Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set

by Rebecca Belliston

  Jeff and I told you this would happen.

  “It was you,” Ashlee suddenly whispered.

  Carrie turned, but Ashlee was staring at Greg. “Oliver told me Carrie was in love with someone else, but I didn’t know it was you, Greg.” Her eyes overflowed again. “I didn’t even know you were alive. Oliver loves Carrie so much, and now—”

  The front door suddenly burst open, and Amber Ashworth rushed inside. “Ashlee, you’re here!”

  Ashlee Lyon jumped to her feet. “Oh, Amber. I’m so glad to see you.”

  The two embraced as if they were lifelong friends even though they’d only just met. Amber had accompanied Oliver into town to get Carrie legal. A few hours spent together, yet they hugged and hugged.

  When Amber pulled back, her expression darkened. “Your boyfriend found out?”

  Nodding, Ashlee Lyon broke down again.

  “Hold up,” Greg said. But he wasn’t watching them. He leaned sideways to see out the front door Amber had left open. “Oliver’s here. He’s back!”

  Carrie’s heart leapt. She leaned over to see out the window. The sunlight pierced into her skull, but she spotted a patrol car—Oliver’s car—inching past Trenton’s yard.

  “Oliver’s back!” Ashlee Lyon said. “Oh, now I can warn him about David.”

  Carrie’s breath unhitched in a massive sigh of relief. Oliver would know what to do. Or…had Jamansky fired Oliver, and Oliver had bruises worse than Ashlee’s?

  It didn’t matter. He’d come.

  He was safe.

  Dylan Green ran up to Oliver’s car, probably to yell at him for exposing their clan. If they weren’t so far away, Carrie would have stopped Dylan. Oliver didn’t deserve any blame.

  But then Dylan halted abruptly in the middle of the road. For the space of two seconds, he just stared at Oliver’s car. Then Dylan stumbled backward, tripped over the curb, and took off sprinting in the opposite direction. Away from the patrol car. Away from Oliver.

  “No,” Carrie breathed. “That’s not Oliver.”

  Greg’s jaw clenched. “Jamansky.”

  “What?” Ashlee cried.

  Carrie’s pulse kicked into full throttle. She tried to see better, but Greg grabbed her arm.

  “Back. Get back!”

  Disbelief spread through Carrie. She was too shocked to run, to hide like she should. Greg kept tugging on her, urging her toward the kitchen, but she twisted out of his grasp. She had to see. Pressing her face to the front window, she saw Oliver’s car with the identifying dent in the side. But another man sat behind the wheel. Someone with a full head of hair. Oliver’s boss.

  David Jamansky.

  Her heart thumped against her bad ear.

  Jamansky was stopped in front of May’s house, watching Dylan retreat. Carrie waited for the patrol chief to go after Dylan, to pull out his gun and start shooting. Instead, the car started rolling forward again. Inch by inch, one house after the next.

  Chaos erupted in Carrie’s living room.

  “Why is he alone?” Greg said. “He’d be a fool to arrest us all with just himself.”

  “He found me,” Ashlee said, practically hyperventilating. “He followed me here!”

  Greg spun around. “How? You said nobody followed you.”

  “No one did. I don’t know, I don’t know!”

  “If he knows,” Carrie said, “why isn’t he doing anything? Why did he leave Dylan alone?”

  Ashlee’s gaze snapped up to her. “It’s you. He’s obsessed with you, Carrie, and now he knows where you live.”

  “What?” Greg said, eyes bulging.

  Carrie swayed and caught hold of the couch. Jamansky had asked her in the diner where she lived. She lied and told him an entirely different city far from here—far from Oliver.

  The patrol car was close enough that she could make out his face. He was leaning down and sideways, back and forth to scan the house numbers. If she could see him, he could see them, too. Reason suddenly returned to her, and with it, a flood of terror.

  Ashlee couldn’t be seen.

  Neither could Greg who had been declared “dead” by the military.

  Her illegal siblings.

  Everyone.

  “Get down!” she called. “All of you!”

  Ashlee dropped to the floor. Zach and Amber did, too. Greg backed against the wall where he could still peer out the window while Carrie tried to remember where her citizenship card was. The hospital lanyard.

