and my shoulder feels like it’s been sliced open. And a smell. Holy shit, that smell, like cat piss and ammonia all mixed into one. It stings my nostrils, burns my eyes. I cough as I try to take a breath around the gag in my mouth. The cough burns my chest. Sprung rib? What the hell? What the fuck is going—
Something wet drips on my forehead. I open my eyes again.
It’s dark, though there must be a light somewhere because it’s not pitch black. I’m lying on my side on a floor. It feels like rough carpet beneath me. My clothes are soaked to the skin, my hair wet and plastered against my forehead. I try to push myself up, but my arms are restrained behind my back. My legs are tied together. I wiggle my fingers and feel hard, thick plastic. It takes me a moment to realize what it is.
Zip ties. The sheriff’s department made a big deal about them when they arrived, saying they were less chafing than metal handcuffs and easier to put on whoever was being arrested. The backs of my hands are pressed together, fingers pointed out. My hands feel like they’re going numb.
Griggs.
Boss, he called her.
Christie.
Everything hits at once. I cry out against the gag in my mouth, banging my head on the floor, trying to make myself sleep again, trying to knock the thoughts out of my head. Cal’s eyes on mine, the surprise, the horror. The pain. The love. Oh, God, so much love there, and how could I have never seen it before? How could I not have realized?
And then he fell….
Griggs. I’m going to kill him. I’m going to rip his bones from his body, and once it’s done, I’ll go to the river and float away. I ache with the thought of it.
A muffled voice growls at my right.
My eyes are adjusting to the weak light emanating from somewhere. It’s not so much a room I’m in as it’s a shack. The walls and ceiling are dilapidated and leaking water. Rain thunders down on the roof, and a peel of thunder rumbles through the air, causing the shack to quiver on its foundations.
There’s a small camping lantern set on a card table pressed up against the far corner of the room. Two dark light bulbs swing overhead. Piled against the wall near the table are a dozen black trash bags, stuffed full, straining the plastic. One has split open and lies on the floor, spilling out its contents. Empty antifreeze bottles. Empty brake fluid containers. Plastic bottles with holes cut through the top.
If what your father told me is correct, Corwin whispers in my head, then they could be supplying methamphetamines up and down the West Coast.
But this looks small-time. Dirty bathtub bullshit in this dirty fucking shack. It smells awful in here, the stench almost making me gag, a mixture of fumes from the discarded bottles. If they are making meth in here, it couldn’t have been a lot, not the size Corwin was talking about. What the fuck did my dad know?
Another muffled growl.
I crane my head to the left.
Abe has his back against the wall, his arms tied behind him, a sharp jut of bone sticking out of his forearm, tearing his flesh. He’s completely gray, sweat pouring off his skin. The cloth wrapped around his mouth and neck looks soaked. Our gazes lock, and his eyes are filled with such relief I can see him trying to smile around the gag. The smile falters as a tremor rolls through him, and he tilts his head back against the wall, his face twisting into a grimace against the pain.
I cry out around the gag, my anger almost overwhelming. How could they want to hurt him? All he wants to do is live out the remainder of his days in this goddamned fucked-up little town. All he wants is to make up problems with his car so he can come and sit and chat with me all day. All he wants is to one day close his eyes, only to open them and see his beloved Estelle looking back at him. He never wanted this. He never asked for this. It’s my fault as much as it is theirs.
The archangel Michael warned me—you may get the answers you desire. But remember this: sometimes the past is better left alone.