by Tess Sharpe
When I was really little, Momma used to scoop the clay right from the ground, wetting it down and forming it into balls for me to play with. When I was older, after she died, I used to get into clay fights with Will until we were streaked with it. It would dry and crack under the sun until we jumped into the creek to wash it away.
I try to think about that, trying to forget the smell sticking to me and the heat I can still feel on my skin. But it creeps back in: The weight of what I’ve done, what I’ve started, it settles on me as my truck bounces down the uneven road. I breathe through it because I can’t afford to pass out or pull over. I have to get out of the woods and onto the highway.
I need to call Fire Watch. The last thing I want is to be the cause of a forest fire.
It’ll be fine. I just have to stick to the plan.
By the time Busy and I are out of the forest and into range on the highway, it’s nearly eight. The fire’s been burning for over an hour. I grab the prepaid phone from the glove compartment and punch in a number.
“North County Fire Watch. How may I help you?” asks a woman’s voice.
“Hi, me and my friends were camping near Route 43.” I pitch my voice high and shrill. “Right around Castella Road. We heard, like, an explosion or something. And there was all this black smoke. I think something bad happened. Someone should check it out.”
“Can you tell me—” starts the operator.
I roll down my window and pitch the burner cell out the window. In the rearview I can see it hit the pavement, shattering into pieces that bounce into the brush. Slamming down on the accelerator, I reach over to the glove compartment and pull out the two remaining phones. The black one has no missed calls or texts—yet, but it’s just a matter of time.
They’ll call Buck first, as soon as they give up fighting the fire and get into range. And then Buck will call Duke. When Buck can’t get a hold of him, he’ll call me.
And then the real work starts. My plan. My con. My performance of a lifetime.
I drive like hell.
Busy and I make it to exit 34 later than I’d like, but I’m not out of time yet. I take a right at the off-ramp, following the rusted sign pointing toward a campground. Busy’s edged away, leaning against the passenger door, the stink coming off me offending her nose.
I drive past the happy couples out enjoying nature, the grandparents tucked safely in their RVs, and the hippie kids roughing it in tents until they can get trimmigrant jobs on all the grows come harvest time. The Sons will probably hire half of them; they’ve got to get the bud trimmed, dried, and cured in record time these days to stay competitive. Parking next to one of the log-cabin-kit bathrooms, I grab my big duffel from the truck bed and whistle for Busy to follow me.
The showers are set up in individual rooms. I dump my bag on the side of the wall farthest away from the spray and feed some quarters into the coin drop on the wall. Busy watches me carefully, sitting next to the door, not startling even when the water comes on.
I strip off my camo pants and army-green shirt and shove them in a plastic trash bag. I reek—the acrid chemicals and smoke have sunk deep into my pores and all through my hair.
I wash my hair twice, then soap and scrub myself down three times until my skin feels stretched too tight over my bones. From my bag, I take out the pair of cutoffs and slip them on, along with a clean tank top and one of the flannel shirts Will left behind.
Sometimes I can trick myself into thinking it still smells like him.
On my way out, I dump the plastic bag holding my toxic clothes in the trash, and Busy and I drive out of the campground, no one the wiser.
It’s begun: Now the black phone is buzzing constantly, filling up with texts, so I find a place to park on the side of the road, hidden from view, and grab it, keying in the code.
There are twenty text messages. The same one, over and over again: 5 feet high and rising. Call me. Now.
Duke’s code for a blown lab. Buck knows.
I swallow, trying to keep my hands from shaking. Soon, Buck’s going to give up texting him and call me.
Make a plan and stick with it, Harley-girl.
I turn the phone off and drive.
When I don’t pick up, Buck will send someone by the house. He won’t do it himself, because he’ll be too busy giving orders and panicking. When whoever he sends—probably Troy—can’t get past the gate, Buck will really freak out. He’ll think Springfield got me. Then Cooper will come. He and Wayne will go out looking, but they won’t find me. Not until I want them to.