  She peeked outside. Jamansky stopped in the road in front of her house. He glanced down at something, a paper. Then he turned into her driveway.

  “Go!” she said urgently. “Out the back. I’ll distract him. Go!”

  Greg’s expression hardened to steel. “There’s no way I’m leavin’ you alone with that guy.”

  “Yes, you are. I have citizenship.”

  “He knows everything, Carrie!”

  “He doesn’t know everything, so go!” She pushed Greg toward the kitchen. “You have to get everyone safe.”

  “There’s no time.” Greg ran over and slammed the front door shut. “Zach, take the girls upstairs and hide. Whatever you do, don’t come back down. I don’t care what you hear.”

  Frantic, Carrie’s brother scrambled up the stairs and out of sight, alone. Amber grabbed Ashlee Lyon and dragged her up behind him, but Carrie didn’t budge.

  Greg jerked back around. “Carrie, now!”

  She stared at him in understanding. He was going to turn himself in. Greg the Special Op. The second he was reinstated, he’d outrank David Jamansky. Oliver’s boss wouldn’t be able to touch him, but Greg would be gone. He’d be one of them again.

  His bruises hadn’t even fully healed yet.

  “They can’t have you back,” she said.

  “Upstairs now!”

  A car door shut outside.

  “Listen,” she said urgently. “I’m legal now. I own this house. David can’t hurt me, but you aren’t. You said yourself he came alone. If he wanted to arrest us—or me—he would have brought a whole squad or gone after Dylan. Just let me see what he wants. Please. You promised to stay dead.” Her voice caught. “You promised me.”

  With a huff, he scanned her front room, looking for a place to hide. The only furniture she owned was her old green couch out in the wide open.

  “Please,” she begged. “You have to hide Amber and Zach for me.”

  Greg growled. “Do not open that door. Whatever Jamansky thinks he knows, you own this house now. He can’t search it without a warrant.”

  Then he flew upstairs.

  Carrie backed against the front door. When that wasn’t enough, she deadbolted it for the first time in six years.

  Her heart hammered against her ribs. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think. The room went in and out of focus, and her extremities turned to ice. She slid down the door, sitting on the cold tile, and wrapped her arms around her knees. She couldn’t faint now.

  Jamansky’s footsteps slapped up the front walk.

  She kept telling herself that this house was no longer government property. It was hers. He couldn’t search it without a warrant—which he hopefully didn’t have.

  Why had he come alone?

  Her gaze stayed on the stairs, begging Greg to stay away because Jamansky wouldn’t care what rank Greg had earned during his short military training. The two men had too much history. Jamansky would kill Greg on sight—and after what Jamansky had done to Greg’s mom, Greg might do the same.

  Jamansky knocked loudly.

  Huddled against the front door, she squeezed her knees to keep from screaming.

  Go away!

  Something tumbled down the stairs. Her lanyard with her citizenship card. She didn’t dare leave her spot to retrieve it.

  Jamansky knocked harder, hard enough she felt the vibrations against her back.

  “Hey, Carrie,” he called. “It’s David Jamansky, Oliver’s boss. Remember me? We met in South Elgin.”

 
She remembered that voice all too well. Smooth and confident. Strangely, he didn’t sound angry. In fact, he sounded as friendly as he had when she’d met him. That scared her even more because he’d smiled and laughed then, too.

  The handle twisted above her head. The door didn’t budge, but she shoved all her weight against it.

  Make it stop!

  He pounded the door again. It jumped against her back with each hit.

  “Carrie, I’m here as your friend!” he called. “I mean no harm to you or anyone. Officer Simmons told me you’ve been sick. He said you’ve been in the hospital and he just dropped you off. I know you’re home. Carrie!”

  She froze.

  Ashlee couldn’t have told Jamansky all that because Ashlee hadn’t known at the time. Which meant Oliver had told Jamansky that much at least.

  “Please,” Jamansky tried again through the door. “Oliver sent me with a message for you—an urgent message.”

  A message.

  Oliver would have only sent a message through his boss if things were desperate. What had happened? Her eyes lifted to the stairs. Greg would kill her, but she was legal now, and she had to know. Pushing herself up, she rose to her feet. Ignoring the spinning room, she unlocked the door.

