I don’t know where to go with this, what to say, so after I glance back for Phil, I change the subject with, “You say it’d be a blow to your personal finances, but Oliver claims your family money comes from his father—from a business he started.”
Wallace nods. “Yes, that’s his version of history, and it’s our fault. His mother’s and mine. We wanted to keep his father alive for him. Honor him with a legacy of success.”
“And the truth?”
“I worked for Oliver’s father. At one time, we were partners, but when we formed the business, the money came from his family, so his name went on it. That seemed fair. The problem was that while David was an incredible inventor, he didn’t have a lick of business sense. I lacked the clout to overrule him, and at the time of his death, the company was floundering.”
“You brought it back.”
A sharp laugh. “There was no place to bring it back from. We had investors—David’s ideas were incredible—but we’d been scrambling to stay afloat from the start.”
“With Oliver’s father gone, though, you turned it around.”
“Oliver’s mother and I did. Together. Yet David’s name remains on the company, and we have allowed Oliver the fiction of his brilliant inventor father who launched a billion-dollar corporation. Which led, unfortunately, to Oliver beginning to demand more than a trust fund. When his mother had enough, she showed him the financial records from the year of his father’s death. He accused us of forging them. By that point . . .”
He shrugs. “By that point, I knew there was no arguing with him. He was never happy, never satisfied. Everyone was conspiring to keep him from his due.”
I check for Phil again and—
The path behind us is empty. Then I spot him, stopped off the path with his back to us. It’s obvious from his stance what he’s doing.
I turn to give him privacy and call, “Eric? Hold up.” I have to shout—he’s too far ahead to see on the winding path. Then I say, “Phil, please let us know if you are stopping. The absolute last thing we need—”
At a rustle behind me, I turn. But it’s not Phil. It’s a man holding an old rifle, trained on me. Two men armed with knives step out in front of Wallace. Behind them, Phil stands frozen, staring at the men. Their backs are to him, and I tear my gaze away before they spot him.
One glance tells me these men are settlers, not hostiles, and I relax at that. I’m cautious, though, gauging the distance to my gun, ready to pull it if that rifle barrel swings out of my way.
I open my mouth to speak. Then I hear:
“Let them go.”
As I turn, Dalton appears at knifepoint, his hands on the back of his head. Two men and a woman follow at his rear. The woman holds Storm’s lead. My gaze drops to the dog.
“Take Storm and our friend there back to Rockton, Casey,” Dalton says. “I’ve got this under control.”
If my heart wasn’t thudding so hard, I’d laugh. He said the same thing when Jacob had a knife on him. His brother was drugged and ranting and threatening . . . and Dalton’s biggest concern was reassuring me that he could handle it. They’d talk it out. Yeah, just talk it out. No big deal.
“We are not letting your girl go,” one of the men says.
“She’s my wife,” Dalton says, “and if Edwin has one drop of respect for me, he will let her walk away with our guest and the dog, and I will come willingly and answer any questions you have.”
Edwin. Questions.
The First Settlement. The massacre.
Oh, shit.
“The girl comes,” the man says. “That is what Edwin says. He wishes to speak to the girl.”
I swear Wallace snorts softly. He’s already realized that, given the choice, everyone prefers to speak to me instead of Dalton.
“All right,” I say. “Let Eric take our guest and dog home to Rockton. I’ll talk to Edwin.”
Dalton mouths Fuck no, his jaw setting in a way I know well. But before he can speak, the man says, “Edwin will talk to the girl, but he says to bring Steve’s boy. That was the order. Do not let him leave. If he tries”—he looks at Dalton—“shoot him.”
46
We walk to the First Settlement. They were willing to let Wallace go, but he refused.
“I don’t know my way back,” he said.
“Just follow—” I begin.
“Somehow, it seems safer to stay with you two. I’ve heard quite enough about this forest.”
As for Phil, he’s gone. Fled without ever being spotted.
I try to talk to the settlers. Defuse this situation. But they have been warned not to speak to us, and they are already wary. So I fall to silence, walking beside Dalton, armed settlers in front and behind.
We’re nearing the First Settlement when the men in front of us turn and point their guns.
“Hands behind your back,” one says, taking out a length of rope.
“Fuck no,” Dalton says.
The woman steps forward. “Get your hands behind your back, boy, or we’ll put a bullet through your damned skull.”
Dalton wheels on her. “Excuse me?”
“Enough.” One of the men turns to Dalton. “We are not letting you walk into our village after what happened. You will be disarmed. You will have your hands bound. People are angry. If we bring you in like guests, there will be trouble.”
Dalton grumbles, but puts his hands behind his back, and then lets them disarm us. Wallace silently follows our lead.
The woman glowers at Dalton’s grumblings. “You’re lucky we don’t shoot you and drag your bodies through the settlement.”
“What the hell?” Dalton says.
She steps up to him. “Albie. Nancy. Douglas.”
“The people who died,” I say. “Yes, we take full responsibility for letting their killer escape.”
“Escape?”
“What do you expect?” one of the guys says. “They’re going to blame this on someone else.”
“No,” I say carefully. “We acknowledge the killer was one of ours.”
“So now you’re blaming some innocent person from Rockton?” the woman says. “Was that your plan? Bring us a body and say ‘There’s your killer’?”
“Or is it him?” The man turns to Wallace. “Are you forcing this old man to take the fall?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Dalton says.
The woman steps right in front of him and spits up in his face.
I move between them fast. “We don’t know what’s happening here—”
“Harper told us who killed our people,” the woman said. “Your husband. She saw it, and she barely escaped with her life.”
47
We cannot even begin to speculate on what’s happened here, which doesn’t keep Dalton from demanding answers. But our captors are not talking.
We enter the village at gunpoint. The First Settlement is composed of about ten cabins, spread over a couple of acres. As people emerge from homes, the palpable weight of their rage pulses through the air.
If I had any idea what they thought we’d done, I’d have fought our captors. Allowing a dangerous Rockton resident to escape was one thing. We could have handled that, though. Made promises. Made apologies. Made concessions. Now . . . ?
I glance at Dalton. His face is taut, gaze straight ahead, jaw set as if he’s outraged, but the vein throbbing in his neck tells me he is afraid.
“In here.” One of our captors prods Dalton toward a dilapidated building.
When I see Harper, I try to catch her eye, not accusing but confused, concerned. I gesture that I would like to speak to her, but she’s pretending not to see me. She circles to a man behind us and says something. He shakes his head. She gestures my way and I think it’s at me, but then I realize she’s pointing at Storm. The man shakes his head and reaches to squeeze her thin shoulder, but she throws him off and stomps away.
Dalton’s captor prods him again.
“Yeah, no,” he says. “I’ll wait here for Edwin.”
“You aren’t talking to Edwin.” The man nods at me. “She is.”
“Fine, then I’ll sit my ass down right here and wait.”
The man points at the building. “You will wait there. She will wait at Edwin’s.”