Page 47 of The Knucklebone Brothers

Maverick, of course, couldn't help himself. "Aw, Sheriff, we're hurt," he chirped, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "We were just about to put on a pot of coffee and everything."

I saw Knox slowly step off to the side, his movements deliberate and quiet. He sank into one of the high-backed chairs, crossing his arms over his massive chest, settling in to watch the pissing match unfold.

Momma shot Maverick a look that could freeze hell over, a silent command that shut him up instantly. She turned her attention back to the sheriff, her posture rigid. "Enough games, Sheriff," she said, her voice sharp as a shard of glass. "What did you drag your ass to my home on a fine day like today? Go on with it already."

Duffy's smirk widened, enjoying his moment of power. "Alright, Hester, I'll get right to it," he said, his eyes landing on Maverick. "It seems your boy here got into a bit of a scuffle in town today. Down at Hemlock's. Left two boys, Jimmy and Dale, in pretty bad shape."

He paused, letting that hang in the air. "Luckily for you, they ain't pressin' charges. We all know how you boys fight. But..." He leaned in a little, his voice dropping. "It's just funny, ain't it? How trouble always seems to find you Knucklebones. And now, I got Lacey—Rory's cousin—makin' a real interesting comment. Said you were actin' real strange, Maverick. Staring at her while she was puttin' up a missing person's poster for her cousin. The very same cousin you were just defendin' the honor of, so to speak. Makes a man wonder what you're really up to."

Maverick and I exchanged a lightning-fast glance, a silent conversation that said more than words ever could. We both slumped, our shoulders relaxing, our faces settling into expressions of bored, nonchalant indifference. We'd had years of practice. This wasn't our first dance with Sheriff Duffy.

"Well," Momma said, her voice smooth as aged whiskey, a small, tight smile playing on her lips. "We all know Maverick. He's just a ladies man. He was probably just protecting the poor girl's honor."

Duffy let out a loud, braying laugh that made Momma jump, a flicker of genuine offense in her eyes. "Honor?" he scoffed, wiping a tear from his eye. "Hester, that girl ain't got no more honor than a snake in a henhouse. And I ain't even sure she's really missing. Probably just ran off with some trucker, like they all do."

His eyes started darting around the room, his gaze lingering in the dark corners, a suspicious gleam in them. He started rambling, his voice a low, conspiratorial hiss. "And what about all the others, huh? All the proper folk who've gone missing from your little carnival over the years? I'm real happy you're shut down. The county's safer for it."

As he spoke, I started moving, my steps slow walking a wide circle around him. I was getting a good look at him, sizing him up, checking under his arm where his pistol was, the weight of his keys on his belt, the way his weight shifted. I was mapping him out, just in case. Maverick started moving too, his movements a strange, fluid dance. He drifted over to a dusty shelf, running his finger along the surface, then holding it up to the dim light, examining the gray film on his skin with a bored curiosity. We both kept glancing at Momma, watching her posture. We'd learned to read her like a book; it was a survival technique. Her back was still ramrod straight, but her hands were clasped so tight her knuckles were white.

"Speaking of missing people," Duffy continued, his voice turning vicious. "What about your husband, Hester? Silas? The one who was never found?"

Momma let out a cold, sharp laugh. "Silas was a money-hungry drunk," she said, her voice dripping with contempt. "He was trying to steal the holler right out from under us.”

I almost smiled at that. A lie, but a good one. Momma and I both knew the truth. We'd killed Silas together. He'd been a fool, thinking he could outsmart her. He'd been a mean drunk, but he had a good sense of rhythm, and his screams had made the prettiest music when we stretched him on the rack. We'd used his bones to make the legs for the new workbench in my workshop. They were strong, and they held a good polish.

My mind drifted further back, to my daddy, Jed. Momma never talked about it, but I remembered. She'd shot him right in the center of the midway after closing. Found out he'd hurt one of our performers, and was sleeping around. I remembered her being sick about it for weeks after. She'd really loved him. It was a reminder of what betrayal did to her, what it did to all of us. It was why I tried so hard to show her I wasn't like him. I was loyal. I was blood.

