Living Wilder

by Leigh Tudor

  The exception being if it concerned her sisters.

  She learned to pick her battles, reserved each one on behalf of Mercy and Cara. But when it came to her, she found it easier to acquiesce.

  She pushed those memories into one of her mental compartments and slammed the lid shut.

  Shaking her head robotically, she slipped her hands in her back pockets and looked down at the ground. “It was nothing. I mean, it wasn’t anything important.”

  “Are we done here?” he asked, tilting his head toward the house, indicating he was in fact done with her.

  “We are.”

  She waited a minute or two, remaining rooted just outside the barn and digging her boots in the hard-packed dirt. Finally, she couldn’t help herself, and glanced up to watch him as he reached the porch steps, the screen door slamming behind him.

  Not until then did the tears leak down her cheeks.

  Freaking waterworks.

  She chastised herself for letting him get to her, wiping them away. She didn’t need him. She didn’t need anybody. She could take care of her family without anyone’s help.

  On top of that, she was a good person. Yes, she’d poisoned the doctor, and that certainly left a blemish on her otherwise pristine life. And then there was that poacher in Galapagos she’d knifed. But then, she was pretty sure that was nothing more than a superficial wound. As long as he didn’t bleed out.

  Closing the barn door, she grasped her arms against the cold, watching her steamy breath waft through the crisp air and marched toward her car.

  There was also that goon who’d cornered her in the crime boss’s office, while trying her hand at cracking the wall safe. Naturally, she got the precious stones but unfortunately it was at the goon’s expense. But come on, he was armed, so it was self-defense. He was the bad guy.

  Reaching her car, she turned on the engine and then the heat.

  Maybe recounting these past transgressions wasn’t a good idea, but one thing was for sure: She was a survivor. She’d made some mistakes, but by God, she was doing her best to correct them. To that end, she would do everything it would take to protect her sister and Ally from Amarilla Simmons and her posse.

  She may not be June Cleaver, but she certainly knew how to wield one. Not as well as Mercy—but still.

  Loren shut the front door behind her and then leaned against it, grateful for the warmth inside her small but cheerful home. The chill outside was nothing compared to Alec’s arctic disposition.

  She needed to find Mercy, discuss last-minute details for tonight’s mission, and get this over with.

  Operation Amarilla was well underway.

  Without Alec’s help.

  She and her sister worked better alone anyway.

  “Mercy,” she called from the bottom of the staircase. “It’s colder than a witch’s tit outside. You may want to put on an extra layer of clothes. Maybe long underwear.”

  She waited for a response, looked around, made her way to the sunroom, but Mercy wasn’t there. She rerouted to the kitchen where she found her sister at the table, glued to her laptop. She was dressed as instructed in all black but also with a stricken look on her face.

  “Hey, what’s the deal? Didn’t you hear me?”

  Mercy looked up, shaking her head. “I think we’re in for more than we bargained for.”

  “What?”

  “Mean girls,” Mercy explained, pointing at her laptop screen. “I’ve been doing research on mean girls, like Amarilla Simmons. I’m telling you, Loren, they’re no joke.”

  “What are you talking about? We can totally handle a middle school bully,” Loren scoffed, scooting a chair next to hers. “I mean, come on. We’ve been physically threatened by a radical group from the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service.” She sat back in a chair with a sigh. “Speaking of rogue Russians, where’s Vlad?”

  Mercy waved her hand indiscriminately. “I dunno, somewhere reading Dostoyevsky or carving nesting dolls.”

  Mercy flipped her screen toward Loren with a serious expression. “Don’t discount the intel. We need to better understand what we’re up against with Amarilla and her cohorts. Today, I watched Mean Girls, Cruel Intentions, and Freaks and Geeks. These girls are beyond evil and cruel.”

  “Please, naming your daughter Amarilla is evil and cruel,” Loren muttered as she pulled off her beanie, running her fingers through her newly bleached hair. “Besides, I’m not sure we should be assuming Amarilla’s character based on mean girls portrayed in Hollywood movies.”