Buck will go for the warehouse next. He’ll be looking for all the gunpower he can find, preparing for a war.
But I’m a step ahead of him. I’ll hit the warehouse later, but I know Buck’s likely to stop there before me. So I spent an afternoon taking every gun in the warehouse apart and putting them back together—with a few vital parts missing. They look normal, but they won’t get him anywhere. Not that he’ll have a chance to use them. I’ll have taken care of him before it comes to that. But I need him to collect the guns and take them to his house. And he will. He’s predictable—they all are. I’ve been watching them all for years, and now all that time will pay off.
He’ll want in Duke’s shed next, because Buck’s trigger happy as hell and there’s just a handful of guns at the warehouse. Duke’s shed is where the real arsenal is. An armory with enough ammunition and guns to wage ten turf wars.
I won’t let him near it.
It’ll start to really sink in then. The helplessness. The fear. He’ll be in over his head. No clue. No guidance.
No Duke telling him what to do.
Buck will be desperate for someone to come in with a plan. Because he’ll think that Carl Springfield is coming; that he’s finally broken the truce, plotting to destroy everything. And Carl will be on edge now, since Bobby and Bennet will have told him I crossed the river, looking for him.
And so the McKennas and Springfields will start running around, preparing for the coming war they both think the other side started, and they’ll all be too busy to see the real threat coming: Me.
They think the only power I’ve got comes from Duke.
They’re wrong.
I smile.
Everything’s going according to plan.
Nineteen
I’m fifteen when Brooke Talbot and I become friends.
It’s kind of funny, because apart from Will, she’s my first friend. But before I decided to take a walk on the riverbank that day, we were straight-up enemies, forced to interact only when one of us managed to get roped into youth group before slipping free. Most of the time, we ended up circling, snarling, but never lashing out. Will pulled me back each time, and it’s a good thing he did, because I’d have put her down in ten seconds flat.
It’s not like I can really blame her for hating me. Daddy backed her mom’s bakery when she was just starting up. When I was twelve, Mrs. Talbot got a few months behind on her payments. I remember the baseball bat smashing into the cash register, how wide and scared Mrs. Talbot’s eyes were when Daddy told her that next time it wouldn’t be the only thing he broke. How he’d swung the bat back and forth in the direction of the kitchen as he said it, where I knew Brooke and her big brother were cowering underneath the prep table.
The money was paid the next day and was never late again, because that’s what a mother does when the meanest son of a bitch you ever did see threatens your kids.
When I see her ahead of me on the river trail that day, I almost turn back. I’m walking along the east bank with Busy, waiting for Will to finish up at the hardware store and drive us home. Busy’s sniffing her way through the pines, and when we round the bend, there’s Brooke, twenty feet ahead of me, gesturing wildly at a guy I don’t recognize.
The last thing I want to see is Brooke’s angry, red-splotched face, and I definitely don’t want it to devolve into hair pulling, like it did the one time Will wasn’t there to get between us, so I’ve already turne
d away when I hear her cry out.
I whirl back around. I know that sound.
The guy’s hands are gripping her upper arm and shaking her hard every few words he speaks. When she tries to pull away, one of his hands drops, not down, but back.
“Hey!” I shout.
It’s too late.
Smack. Open-handed, hard across her cheek, leaving a bright red imprint. She crumples onto the ground, her bare knees scraping against the pavement as her denim miniskirt hikes up a few inches.
Busy snarls, straining at her leash.
I take long, sure strides toward the guy until I’m close enough to hear Brooke sniffling, close enough to hear the shit he’s saying to her.
“Hey, asshole,” I call out. I don’t go for my knife yet—its weight against my leg in my pocket is enough.
At least for now.
The guy’s attention finally snaps to me, and I recognize him: It’s Tripp Hughes, the son of one of the sheriff’s deputies. Daddy has them all in his pocket.
Perfect.
