He slammed his back against the brick, pulse matching the beat of the rotors. Was this some new government tactic, air sweeps instead of ground raids?
How would their illegal clan guard themselves now?
Even though the helicopter was miles off, and Greg technically had his citizenship now, he stayed pressed against the house, scanning every inch of every yard. His grandparents were still sound asleep, and this early in the morning, the rest of the neighborhood looked dead, too. But what about the yards he couldn’t see? He wouldn’t have time to warn his neighbors, those squatting on government property. Hopefully they were smart enough to stay inside until the helicopter passed.
Assuming it would pass.
Just as it seemed the helicopter would fly over their neighborhood, it turned sharply east and disappeared behind his grandparents’ house. Greg crept along the brick, through the side gate, and past the milk goat in the backyard. Once there, he saw the helicopter’s true destination.
A huge, black cloud hung in the distant eastern sky, turning the morning sun blood-orange. It wasn’t a storm cloud since the rest of the sky was a promising blue. This cloud looked too dark, too…dispersed. Smoke. And lots of it. If he lived in California, he’d think there was a forest fire to the east, but he lived in a small suburb in Illinois. There weren’t any forests east of them, only city, which meant one thing:
Chicago was on fire—or a big chunk of it.
Seemed like something the new regime would do.
The helicopter headed right into the thick of the haze. When no others followed, Greg went back around to the front yard and surveyed the neighborhood. Not a soul had come out to check on the noise. He doubted anybody even heard.
He shook his head. This clan felt too safe under Oliver’s care—not that he was much better. Out of the last six years, he’d only spent a few months with actual citizenship: the last two months, plus a few weeks in Raleigh when he and his mom moved into a government-run municipality to try and save Kendra. The rest of the time he’d slept with one eye open and both ears pricked for the slightest sound.
How had he almost slept through the helicopter?
Heading back inside, he decided it was time to move out of his grandparents’ house. He packed up every last thing he owned. It took all of three minutes, one of the benefits of being poor. He would have left then, but there would be dramatic consequences if he didn’t say goodbye first. So he shoveled goat manure, checked on Carrie’s tomato plant, watched the black haze in the distance, and even got up the nerve to feed the chickens, keeping busy until his grandma called him in for breakfast.
“I thought the army had shut down,” Greg said, pushing his fried potatoes around his plate.
“You think it was a military helicopter?” his grandpa asked, sitting beside him at the table.
“What else could it be? President Rigsby and his cronies caused enough issues when they were as broke as the rest of us, but if they have money for helicopters now…” Greg shook his head.
“Why aren’t you eating, Gregory?” his grandma said. “Eat! The only thing you should be worrying about is that sweet girl down the street. How is Carrie anyway?”
Carrie. His grandma’s favorite breakfast conversation. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and virtually any time between.
“Good,” Greg said, scooping up a few last bites. Before she could pester him further, he stood and slung his frayed backpack over his shoulder. “Well, I’m takin’ off. Thanks for breakfast—and givin’ me a place to live these few months. Remember, no movin’ stuff around without me, alrighty? Just come get me if you need help. I’m not that far.”
“Wait!” His grandma nearly leaped out of her seat—if leaping were possible at her age. “I thought you were moving out tomorrow.”
“Nah. I wanna get settled before I head into town.”
“But, but…” Her bottom lip trembled, and she started to cry as if Greg was eighteen and leaving to some far-off country, instead of twenty-five and moving four houses down the street. Between Jeff attacking his grandpa, and his mom’s terminal illness, his grandma could hardly sweep the floor without falling apart these days.
She followed him to the front door. “You have to come back for lunch. Dinner, too, since your mom and Richard are coming. We’re having carrot soup.”
“Thanks,” Greg said, “but I think I’ll just bachelor it from now on.”
“But do you even know how to cook over a fire?” she asked.
Next, she’d tie his shoes.
“I’ll have you know,” he said, “Ma and I traded cooking duty comin’ north. I’m a pretty dang good cook.”