  “Tell you what,” Mercy continued, “you watch the clips I saved and then tell me what you think.”

  “Fine,” Loren said, clicking on the first video. “Go upstairs and put on your long underwear and some black gloves. It’s freezing outside. I don’t want you catching a cold.” Raising her hands, she wiggled her fingers. “But cut the tips off the gloves in case we have to scale a building. I don’t want you hurting yourself because you couldn’t get a grip on a drain pipe.”

  “Yes, Grandma,” Mercy smirked as she scooted back in her chair and ran up the staircase.

  Twenty minutes later, Mercy returned to the kitchen suited up and protected from the elements and slippery rain pipes. She sat next to Loren and crossed her arms in front of her chest.

  “Well?”

  Loren turned toward her with a stoic expression. “We’re going to need your Bushcraft knife.” She hesitated and then continued with a sneer and narrowed eyes. “Which we both know is mine. I’ll grab the crossbow in the garage. We’ll need to stop by a pharmacy on the way for a few extra supplies.”

  Mercy smiled with vindication and then raced back up the stairs.

  Loren blinked at the screen. “These girls show no fear; therefore, we have to come at them fully armed.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “A mathematician is a blind man in a dark room looking for a black cat which isn’t there.”

  —Charles Darwin

  English naturalist whose scientific theory of evolution by natural selection became the foundation of modern evolutionary studies

  * * *

  The beautifully complex melody wafted through Cara’s mind until it was rudely interrupted by the sound of a car door opening and closing outside her bedroom window. She closed her eyes again and picked up where the music left off. It had been dreamy and sweet, the opposite of her current persona, and also the perfect escape to her current situation.

  Crud, now she heard voices outside.

  Her sisters?

  The music continued in the background of her mind, so she hummed along so as not to lose the notes. They were so bright and nostalgic, guiding her back to memories of concert halls, enthralled audiences, and Madame Garmond’s rare smile of admiration, and maybe even something like parental pride.

  Another sound from outside halted her melody and musings.

  She pulled herself from the warmth of her bed and peeked outside.

  The front porch Edison bulb gave off just enough light for her to see Loren lift the trunk to the car with Mercy at her side.

  Were they leaving?

  She moved back, standing just to the side of the curtains.

  They looked like they were leaving. “Please leave, please,” she whispered with her hands clasped beneath her chin.

  Over the last several days, she had composed over a dozen pieces. But her sisters had dogged her every step, policing the baby grand as if it was court evidence.

  When submerged in the throes of artistic desperation, she’d play the virtual piano with her fingers on any nearby surface: the new desk they’d bought at IKEA, the scarred kitchen table, or the keyboard cover itself. But running her fingers over the cover, so close to the keys, was almost too painful for her to bear. After a few torturous notes, she’d revert back to the kitchen table.

  Not the best acoustics, but whatever.

  She pulled the curtain back a smidge and smiled. The mere thought of finally touching those ivory keys made her f
ingertips hum with anticipation.

  If they left, she could play until she was breathless.

  The idea had her full-on smiling as she watched Mercy pick up what looked to be . . . a crossbow to place inside the trunk?

  Her smile faltered.

  And then her eyes moved to Loren, who was loading other highly questionable items into the trunk as well.

  A crowbar?

  Duct tape?

  What?

  Memories of when they lived at the Center came to mind.

  A mission?

  In hindsight, Madame Garmond had done her best to insulate Cara, or rather Charlotte, from her sisters’ “trips.”

  “Your sisters are going on an exciting trip to Copenhagen, where Ava will recite the entire number sequence of pi while Mara attends her first art show at Charlottenborg Palace.”

  Cara wondered if Madame Garmond knew the truth of her sisters coerced missions. Considering that possibility was as painful to her as being forbidden to touch the ivory keys.

