Page 107

Ares runs to the cemetery, and my heart thunders in my chest, going way too fast.

Clay shouts orders, ones I can’t make out. So I manically search for her among the headstones.

Ares shouts in alarm, and we all race to follow the direction of his voice, coming to a stop at the same time, facing a grave with freshly dug soil. There is a shovel beside it, blood coating the end. Ares picks it up, but I rush forward.

“I’ll do it,” I yell.

Clay intercepts me as Ares starts to dig.

“It’s faster if I do it. Please let me do it,” I insist, pushing past Clay and grabbing at the shovel.

“Move,” Ares snaps and keeps digging, his pace brutal, dirt flying around us.

Brawley steps up beside me as I watch on, feeling helpless. The shovel hits wood, and the dull sound goes through me like a shot of electricity. It only makes Ares work faster, and he soon clears enough dirt that the whole shape has been revealed. He falls to his knees, leaning down and sliding his hands along the edge of the coffin. Clay drops into the hole beside him, and together they wrench it open. I hold my breath; if she is gone, I swear I won’t ever breathe again.

Kayla is lying inside the wooden box, perfectly still. For the longest second of my life, I believe she is dead, and tears prick my eyes.

“She’s breathing.”

I don’t know who says it, but I release the breath I was holding.

Then, as the words run through my head, something inside me snaps.

I never feel the transition from reality to wherever my mind takes me. One moment I’m myself and the next I’m simply not, and I never catch the in-between. I never get a warning. It all just becomes too loud all at once, and then I’m somewhere else inside my head looking out. By the time I realize what has happened, I am already in too deep.

I turn to walk away, knowing it’s coming. I need to direct myself elsewhere; I promised her, and I will not break that promise.

“Vero,” Brawley calls out.

“Just help her, I need a minute.”

“Brawley, we need your help,” Clay says, and I run.

I don’t know where I’m going, but I can’t stay there. Can’t stand and look at her in that box and remain functioning. Something has to give, and it’s going to be me. But I cannot let them see this; she needs them, and they can’t take the time to help me right now.

As I pass, I see Noa’s machete propped against the fence. He must have been clearing a path recently, so I pick it up. My mind races with ideas as I walk toward the cornfield. Cave doesn’t get to touch what’s mine. Yet I don’t understand why he would want to hurt her.

When I get to the edge, I don’t hesitate, swinging the machete as I walk in. I don’t bother following a path, making my own.

I want him to hear me coming this time.

“Cave,” I sing. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” Swing. “I know you know I’m here. You seem to know everything, you creepy, straw-filled menace. So come out and tell me why you did this to her.” The stalks fall around me as I swing, as I keep moving and yelling, hoping my actions entice him to face me. “Come out or I will cut down every fucking row until there is nothing left of your stupid cornfield.”

Something moves to my left, and I spin toward it, the machete held in defense. In my anger, I have reached the center of the field, and here stands Cave, tall and proud. But he is not on his post where he normally waits. No, this time Luca is tied there, his wrists bound behind him and his head hanging forward. Blood mats his hair and runs down the side of his face, where his mouth is sewn shut. I stare, trying to process what I’m even looking at.

Cave looks at me and smirks.

“He . . .” I start, but when Cave opens his mouth, my brain knows to shut up and listen.

“The one you seek is not the one to blame. Look to the one who hangs from the stake and pays for his sins.”

I look at Luca. But why would he want to hurt Kayla? I don’t have time to question it, though. I don’t like Cave, but it made no sense that he would hurt Kayla. So why would Luca? I have enough sense to trust the scarecrow, and I never in a million years thought I would ever admit that.

Tightening my grip on the machete, I look over at Cave. My hands have finally stopped shaking, and a sense of clarity settles over me. I know what needs to be done. I hold the machete out to him, and Cave looks at it, then back at me.

“The back of my neck, I need the chip gone for what I am about to do,” I tell him.

Cave nods and remains silent.