“I’m sure, Gregory. Just…” She pulled off her thick glasses and wiped her moist eyes. “You come back and visit us soon, okay?”
He scratched his clean-shaven cheek. “Oh, I don’t know, Grandma. With everything goin’ on, I might not make it all the way back here until, say, Thanksgiving.”
“Thanksgiving?” she cried. “That’s six months away!”
“Right, right. Better say Christmas,” he said with a straight face. “But I promise to write y’all real soon—assuming I can find some paper. And a pen.”
Finally realizing he was teasing her, she swatted him. “Oh, get out of here already.”
Suppressing a grin, he headed out, checking the skies again. Still clear of aircraft, and the smog in the east had dissipated some. Maybe Chicago wasn’t a total loss. He strolled down the sidewalk at a leisurely pace. Of the twenty-eight homes in the neighborhood, only twelve were occupied. Under Greg’s consolidation plan, most of the clansmen had moved into the cul-de-sac to make the sub easier to guard. That left only a few open homes for Greg to take.
He stopped in front of his new two-story home. Originally, he picked this one because it sat halfway between his grandma—who smothered him with affection—and Jeff Kovach—who wanted to smother him with a pillow. Now that Jeff and Jenna were gone, he could have taken their house, equipped with a wood-ready fireplace. But he couldn’t take the Kovach’s house, not after everything that had happened, so he stuck with this one.
The house directly across the street from Carrie’s.
The driveway was crumbling, and the yard looked was a tangled mess of overgrown grass and newly sprouted trees. Of course, that described all the homes, allowing them to keep up the charade of abandoned housing. But inside of this one was just as bad. Cobwebs, mouse droppings, and enough dust to fill Logan Pond twice over. He was glad his mom wasn’t moving in with him. The dust would aggravate her coughing spasms. Same with Kendra, whose asthma always…
He caught himself too late, and Kendra’s death smacked him upside the head again. The anniversary of his sister’s death was a week away. Maybe that explained the nightmares. Then again, they’d started after Jenna Kovach’s death. Another death he could have prevented—should have prevented. Different circumstances, different fight.
Same irreversible outcome.
Shaking out of it, he trotted inside. He looked around twice to make sure he was in the right house. Something was different. A few interior doors were missing, and holes dotted the walls where TVs and pictures had once hung. Nothing new there. Dropping his old bag by the front door, he wandered into the great room where the morning sun hadn’t quite reached the windows.
His nose figured it out first. No more dirty, dusty smell. Instead, a warm, tantalizing aroma greeted him. He followed the scent to the kitchen where a small bundle sat on a granite countertop. He unwrapped a hand towel to find several corn muffins. They were still warm and smelled like heaven.
Surprised, he looked around. The muffins weren’t from his grandma—he’d have known if she had been baking—and while his mom was an amazing cook, anytime she got her hands on corn, she made southern grits, not muffins.
Greg bit into one. Buttery yumminess melted in his mouth. He searched the counters for a hint, and that’s when he realized the full extent of the change.
His house was spotless.
/> Somebody had swept the floors and carpets. No more mouse droppings. No more cobwebs and inches of dead bugs on the window sills. Every granite counter had been cleaned, all except the one next to him.
Bending down, he studied the dirt on the neglected counter. A few lines had been traced into the dust as if somebody ran their finger through it. The marks were organized into letters and words—three words to be precise:
WELCOME HOME NEIGHBOR
Straightening, he looked out his window to the house across the street. He broke into a wide smile. Carrie Ashworth. Leave it to her to pull off something like this. She couldn’t help herself, as if she had an obsessive-compulsive need to help people. She probably even talked herself out of it a dozen times.
No, I can’t encourage Greg. He just wants to be friends. Cleaning is a bad idea. But he’s just so good-looking and I love his mouth—especially when it’s shut. But Greg and I are still friends, right? Best friends even. Friends do nice things for each other, even clean their house?
With Jeff and Jenna gone, their little boys living with Sasha, and Carrie’s own siblings growing up, she was running out of people to pamper. Greg couldn’t figure out what a “sweet” girl like her saw in a jerk like him, but he was more than willing to be on the receiving end of her generosity.
