The Preacher turned back to me. “Really?”
“It was an accident,” Rose said stiffly. “He didn’t do it on purpose.”
Maggie shrugged. “That’s not what he told me, sweetheart.”
“I’m not your sweetheart.”
“So which was it?” the Preacher asked me. “Murder or an accident?”
“I don’t remember,” I said.
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true. I was ten. My mom found me with the gun and him dead. She told the cops it was an accident. But . . .”
“But then she tried to kill him,” Maggie finished proudly. “Because she knew what he was really capable of.”
Now I felt the weight of everyone staring at me. Not just Maggie and the Preacher and the Preacher’s brother. But also Rose and Archie and Dunc. They all stared in what I assumed was some sort of repulsed silence, since even Archie didn’t manage to crack a joke or insult my intelligence.
“Well, that’s all very interesting,” the Preacher said. “But seeing as Bennett is unarmed at the moment, I’m more concerned about why his friends came down here in the first place.”
I shook my head. “Don’t ask me. I wasn’t part of it.”
“But I know you know. I know you know why we’re here.”
I licked my lips. I did know, didn’t I? That was just it. And so maybe, just maybe, that meant this was all my fault. Because I hadn’t kept my dumb mouth shut.
“Yes,” I said, after a moment. “I know why you’re here.”
The Preacher gave a long sigh, real resigned-like, like maybe it was simply a string of bad luck that was responsible for this situation. My ultimate hope was that if we kept playing this blame-game thing, maybe he’d figure out that he was responsible for his own actions.
“Thank you, Bennett,” he said, tipping his head at me like a gentleman. “That’s all I needed to know.”
He turned then, in the most casual of ways, lifted his arm, and shot Dunc in the head.
—
Rose screamed. I closed my eyes and cringed. The air reeked of heat and gunpowder, and Rose reached for me or I reached for her, but we found each other before diving for the ground, scrambling to get away from the woodpile, from the Preacher. From everything.
There was a huge crash behind us. I wrenched my neck to look over my shoulder just in time to see Archie and the Preacher locked together, grappling for the gun, with the overturned card table between them. Half the camping supplies had slipped into the fire, including the camping stove and propane. The Preacher’s brother had his rifle lifted, waiting for his shot, and I couldn’t breathe, knowing what was going to happen. That Archie was going to die. That I couldn’t do a damn thing to save him.
Only it didn’t happen like that.
Instead Mr. Howe stepped out of the woods, from the other side of the fire ring, near the clothesline and Fleur’s dead body. I recognized the flare gun he held tight in his hand like he was trying to give the impression it was more than what it was.
Oh, thank God, I thought. Thank you for saving us.
“Just step back and put that down,” Mr. Howe said sharply. His gaze was fixed on the Preacher’s brother, who froze at the sound of his voice, at the sight of the flare gun.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
“You heard what I said. Put your gun down.”
“Yeah, yeah. Okay. I heard you.” The Preacher’s brother leaned forward to set his rifle down, and it was right at that moment that the propane from the camping stove exploded.
There was a loud whoosh as the flames leapt upward, a streaming arc, followed by a massive fireball that burst in every direction—an eruption of heat and debris that shook the earth. My ears rang but I could still hear shouting coming from all around me. Smoke was everywhere, and it was through the haze that I saw the Preacher’s brother lying on the ground. The blast had knocked him down—his face was charred and bleeding—but he’d never set down his gun. In a single twisting move, he rolled onto his stomach, lifted the rifle to his shoulder, and squeezed off two shots, striking Mr. Howe in the chest and neck.
Mr. Howe fell back with a grunt. The Preacher’s brother took aim again, this time at Avery, who’d been standing farther back, and I ran at him, charging full speed with my head down. Only Archie got to him first, tackling him from behind and sending the rifle spinning. I fell to my knees and grabbed for it, snatching it off the ground and nearly sliding into fire for my effort.
Another gunshot went off somewhere behind me. Then another. My breath came in short bursts as my hands fumbled to slide the rifle’s safety into the locked position. Finger on the trigger, I scrambled to my feet and stalked the campsite, whirling around and around, searching everywhere for the Preacher. The smoke and the night made it too hard to see.
Archie remained on top of the Preacher’s brother, hands wrapped around his neck, shouting expletives. I was fine with that. What had been Dunc lay slumped by the firewood, but I didn’t let my gaze go there. I couldn’t. A flurry of footsteps came from the woods, and I lifted my head in time to catch sight of Maggie fleeing into the darkness.
My lungs burned. I coughed, then couldn’t stop coughing. I pounded my chest and lurched forward, my feet catching on something. I glanced to see what it was and my mind swayed into madness—it was the Preacher. Dead. He lay on the ground with his blue eyes open and his gun still clutched tight in his hands, only now there was a hole in his head. And worse. I staggered back, sick at the sight. All that gore.
“You asshole!” Archie was screaming and kicking the Preacher’s brother in the chest. Over and over. His eyes were wild, rolling. Tears stained his cheeks, and I wanted to tell him to stop, that his dead brother was the one who’d killed Dunc. But then I froze. Because I saw what he must’ve already seen: Shelby and Clay huddled on the ground with Mr. Howe in their arms.
Time slowed down then. Halted, really. Denial, they say, is one of the five stages of grief, and my brain did all it could to fight back, to reverse time, to turn what was all wrong all right.
“Shelby!” I called out, and she looked at me, her lovely eyes melting. She knew what I was asking but didn’t answer. I walked toward her in my slow-motion steps, but no matter how surreal the world felt, with my burning lungs and smoke-filled eyes, time refused to swing backward. It inched forward, defiant.
“Shelby,” I said again.
She shook her head. Clay wouldn’t look at me.
“No,” I said. “Shel, no.”
“Yes.”
“No, he can’t—”
“He’s gone.” Her voice choked. “He is.”
My mouth hung open, and I stared at Shelby, watching her lips continue to move but unable to take in what she was telling me, unable to take in anything other than her stricken expression. The strident ringing in my ears.
“Ben,” Shelby was saying. “Ben.”
I forced myself to respond. “What?”