  On a few occasions, she had watched Jasper direct Ava and Mara through the halls at the Center, wearing dark clothes that looked more stealthy than fashionable.

  Like they were dressed now.

  She wasn’t sure what they were up to, but whatever it was, it was dangerous. And it had nothing to do with math conventions or art shows.

  They could get hurt.

  Her hand that was unconsciously strumming on the window sill came up to rub her forehead and then came forward to lean lightly on the windowpane.

  They’d promised.

  Her eyes squeezed shut and then reopened with resounding conviction.

  Loren and Mercy were the only family she had left. There was no way she was going to allow them to do something reckless.

  Something that could prevent them from returning.

  She pictured herself blocking the driveway, like a protestor in an Asian country standing in front of a heavily armed military tank.

  She raced down the stairs to first stop them and then question them. They were up for a rude awakening if they thought their interrogation skills could hold a candle to hers.

  She turned into the hallway and opened the front door only to watch the car pull out of the driveway.

  A frisson of fear ran up her neck and her heart pounded in her chest.

  She just couldn’t lose them.

  And as angry and frustrated as she was with them for grounding her, she knew she had to protect them. Because as brilliant as they were, they were also highly deficient in the art of self-preservation and, to a larger degree, common sense.

  What to do?

  Find her confiscated cell phone and call them.

  Call them out.

  It had to be somewhere in the kitchen.

  As she raced back toward the kitchen, she noticed Mercy’s laptop on the table. She stopped, wondering if she could find information to calm her nerves in the off-chance she was overreacting. Sifting through the history on the device, she scrolled through a list of recent movies she’d watched, looking for clues.

  She sat back in her chair, confused.

  Just your basic coming-of-age movies?

  Again, absolute geniuses in their own right, but deficient in knowing how to behave in ways that the small town of Wilder considered normal.

  A notepad sat next to the laptop on the table. Picking it up, she read through the cryptic notes.

  Evil

  Befriend others who are ‘like-minded’

  Can exhibit violent behavior

  Stealthy, know how not to get caught

  Cannot address through traditional means

  Amarilla = kingpin = first point of contact

  “No.” She sucked in a breath as she connected the dots and realization hit. “No, no, no!”

  Jetting out of the chair, she ran to the staircase and shouted for Vlad. No answer.

  Where was an obtrusive Russian when you needed one?

  Okay, back to plan A: cell phone.

  The kitchen cabinet.

  She lunged at the latched door where Loren had hidden Mercy’s brass knuckles after using them to pry off a bottle cap. She flung open the cabinet only to see a white piece of paper folded over with a handwritten note:

  “Dearest Cara, aka Devil’s Spawn, your cell phone has been buried in a water-tight can in the back yard (at least I think it’s water-tight - I always get confused between water-tight and water-resistant). Good luck finding it as we just planted two hundred daffodil bulbs. ~ Mercy”

  Cara did her best to summon an expletive and screamed in frustration instead.

  She had no choice. She had to run to the neighbor’s house and ask for help before her sisters did something they would all regret.

  Pulling her coat over one shoulder, she thought of the one person who would know what to do. Who, with absolute resolve, was able to calm her nerves and help her focus. Whether it was stage fright or a post-concert interview in a foreign country, this person had the ability to set her nerves aright and bolster her self-confidence.

  Oh, how she missed her.

  She wondered if she’d listened to the voicemail yet? It was a desperate move she’d made when she was at an all-time low.

  Would Loren be disappointed in her?

  Would Mercy lose her ever-loving mind?

  She couldn’t decide which was worse.

  Cara bent over at the waist with her hands on her knees and drew in several breaths. She stifled a sob and stood.

  No time for regrets now.

  Mercy’s black boot smacked Loren in the face as she fell from the perimeter wall.

  “What the hell?” Loren spit out a clump of dirt and a leaf as her sister righted herself. “I swear we used to be better at this.”

