Brandon swallows hard and nods. “Anyone but Jaden.” His voice cracks and Mack can’t help it. She laughs. Anyone but Jaden.
Her laughter breaks the spell of the blood, releasing them. They walk on, like Ava would have wanted, like Mack wants. She has one goal now, one goal only: Get LeGrand out. Let him go save his sister, because he still has one, and he can.
Get LeGrand out, and whatever happens after, she will accept with open arms this time.
* * *
—
It’s almost over. Two more days, and Linda can close her family’s journal and not have to open it again for seven years. Well, six. They do have to plan these things well in advance to make certain everything is in place. And she shouldn’t have to open it again at all, but she will. She knows she will.
She taps her manicured fingers—an abrasive coral that she thinks looks youthful but that makes her skin look dead—against the leather cover of her family’s book. How long has she kept it? How long have the Nicely women kept everything running? And does she really trust Chuck Callas of all people to take over when she’s done?
She prefers to think done rather than dead, teasing herself and others with plans to retire to Florida and leave all this behind. But she knows she won’t. Even if Chuck does take over, nominally, she won’t trust it to him alone. It’s too important, and she likes that. Likes that she’s important, likes the feel of the weight of generations who depend on her, likes that she took up the mantle from her parents and their parents. She likes to think of how proud her grandparents would be, that they might not have been the venerated Callases who started it all, but that it was their daughter, and then their granddaughter who safeguarded their gift.
The thick, heavy journal, far larger than that other book, stolen and lost now, sits on her coffee table next to a stack of Good Housekeeping magazines. No one reads it. After all, Linda knows the stories by heart, the other family representatives know them by reputation, and the rest of the town and everyone it feeds doesn’t know them and doesn’t want to. Linda’s own daughter doesn’t want anything to do with it. That’s what hurts the most—the lack of gratitude, the lack of respect. That her daughter is as selfish as the rest of them. Angry at the very thought, Linda takes her family’s sacred history and puts it in the special hidden shelf of her china hutch.
Her walkie-talkie radio crackles to life. She thinks how her daughter would mock her for using it instead of a smartphone, but sometimes old-school is better. Especially when you still have all the cellphone signals jammed. Which reminds her, she needs to follow up with Leon Frye, make certain he does his job—or rather, his team does his job—with the various competitors’ social media accounts for the next few weeks, keeping them active just in case. She can’t trust that anything will get done, that any just in case is covered, unless she does it herself.
To be fair, though, she has no idea how installing his app on their phones lets him impersonate them through all their accounts. She actually doesn’t even know what an app is, but at least the Fryes have managed to contribute something to keeping the last couple of seasons running smoothly.
Linda lifts the walkie-talkie to her mouth. “What?”
“Three of them approaching the fence,” Chuck growls from his end of the radio signal. He’s up in the Mary tower, named for his great-grandmother.
“Which three?” Linda asks, though it doesn’t really matter. It feels macabre to be curious, but that doesn’t stop the natural impulse to want to know. Who is still alive?
“I don’t remember their names.” He sounds angry. How is he supposed to take over if he doesn’t even want to know their names or their faces? What a privilege, not to carry them with himself. What a privilege, to have the Callas name but let the Nicely line continue to do all the actual work.
Linda is strong, though. She cares enough to learn every name, to acknowledge every sacrifice. She tilts her chin up proudly, knowing she’s a credit to the Nicely name. “Well, shoot them when they get too close. But only arms or legs.”
“Right.” Chuck knows the rules. They all do. But when they ask her what to do, it makes them feel like it’s her choice, not theirs. They’re just following orders. Weak.
Linda taps the glass hutch door, and then goes into the kitchen to make tea. Her soap is almost on. She’s resolved at last not to worry about the lost book anymore. It’s not her fault Susan had it on her when Linda took care of her. And besides, it’s a historical document at this point. They don’t need it. The season comes and the season passes, like clockwork, no matter what. All they have to do is be ready, and thanks to Linda, they always are.
* * *
—
Unlike Christian, Brandon immediately recognizes the hum of the electrified fence and holds up a hand. They stumble to a stop as the first shot hits the tree next to Mack, flinging shards of bark in refreshingly forest-scented shrapnel. Mack ducks, then rolls behind the nearest tree. Brandon stands there, staring, shocked.
He knows there’s violence here—he can’t deny it—but it’s one thing to see a monster and another to be shot at by a human. Thirteen years of active shooter drills in school, and all he can think is there’s no door to shut. No desk to hide behind. No teacher to put herself between him and a bullet.
LeGrand shoves him, and they join Mack behind the tree.
“Are they just going to kill us now?” Brandon asks, choking back tears.
“They’re trying to keep us in.” LeGrand grew up behind a fence he was told held the world at bay, but really it was meant to keep them in. And then to keep him out.
Mack agrees. Whoever is in charge put them in here, and they won’t let them out until it’s over. She stands, brushing splinters of wood embedded in her cheek, leaving tiny smears of blood in their wake.
The three friends cautiously work their way away from the fence, keeping to the cover of trees. Eventually they hit a pathway going deeper into the park. Mack steps out into the open, waiting for a bullet. Nothing happens. They’re not trying to get out anymore, so no one needs to do anything to keep them in.
“The fence was electric for sure.” Brandon’s hands twitch as though he, too, has a current running through him, amping him up. “Lots of farms where I live.”
“So we need to figure out another way to get LeGrand out,” Mack says.
“What if he wins?” Brandon asks.
“I don’t think there’s going to be a winner.” LeGrand doesn’t sound overly concerned, but he also doesn’t say it harshly. He’s being gentle with Brandon, the way Ava was with him.
Ava. Ava, Ava, Ava. Mack wanders down the path, deeper into the park.
Brandon is desperate, his voice rising. “No, they said. There’s one winner. The winner gets out. So we make sure LeGrand is the winner. That’s how we do it. Right, Mack? Right?”
Mack nods. Maybe there really will be a winner. And Linda neglected to tell them the permanent cost of getting out.
Ava.