I shoved everything I’d found into a pocket on the jacket’s interior before turning back toward the campsite. The money offered a certain amount of relief; if Maggie were truly prowling around, waiting to ambush us, she would’ve already found these bodies and searched them for anything valuable. It was no half million dollars, but no one would let that much cash sit around and rot.
Trudging back up the gully, I went over the details of what needed to be done in the hours ahead. Someone had to first hike up to Grizzly Falls to retrieve the car keys and medical supplies and some food. When that person returned, another group would have to walk down the mountain to the car and drive for help. All told it would probably be another six hours before we got off this mountain and before Rose could see a doctor. During that time, I vowed not to fight with her or get drawn into any of her moods or arguments. She was hurt and deserved compassion. And she could say whatever she wanted about Avery, but I planned to deny it forever.
I also didn’t intend to let anything Rose said about my mother get to me. It was a frequent topic she liked to rail on about to make me feel bad. She’d tell me I was codependent. Or enabling. Worse, she’d act like I was some pathetic slob being manipulated in all sorts of awful ways without even realizing it. A Stockholm son held captive by my own weakness.
None of that was true, by the way. My mother was sick and had issues, yes, but she couldn’t help who she was or what she’d been through, and even if she could, it would still be up to me to care for her. It’s what any child would do, because it’s not like there’s a choice. Not to mention, it was especially important for me to step up, seeing as I was the one who’d hurt her. And don’t get me wrong: I knew full well that she was the adult in that situation. That she was the one who’d brought the young, hot-blooded Pentecostal minister Marcus Salvatore swaggering into our lives—he might as well have had LOVE and HATE tattooed across his knuckles—and it was a little like a hen opening the door to her house and letting the fox just march on in. Or more accurately, the way I remember it, it was like the hen carrying the fox’s bags inside, taking his coat off, and setting the table for him.
But in the end, I was the one who shot him and whether it was an accident or otherwise didn’t much matter. What mattered was making sure the door to our home stayed boarded shut from there on out. And if that meant me buying groceries and working to pay our bills and staying home with my mom when she didn’t hate me and letting her push me around when she did, then I did all of that. Willingly. And maybe I did other things, too, things I didn’t dare tell Rose about because I knew she’d never understand, like lifting bottles of vodka from the storeroom at work when we couldn’t afford to buy them. Or pouring myself a glass of said vodka before going upstairs, turning off the light, and crawling into my mother’s bed to be with her on those nights when she was lonely and drunk and needed to feel needed. And no, I didn’t do what it is you’re thinking. But maybe I let my mother believe otherwise.
Maybe that was easier.
Walking with heavy shoulders and an even heavier heart, I finally made it back to the campsite. Only when I got there, something was different. It took a moment to figure out what it was because Archie still snored beneath the tree and Rose still lay sleeping, her cheeks pale, but her breathing steady and even, and the other three were still in the tent from what I could tell.
It wasn’t until I glanced across the fire through a haze of white wood smoke that I saw what it was—the Preacher’s brother. He was awake.
And standing right beside him was Tomás.
31.
I DIDN’T SAY anything at first. I just stared at the two of them staring back at me in that grainy pinkish light. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
“Hey, Ben,” Tomás said after a moment. And he didn’t say it in a nice way. It was his same old sneery Tomás way.
My jaw tightened. But I still didn’t say anything.
“Do you know where Clay is? I kinda need to talk to him.”
“What do you need to talk to him about?”
“That’s not any of your business.”
“Excuse me?” Something dark simmered inside me. I stalked over to where Tomás was standing—he was smoking a cigarette, for fuck’s sake—and there was nothing I wanted to do more in that moment than rip the cigarette from his mouth and punch him in his stupid, pouting face.
“Do you know what happened last night?” I snarled. “Do you have any idea? Where the hell have you been? And why exactly are you talking to this asshole?” I jabbed a finger at Abel, who was watching us from where he lay on the ground.
“We’re not talking. I just got here and I saw him and he was awake, so I asked him who he was and what was going on.”
“Yeah, right.”
Tomás narrowed his eyes as he took another drag from his cigarette. “You know, you’re the asshole in this situation. No one else is walking around screaming at anybody.”
“What did you say?”
“I said you’re being a real prick.”
I balled my hands into fists. “Don’t you even care about Rose?”
“Rose? What does this have to do with Rose? I saw her over there. She’s sleeping, right?”
“She was shot! By your new fucking friend!” Abel made a cackling sound as I said this.
“Wait, what?” Tomás’s jaw dropped, his cigarette falling to the ground. “What do you mean shot?”
“I mean he shot her in the stomach! Or someone did. And they killed Dunc and Mr. Howe!”
He shoved past me. I shoved him back, but then let him go. He raced around the fire to Rose, his face ashen. He fell to his knees by her side.
“Is she—?” he gasped.
“She’s sleeping,” I said. “She’s hurt, but I don’t think she’s in any immediate danger. She’s been talking, drinking water. The bleeding’s slowed. I gave her pain medication. She needs a doctor, though.”
I don’t know if he heard me. Tomás gently gathered Rose in his arms, pressing his cheek to hers. Even from a distance I saw tears welling up on his lashes; he’d always been able to cry when I couldn’t. Rose’s eyes opened and she murmured something to him, something I couldn’t hear. He murmured back, then kissed her hand, her nose, and soon the two of them were lost in their strange twin place that I’d never understood or been invited to enter.
“Nice fucking jacket you got there, Bennett,” a voice said.
I looked down.
Abel lay on his back in the dirt, his four limbs still tied together, and where the left sleeve of his T-shirt was pushed up, a black ink tattoo identical to the one on his brother’s arm was visible. XX. I leaned to inspect it while he glared at me through bloodshot eyes. As helpless as his situation was, he still had the arrogance of his brother, which meant he acted like he was better than me.
I straightened up. The smug look on the man’s face was ugly and cruel, and for a flash, I felt good. I was glad he’d noticed the jacket. Wearing it felt like hard-won victory, an antlered trophy mounted on the wall.
“Your brother’s dead,” I told him. Just to make sure he knew.
The man didn’t answer.