  “Well, excuse me. It’s been a while since I scaled an eight-foot wall.”

  “We’re getting soft,” Loren said. “We’ve become complacent and ineffectual.”

  “Jeez, Loren, chill. My foot got caught on a vine.”

  Loren sat back on her haunches and took a moment to take in the view. They were at the back of the property that overlooked some pretty impressive landscaping, a pool, and a number of entrances to the house itself.

  Swanky place. Not a single detail had been overlooked.

  According to Becky, Amarilla’s mother was the widow of a high-profile and questionably affluent state senator. Since the death of her husband, her mother had become as influential and heavily feared by her neighbors as her daughter was by her peers in high school.

  Apparently, the acorn didn’t fall far from the genera Quercus and Lithocarpus.

  Mercy sidled up next to Loren, taking in the view as well. “It’s like . . . house porn.”

  Loren refocused and rolled out the schematic of the property she’d found online. The contractor used the high-profile customer as a testimonial on their website, lucky for her. They’d uploaded the CAD drawings along with photos of the finished interior for the multimillion-dollar mansion.

  Idiots.

  “Ooh, what variety of hostas are these?” Mercy asked, fingering a bluish-green leaf.

  Loren peeked over the top of her printed schematic. “They look like Canadian Blue.”

  “Wouldn’t they look great on the west side of the house?” Using her hands for illustration purposes, she added, “You know, where there’s that empty space between the azaleas?”

  Loren tilted her head with wide eyes. “We’re trespassing and about to break and enter, and you want to discuss landscaping?”

  “Good point,” Mercy nodded, circling her hand for Loren to proceed. “Continue.”

  Loren sighed and pointed at the drawings.

  “Amarilla should be here, in the bedroom northeast of the structure. You take the crossbow, and I’ll take the duct tape, screwdriver, and crowbar.”

  “I don’t understand the need for the heavy artillery if all we’re going to do is scare her. I mean, what’s the use of a perfectly good crossbow if
it’s unarmed?”

  “Because the mission is to scare the living piss out her, not go to jail for a felony.”

  “What makes you think she’s not gonna recognize us and rat us out?”

  Loren reached into her duffel and pulled out two masks.

  “Seriously?” Mercy asked with wide eyes. “Wonder Woman?”

  “It’s all they had a Walgreens.”

  Loren pulled her mask on and Mercy grabbed her arm. “Hold on, why do you get to be Iron Man?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Loren hissed, “this isn’t a costume competition.”

  “Then if it’s no big deal, I want Iron Man.”

  Loren tore the mask off and wrenched the other from Mercy. “Jesus, what are you, ten?”

  Mercy put the mask on with a smile and muttered, “Everyone knows Iron Man trumps Wonder Woman.”

  “I would think you of all people would be pro-female-super-hero.”

  Her sister shrugged. “I dunno, there’s something real about a somewhat broken genius in a homemade badass suit fighting criminal aliens.”

  “Broken genius,” Loren mused, “that’s certainly an accurate description.”

  “Right?”

  “Back to the plan,” Loren continued, pointing at the document. “We’ll enter through these sliding glass doors. Locks are easier to disable. Then we’ll go through the living room up the staircase and hang a left to Amarilla’s room. I’ll wake her up, duct tape her mouth while you point the crossbow at her. I’ll tell her we’re part of a top secret special forces team put in place to deter bullying in schools.”

  Mercy snorted. “Oh, that’s believable.”

  “Then,” Loren sneered, “I’ll tell her she must cease and desist or we’ll come back, but this time using force.”

  “You’re kidding me, right? Sounds like a really shitty after-school special.”

  “Do you have any better ideas?”

  “Yeah, we grab the entitled little princess by the hair, shove her skanky ass to the wall and tell her if she doesn’t stop terrorizing people, we’re going to systematically hunt her and her family down and gut them with a dull spoon. And then, to prove our point, we remove each of her fingernails with steel pliers.”