  She only opened it a few inches, enough to see David Jamansky smiling on her porch.

  “Hey, Carrie,” he said. “It’s great to see you again. Oliver said you just moved into this house, so I thought…” Words trailing, his eyes widened on her scraggly hair and wrinkled clothes. “Oh, man. You look awful. Are you okay?”

  She clutched the handle and leaned against the door, so dizzy she could hardly stand up. He wore his dark green patrol chief uniform, which meant he had at least one gun, a Taser, and a nightstick strapped to his belt. He didn’t need a whole squad to put up a deadly fight.

  “Actually, no,” she said. “I’m really sick.” And getting sicker by the second.

  “Oliver told me you caught this”—he paused, choosing his word—“virus. You must be miserable. Can I get you something? Do you need medicine?”

  “No. I just need to sleep. You said you had a message from Oliver?”

  “Yeah, but first let me help you.” He started to push open the door.

  She clutched the handle. “No. I’m fine.”

  “You’re the color of chalk. You look like you’re ready to pass out. Seriously, you need to lie down.”

  She tried to hold strong, but he pushed the door open the rest of the way. Then he took her arm and pulled her inside of her own home. Her skin crawled at his touch, but she didn’t know how to stop it—how to stop him from entering.

  “Where’s your room? Upstairs?” he asked. “Let me help you back to bed.”

  She dug in her heels. “No, I’m fine. Really.”

  “At least sit down.”

  As he led her toward her couch, he suddenly stopped. His brows knitted together in a flash of recognition. Her couch. The distinctive olive-green color. The gashes in the side. He recognized it from his government searches through her home—probably, he’d been the one to slash the material.

  In that second, in that one look, she knew that he knew. She hadn’t just moved in. She’d been living here illegally all along. But he shook it away and helped her sit.

  The second she was down, she pressed her head against the arm of the couch. She didn’t like being in such a vulnerable position, but she needed something to ground herself on before she passed out.

  “When did you get sick?” he asked, feeling her forehead. “Man, you’re burning up. You were fine when I saw you last week.”

  “Um…” She wet her dry lips. “My symptoms started a few days after we met.”

  A few days. She’d shaken David’s hand. He’d sat uncomfortably close to her in that booth. Had he given this disease to her—and in return, to everyone else?

  “You really look awful, no offense.” He straightened. “I think I should drive you back to the medical unit in Aurora.”

  “No, no. I’m fine.”

  “What about something from the store? Or maybe medicine?”

  Store.

  Medicine.

  It’s like he spoke another language.

  “I’m fine, really.” Normally she was a patient, un-pushy person, but this small talk would drive her mad. All she could think was Oliver, Oliver, Oliver.

  “I’m sorry, David, but…why are you here?”

  “Oh. I wanted to be the first to congratulate you on the new house. I saw your name on the paperwork, and I had to come see for myself. You’re in my territory now. How great is that? Have you met your other yellow card neighbors? They live down the street. An older couple, CJ and Mabel Trenton.”

  It was May, not that she corrected him because he’d led the group that ransacked May and CJ’s home in March. He’d shot their chickens and milk goat, terrifying everyone. He’d attacked Greg and Mariah six weeks ago, hit Ashlee a few hours ago, and Carrie had no energy to sift out the truth from the lies. He knew she hadn’t just moved in here, and she knew Oliver hadn’t willingly told him about their clan.

  Noticing her expression, he softened. “I’m sorry, Carrie. I’ve only told you a half-truth. I came because I wanted to see you—that’s true. But I also came because I have a message for you. A message from Oliver. He’s…well…”

  “Yes?” she said.

  “Oliver’s gone.” He looked at her full on. “And I’m afraid he’s not ever coming back.”

  four

  GREG CROUCHED IN A CORNER of Carrie’s closet, cursing himself for leaving her. Of course she would open that door. Of course she’d let that creep in.

  Anytime Greg tried to escape the closet, Amber grabbed his arm and hissed threats that Carrie would never forgive him. So he crouched low and strained to make out the soft conversation downstairs. Nothing coherent, but things sounded eerily calm. As long as it stayed that way, he’d keep his promise. Stay dead. But if there was even the tiniest hint that she—or anybody else—was in danger, he would be down there in seconds.

