“She’s dead,” Bree says. “I shot her.”
There’s a muffled sob, and then relieved tears. I can hear Bree awkwardly trying to calm Emma, telling her not to cry, that it’s over. My legs don’t want to work, so I just stand there several paces from the room, completely useless. Which is likely what I’d be in the room, too. I’ve never been good in these sorts of moments.
“I could kill him,” Emma says.
“Frank? No one here would argue that.” Bree pauses a moment. “Look, I get it. I know how awful the Order is. It’s impossible to face them and walk away without a scar—physical or otherwise. And yes, life isn’t always fair, and a lot of it is luck, but if everyone gets screwed once like you claim, then the Order’s turn is coming. We’ll give them a violent shove in the right direction. Real soon. The team’s been planning for so long I’m about ready to explode.”
“Will you tell them I . . .”
“Had a minor meltdown as any sane person would when learning they had a vicious double? No. Not unless you want me to.”
“Not particularly,” Emma says.
“Then I won’t. Seriously, I mean it. Why are you giving me that look?”
“Sammy told me you could be mean.”
“Sammy said that?” The softness in Bree’s voice is gone. “I’m gonna kick his sorry ass when we’re back on land.”
“See that,” Emma says, and I imagine her pointing at Bree. “That sounds more like what he warned me of.”
“I’m not mean,” Bree insists. “I just don’t think there’s a point in taking crap from anyone. Too many people let themselves get walked all over and I decided years ago to say what I believe and not apologize for it. Some people call that mean. I think it’s honest.”
“But what if you’re wrong about something? Do you apologize then?”
“Not always as soon as I should. But I do. After I work up the courage.”
I feel like I’m listening to strangers become friends in the span of five minutes, and it’s making me uncomfortable. Strangers should have walls up. They should be waiting for proof that the other is decent and trustworthy.
“Thanks for this.” Emma draws a ragged breath. “I feel like I haven’t just talked with someone in months. Actually, sometimes I feel like I haven’t laughed in months either.”
“Then maybe we should go find Sammy,” Bree offers. “He’s good for that. And besides, I owe him a piece of my honest mind.”
I jolt to action, walking the remaining length of the hall noisily so they can hear me coming, and knock on the doorframe. “We’re nearing shore,” I say, hanging half my torso around the jamb. They’re sitting on a bottom bunk together, Emma with her knees pulled in toward her chest, Bree with one leg tucked beneath her and the other dangling over the side. Only Bree greets my gaze.
“Great. We’ll be right up.”
It’s a dismissal; I’m not meant to wait for them.
Above deck I’m happy to help Sammy and May dock the boat. It’s a straightforward task with a clear end goal and no surprises. The rig gets secured. The gear is unloaded. Everything makes sense.
The town is sleepy when we disembark. Smoke leaks lazily from chimneys and lights glow from behind only a few windowpanes.
“Be on guard,” Carl warns.
“For?” Sammy draws his gun, though I’m skeptical it will even work after taking a swim in salt water.
“Nothing’s waiting for us here, but that doesn’t mean someone isn’t waiting back there.” Carl points in the general direction of the bookshop.
Harvey holds a hand out. “Give me a spare. I don’t like being unarmed if we could be facing something.”
This desire to carry a weapon is so unlike Harvey, but Sammy passes over an extra knife without comment. Harvey grunts, and his eyes drift toward Bree. She’s standing on the edge of the wharf, facing the Gulf, and it’s obvious she has plenty of firearms to spare. The rifle has returned to its place across her back, and two handguns are holstered at her hips. In the end, Harvey doesn’t argue. He pulls Clipper a little closer and adjusts his grip on the knife.
As we start our walk to the shop, a loon call cuts through the night. I turn toward the water. Not a loon call. Bree. She’s still standing on the lip of the wharf, her hands cupped at her lips. Her shoulders move as she draws another breath, and it is followed by a second cry, a whistle produced right from her hands.
I know she won’t get an actual response—it’s far too late for the birds to be out—but the song she’s producing is so beautiful that I stand there anyway, mesmerized. It sounds like a good-bye, and I decide that, at least for me and Blaine, it is. I try to make my own, and not surprisingly, I fail.
I listen to Bree’s calls and look up at the stars and talk to Blaine in the corners of my mind. I promise him I’ll set things right. I’ll get back to Kale, hug her for both of us, be as much of a father to her as I possibly can now that he’s gone. I’ll make sure his death isn’t for naught.
With these promises, the ache in my abdomen becomes a fire, a fuel, a reason to keep going. I actually feel it happen. There’s this small twist in my gut where the grief shrivels into a hardened pit of resolve. I feel so possessed in that moment, so at peace with my words to Blaine, that I realize I have no choice but to succeed. I’ll make this right, or I’ll die trying. And I’m completely okay with that.
Bree drops her arms to her sides, cutting a loon cry off abruptly. When she turns to face me, I feel like we’re the only two people in the world.
“I’m so sorry about earlier,” I say. “I didn’t mean it.”
“I know.”
“You’re the last person I want to push away, Bree. Ever. But I wasn’t thinking straight and—”
“I know,” she says tersely. “But thank you.”
EIGHTEEN
“WHAT IF YOU’D BEEN CAUGHT?” Badger yells. “What if they’d traced the uniforms to Mercy? To me?”