He turned full circle, picturing her bright blue eyes in his kitchen, alive with the joy of serving somebody, her honey-colored hair glowing in the sun-lit windows, her large smile threatening to break through. He remembered their dance, how she felt in his arms, and the moment Jeff choked her to the point Greg thought he was going to lose her, too.
His smile faded.
Living across the street from Carrie would be sheer torture.
Setting the muffin aside, he grabbed his bag and ran upstairs to unpack. It took all of two minutes.
* * * * * * *
Carrie couldn’t see Greg anymore, but she stayed by her window. Her stomach twisted at the thought of living across the street from him, a stupid thing to worry about considering their newly acquired friendship. There was no reason to stress about him living in her line of vision. Every. Single. Day.
She lucked out cleaning when she had. May said he was moving out tomorrow, but Carrie had sneaked in after sunrise to finish before she had to teach home school. She’d only been home a few minutes when she saw him striding down the sidewalk. What would she have done if he’d walked in while she was sweeping his carpets? Then again, maybe he wouldn’t notice. He was a guy after all.
No.
Greg Pierce noticed everything.
From the beginning, he’d known how she felt about him, even before she had. Cleaning his house was over the top, but after all he’d done for her—all he’d done for everyone—she had to repay him somehow.
Absentmindedly, she stroked her neck where the bruises had faded. Jeff Kovach hadn’t just threatened to kill her, but also her brother, Zach. If Greg hadn’t intervened…
A chill ran through her. She owed Greg more than a clean house and a few stupid muffins. She owed him her life.
Still, nothing said love-sick puppy like a girl scrubbing your toilets.
Frustrated, she pushed away from her window. She was acting like Amber, her teenage, boy-crazy sister. That couldn’t be good.
Throwing on her dingy yellow work shirt, Carrie rolled up her bedroll and headed to May’s backyard. With the whole Jeff mess, they were weeks behind on the garden. She had a little time to weed before teaching school.
As she walked, she took in the colors and smells of spring. The neighborhood seemed to have blossomed overnight, splaying everything with white, pink, and lime green. If she ignored the bottom half of everyone’s yards—the neglected half—she could almost pretend her neighborhood was still beautiful.
Butterscotch, their milk goat, nipped at her shirt as she opened the gate, but Carrie shooed her back to inspect the garden.
Bright green sprouts popped up along the rows of early crops. Unfortunately, many of those were weeds. Bypassing the hoe and shovel, she used the tools she knew best: her hands. She savored the feel of the cold soil on her fingers while the sun warmed her hair. The garden was the one place in the world she felt most alive.
When she reached the third row, she smiled. A single tomato plant stood out of place in the row of peas. Her “little fighter” was the only plant she’d started indoors that had survived the government raid in March. Technically, tomatoes weren’t supposed to be in the ground until the last threat of frost was gone, but after Jenna’s death, Greg convinced Carrie that it was ready. Now it stood out.
Her little survivor.
The gate squeaked behind her. Sasha Green entered May’s backyard with two empty water buckets. Sasha and Dylan had moved into the cul-de-sac a month ago as part of Greg’s consolidation plan. That put them closer to Carrie’s new well, so it seemed strange that she still used this one, which was an extra four houses away. Maybe if other people started using Carrie’s well, she wouldn’t feel so self-conscious about getting the first one.
Standing, Carrie brushed the dirt from her jeans. “Morning, Sasha.”
Sasha looked up. “Oh, hi, Carrie. I didn’t see you.” She picked up the first water bucket and dropped it in the deep crevice.
“I don’t know if Dylan told you,” Carrie said, “but the water in my well finally settled, so you can use it now.”
“No thanks.”
Carrie’s brows pinched. She watched Sasha struggle to wind up the bucket. Water was heavy. It didn’t make sense to carry it twice as far, twice a day.
Unless…
This wasn’t the first time since the Jeff blowup that someone had given Carrie the cold shoulder. Sasha—and maybe others—must still blame her for Jeff leaving, for the rift in the clan, for Jenna’s death. Emotions rose in Carrie’s throat.