He scowls at me. “This is none of your business, Harley. It’s between me and Brooke.”
I stare hard at him and let everything I’m feeling—how I want to slice him up with my knife, to keep going until there’s nothing left but innards—show on my face. His eyes flicker—there’s fear there, but it’s tamped down by male ego.
He’s gotta prove himself. They almost always do.
“You want me to go, Brooke?” I ask, not looking away from Tripp.
Nothing but sniffling.
Tripp smiles, smug, like he’s got her trained good.
“See?” he says. “There isn’t any problem here. Leave us alone.” There’s a threat in his voice, and that makes me even angrier. What an idiot.
My hand closes around Busy’s collar. “Brooke,” I say again, and this time, I’m not asking.
I’m warning.
She understands and crawls away out of the line of fire right before I let go of Busy’s collar.
Busy leaps, knocking Tripp off his feet and flattening him on the ground. I’m pleased to hear his choked groan as the impact knocks the wind out of him. She plants herself on his chest, pinning him, and bares her teeth in his face.
“Good girl,” I coo, moving forward so I can loom over him, too. I’m not scared. I’ll never be scared of someone like him.
“Wh-what the fuck, Harley?!” Tripp gasps. “Call off your dog!”
“Why would I do that?” I bend down, unsheathing my knife right in front of his face.
His eyes widen. It’s like watching a cartoon—any second, they’ll pop out. “My dad—”
“Is owned by mine,” I finish.
Tripp struggles to sit up, but Busy snaps her teeth an inch away from his nose. He freezes. First smart move he’s made.
“Leave it, Busy.” She pushes off him, digging in her claws, and trots over to Brooke, circling her like she’s a puppy needing protection. Every time Tripp even glances Brooke’s way, Busy growls.
For a second, he looks relieved that I’ve called Busy off, but then I lay my knife against his stomach, pressing hard enough for him to understand I’m serious, and his eyes go wide again. Now I’ve got him right where he should be: scared shitless.
“I could cut you,” I tell him. “I go deep enough, I’ll probably nick your spleen. You might bleed out before the next jogger comes by and calls 911. Or you might not.”
I drag the knife up his chest to his throat. “Now here…” I tap the blade against his neck. His Adam’s apple bobs frantically as his breath stutters in the back of his throat. “Here’s the sweet spot. Fast, efficient. You drown in your own blood for a little while, but it doesn’t hurt as much as, say, getting gutted.” I smile at him, my sweet smile, like I’m handing him some lemonade at Youth Group. “So which one is it gonna be, Tripp?”
“Please,” he whimpers. “Please don’t.”
I press harder, to the point of almost breaking the skin. I lean forward, so I’m whispering in his ear. “I’m feeling generous today, so I’ll let you go this one time. But if I see you near Brooke or any girl ever again, I’ll cut off your dick and feed it to my dog.”
He lets out a gasp, and a wet spot spreads down his leg.
I look meaningfully at the stain. “Might want to go take care of that. Down at the QuikStop, they’ve got some diapers.”
I step back, and he scrambles away, swearing under his breath. I don’t sheathe my knife until he’s well down the river trail, until I’m sure his pride’s not gonna get the better of his survival instinct.
On the side of the trail, Brooke sobs and Busy noses at her face, trying to make her feel better. Her mascara and eyeliner are black smears down her cheeks, but I can already see the bruise forming beneath the streaks.
“Hey, it’s okay,” I say, gentle as I can. “He’s gone. But we should move. Just in case he’s stupid enough to call his dad.”
I offer her my hand and she grabs it, holding it a bit too tight. She lets me pull her up and follows obediently behind Busy and me.
This time of day, it’s so hot there aren’t many people out. Joggers pound the winding trail in the early morning, hopping over the cracks in the pavement where the tree roots break through. Bikers take the evening hours if it’s cooled down enough.
I walk Brooke up the river trail to the little rest area with a bathroom and a water fountain.