My gaze flicked over to the wall of family photos, a grim collection that looked more like a haunted house exhibit than a tribute to kin. There was Momma as a younger woman, her face fierce and proud, standing next to a man whose face had been violently scratched out with what looked like a nail. That was Silas. Next to it, another photo, this one of Momma with a man who had a kind, handsome face. That was Jed. His face, too, was a mess of furious, deep scratches, the paper torn and flayed where his eyes and smile used to be. Other photos scattered. A faded picture of the Bearded Lady, a solemn portrait of a two-headed calf in a jar, and a blurry shot of a bunch of us kids sitting on a sagging porch, our faces pale and solemn, looking like a pack of little ghosts. It was our history, a gallery of ghosts and freaks, and a constant, visual reminder of what happened to those who crossed us.

Duffy didn't look convinced. He took a step closer to Momma, invading her space, his voice dropping to a low, threatening growl. "I hate you freaks," he snarled. "You shouldn't come off this mountain. You don't belong with us. I swear to God, I will find a reason to shut you down for good. I'll destroy this whole holler and erase your whole family from the face of this earth."

As he spoke, I completed my slow circle, my footsteps silent on the dusty floorboards. I came to a stop directly behind him, so close I could smell the stale sweat on his uniform and the cheap coffee on his breath. He didn't even flinch, just kept his piggy eyes locked on Momma, a smug, cocky assurance radiating off him. I didn't budge. He didn't scare me. I'd seen real monsters, the kind with teeth and claws, and the kind that wore human skin. Duffy wasn't an exception. He was just a loud, stupid man in a cheap suit. The only thing on this earth that truly scared me was the woman standing in front of him.

"Maybe I oughta look around," he said, his voice dripping with false bravado. "Make sure you ain't up to no good."

Momma's smile was razor-thin. "I don't agree," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerously quiet level. "And I think that's a very bad idea, Sheriff."

Duffy just laughed, a short, nasty sound. He tipped his hat at her, a final, insulting gesture. "We'll see, Hester. We'll see." With that, he turned and swaggered out of the room, his heavy boots echoing on the floorboards.

The moment he was gone, Momma looked at the three of us. She didn't say a word. She just gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod of approval. That was all it took. I knew exactly what needed to be done. We'd done it before. We were good at it. Luckily, we were never caught.

Uncle Knox let out a long, weary sigh, rubbing his head with a massive hand. "Well, y'all go on," he said, his voice heavy. "Your momma and I will take care of the sheriff's truck now. Well, I mean... I will." He looked at Momma. "Hester, would you mind whipping us up some coffee, please?"

Momma shot him a look, her eyes glinting. "I suppose," she said, her voice dry as a bone. "Wouldn't want you boys to get sleepy on the job." She turned and walked away, the click of her heels on the floorboards a little louder this time, a sharp, rhythmic reminder that she was still the queen, still the boss. But we all knew what it meant. We'd need the coffee. It was going to be a long night.

The moment Momma walked away, the air in the room changed. It was like a switch had been flipped. Maverick and I moved in sync, our hands going to the small of our backs. We both reached into our waistbands, pulling out the masks we'd stashed there. We secured them over our faces. We didn't need them, not really, but it was a ritual. It was the shedding of Blythe and Maverick, the boys Momma raised, and the ritual of something else. Something without a name.

Maverick, ever the dramatic one, sauntered over to the mantelpiece and picked up a heavy, ornate candlestick, hefting it in his hand like a club. He looked at it, a wicked tilt of his head.

"No!" Momma's voice cracked like a whip from the kitchen doorway. "Not my candlestick. Get the hell out. Be more creative."

I rolled my eyes at her theatrics, but Maverick just laughed, a delighted, unhinged sound. "Ooooh, exciting!" he chirped, dropping the candlestick back onto the mantle. He didn't walk out. He leaped out the door, a fluid, predatory movement.

We knew Duffy wasn't heading to his truck to leave. We could hear his heavy footsteps crunching on the fallen leaves outside, a sound that was getting closer to the old midway. I even saw him, a dark blur against the fading light, kick a rotting pumpkin that was sitting by the path. A flicker of irritation went through me. I'd carved that one. It was a good one, and I was planning on putting its remains back into the pumpkin patch to enrich the soil for next year's crop.

Duffy was a clumsy oaf.

We followed, our own footsteps silent. We watched from the edge of the woods as the sheriff made his way to the midway, his flashlight beam cutting through the growing dusk. He was snooping, flipping over old crates and peering into the rusted-out ticket booth, shaking his head in disgust at the decay and neglect that surrounded him. He was a fool, walking right into our playground, right into our web.