“How are Little Jeffrey and Jonah adjusting?” Carrie asked. Boys too young to understand why their parents had disappeared.
“Fine, but they’re going to wake up any minute, so I better go. Bye, Carrie.”
Sasha started off, buckets in hand. Carrie couldn’t help but follow.
“I can watch them sometime if you need,” Carrie said. She used to babysit the boys so Jenna could rest during her horrible morning sickness. According to May, Sasha was struggling to adjust to instant motherhood anyway. Carrie ached to see Little Jeffrey and Jonah, to hold them tight. “Anytime,” she added softly.
“I know. You’ve already offered.” Sasha’s eyes narrowed. “By the way, I hear you and Greg are having a tiff. Is that true?”
“A tiff? What do you mean?”
Sasha huffed. “Honestly, I’m glad you two broke up. Jeff told you your relationship would only cause trouble. For all our sakes, I hope Oliver forgives you for cheating on him. Beg if you have to.” Her expression darkened. “You owe us all that much.”
Stunned, Carrie watched Sasha storm through the gate.
What was that? Carrie and Greg couldn’t have broken up because they hadn’t even dated. They were just friends. Then again…she hadn’t seen him much the last few weeks. But Greg was the type of guy who couldn’t stand to sit around and socialize. Between all his projects, helping his injured grandpa and sick mom, he barely had time to sleep.
An engine purred, and she saw a flash of dark green through the fence. Oliver’s patrol car, the only car they saw anymore. Oliver drove past May and CJ’s, heading toward Carrie’s house like it did every Thursday morning. He was earlier than normal today.
Sighing, she went to the well, scrubbed the dirt from her fingers, and then latched the gate and headed home.
She stopped three houses away.
Greg stood on her driveway, talking to Oliver. Her nerves prickled at the sight of the two men by the car, men who seemed to occupy her thoughts lately. They were as opposite as any men could be: Greg, an outspoken, confident leader in an illegal clan, and Oliver, a shy, gentle protector wearing a patrolman’s green uniform. Most clan
smen refused to associate with Oliver because of his government position, but not Greg. Somehow the two had become friends despite their vast differences—or their feelings toward her.
Oliver spotted Carrie and waved. Greg waved, too, but then turned and trotted across the street to his new house.
Odd.
She wouldn’t have thought twice about him leaving if not for Sasha. A tiff? Carrie shook it off. Sasha Green was just an incurable gossip.
“Morning, Oliver,” Carrie said, meeting him on her driveway. “You’re early today.”
“I know. Sorry. I just…” Oliver shrugged. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine. I’m always up with the sun,” she said happily. “How’s your new promotion going?”
He glanced down at his arm. His green patrol uniform looked freshly pressed with beige tie and black gun belt, but instead of one gold bar on his arm, he wore two, his reward for exposing two coworkers who had been selling on the black market.
“The promotion is fine,” he said. “Mostly.”
Mostly? He should have been thrilled with his higher rank and pay, yet his gray eyes looked troubled, almost shaken.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“Yes. No. Well…kind of.”
He glanced across the street, and Carrie tensed.
“Did Greg say something?” she asked. Greg, who tended to boss people around—especially Oliver. A trait he had inherited from his grandma.
“No, no. Greg was just asking me about Chicago. By the way, don’t worry about that helicopter or the smoke. It was just a small disturbance.”
“What helicopter? Smoke?”
“Never mind. I just…” Oliver scratched his bald spot. “It’s just that…”
Panic rose in her chest. Oliver couldn’t even meet her gaze. Maybe Sasha was right. Oliver knew she had fallen for Greg. Maybe now he wanted a polite way to escape his obligation to their clan. He’d hidden them for years, jeopardizing his job and life week after week. Jeff Kovach had convinced others that Oliver was only doing it because he’d fallen for Carrie, but she didn’t believe it. Oliver Simmons would help them regardless of how she might feel—or not feel—about him.
Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set Page 41