“Stay right there.” I leave her by the door with Busy and go inside, banging open both stall doors to make sure it’s empty. I peer back outside. “Okay, all clear. Come on.”
I get her to sit down on one of the toilets while I soak a handful of paper towels. She sniffles as I try to clean her up, flinching when I press too hard on the cheek where the bruise is already rising.
“Sorry,” I say.
This entire time, she hasn’t met my eyes. She’s focused on her folded hands as tears keep running down her face. But when I pull away to get some clean towels, she grabs my hand and stares at me, confused and demanding.
“Why are you helping me?” she asks, her voice choked and rusty. I look down automatically, to her throat. Bruises there, too. A few days old, from the color of them. They’re badly covered with foundation; it’s starting to flake off.
I should’ve stabbed the asshole.
I shrug, fiddling with the makeup-smeared towels in my hands. “You needed help.”
She narrows her eyes. “But you hate me.”
“No, I don’t.”
“I hate you. And your dad.” She glares at me like she’s daring me to do something about it.
“So?”
I don’t wait for an answer. I walk back to the sink, pull a bunch of clean towels out of the dispenser, wet them down, and come back to kneel in front of her. I press them against her swelling cheek. “We should get some ice for that.”
She holds the makeshift compress to her cheek, and I pull away, standing up. She follows me, and we walk outside to sit on top of the cement picnic table.
For a long time, Brooke and I don’t talk or even move much. We just sit there, side by side on the table, and I watch her out of the corner of my eye, waiting.
She holds out longer than I expect. She fights it hard, the rush of emotion that comes from getting the shit beaten out of you by someone you love. Her lips press together, a thin line of determination. She blinks furiously, curling her fingers tight around the concrete edge of the table.
But it’s impossible to fight it forever.
Tears leak out of the corner of her eyes, her shoulders start heaving, and she breaks down into sobs, bowing her head, her bleached hair falling like a white curtain to cover her face.
I try to figure out what to do. The only thing I can come up with is to put my arm around her, like I’ve seen Mo do. I cup my hand over her shaking shoulders and pull her against me awkwardly. To my surprise, she leans into it, kind of collapses into me like she’s been waiting for something to fall on.
“That wasn’t the first time he hit you, was it?”
I can feel her shake her head against my shoulder before she huffs out, “No.”
I squeeze her shoulder, thinking.
“Want it to be the last?”
She tilts her head up. Looks at me through swollen, curious eyes.
I smile.
It takes a few moments, but there it is, through the tears and bruises: She smiles back.
Twenty
June 6, 11:30 p.m.
Around the time I hit Burney, the small town southeast of us, the black phone finally stops buzzing.
Momma brought me here a few times because there’s a waterfall and she loved taking me on nature expeditions. I remember us picking our way down the steep, winding trail to the base of the falls, her hand firmly gripping mine to keep me on dry land. I kept trying to jump into the water because it was so blue and bottomless.
But today I’m not here to enjoy the scenery.
I drive to the edge of the town, taking a left. As I pull into the small parking lot, the exhaustion starts to catch up with me. I can feel the heaviness in every part of my body. But I force myself to get out and walk up to the rock fountain, the water splashing cheerfully in the darkness.
Brooke’s waiting for me there, sitting on the wooden bench. Her bleach-blond hair is like a beacon in the night, and the heavy kohl around her eyes makes them look huge and dark. She has a silver stud in her nose, a pink crystal flirting above her lip, and a guilty look on her face.
“What happened?” I turn to the building’s frosted glass doors. “Did—”
“No, no.” Brooke’s eyes, if possible, get wider. “Today was a good day. Everything’s fine.”
My shoulders sag and my legs want to do the same, but I lock them. It takes me a second to gather myself, heart thumping too fast for my liking, gripping Busy’s leash tight. When I do, I realize Brooke’s biting her lip and staring at me like I’m a handful of words away from shooting her.
“Just tell me.”