  8A374B1552M.

  He rattled off his authorizing numbers in his mind, something Commander McCormick insisted he know in case he and Isabel were ever caught. Then again, if Jamansky tried to verify Greg’s story, Greg would have to explain to Commander McCormick why he’d disappeared from West Chicago. Regardless, Greg knew one thing for sure:

  Jamansky would not touch Carrie.

  The military taught Greg plenty of ways to incapacitate a man without a weapon. Or sound. But if he went down there, if things went wrong, Carrie could be caught in the crossfire.

  Something didn’t add up.

  Ashlee said Jamansky was obsessed with Carrie. He’d sidled up next to her in that deli booth, trying to goad Oliver—which he had—but they’d only talked a few minutes. Barely long enough for anything. Now Jamansky was downstairs, having a friendly conversation. This, right after he found out what Oliver had done. It didn’t make sense. The timing of it.

  Unless…

  Revenge.

  The word filled Greg’s mind, and with it, a lurch of foreboding. Because if Jamansky wanted to lash out at Oliver, there was one place he could hurt him worse than any other. Carrie. Greg wasn’t the only man who loved her.

  He scrambled out of his crouched spot and slid open the closet door.

  “Greg!” It was a multi-person warning.

  “Stay,” he hissed back.

  Then he crab-walked across Carrie’s bedroom floor, checking each spot for creaks in the floorboard. When he reached the bathroom, he lifted the metal vent from the floor. Carrie and David’s voice carried up through the heating ducts just in time for Greg to hear Jamansky say, “I’m afraid he’s not ever coming back.”

  “Oliver is…not coming back?” Carrie repeated in a choked voice.

  “No. I’m sorry,” Jamansky said. “Oliver’s gone.”

  Greg felt like somebody had sucker-punched him. It was worse than he feared. Oliver wasn�
��t just injured or sitting in some prison cell.

  He was dead.

  A cry of shock ripped from Carrie’s throat. “No. No. NO!”

  Greg scrunched up on the bathroom floor, nearly pulling out his hair.

  David Jamansky had killed Oliver Simmons.

  * * * * *

  The patrol car sped down the highway, but every bump and jar sent Oliver writhing in pain. He tried to adjust his position, but they’d wrenched his cuffed hands behind his back, preventing him from sitting upright. The metal cut and burned his wrists. He lay on the back seat, bruised. Devastated.

  Officer Portman, one of his young partners—former partners—glanced in the rearview mirror, saying nothing as he drove. But Officer Bushing checked over his shoulder. Oliver didn’t know where Jamansky had ordered his coworkers to take him. Maybe to throw him off a cliff.

  If only he would be that lucky.

  He kept replaying that moment in the township office.

  “Live free or die!” he had shouted. “There are things far worse than death!” It was the rebellion’s motto, but Oliver had meant every word to the depth of his traitorous soul.

  He would never forget the look on Jamansky’s face as he turned back.

  “Oh, believe me, I know. Which is why you don’t have a bullet through your head. Get him out of here! No, wait. I want him to see this.” Then Jamansky had sauntered over to the map of Shelton and traced the roads with his finger. “342 Woodland Drive. 342 Woodland Drive. Ah, there she is.”

  She.

  “Carrie,” Oliver groaned.

  What would Jamansky do to her? To them?

  Bushing turned back around. “We’re almost there, sir—I mean, Simmons. Can you move?”

  Oliver’s body was a giant mass of pain. The last kick sent him sliding across the tile into a cement wall. Now every breath brought a sharp stab of pain. Jamansky had probably cracked several of his ribs. His nose felt broken and swollen with crusted blood. And yet all of it was nothing.

  Carrie.

  The clan.

  What have I done?

  When the patrol car finally slowed, Oliver used his elbow to push up enough to see his destination.

  Walls, thirty-three feet high, greeted him, along with fences with looped barbed wires. The compound was filled with tall guard towers, rounded, barred rooms, and a state-of-the-art security system unmatched throughout Illinois—possibly unmatched in the US. He knew this because he’d brought prisoners here before. Not the typical illegal squatters. No. They reserved this place for the truly dangerous. Murderers. The criminally insane.