men like him need noise, reaction, something to push against. Without it, they flounder.
