Chapter 11

Dylan

I pop my eyes open, my heart skipping a beat.

I stare at my bedroom ceiling, frozen.

I swear I heard furniture moving up there.

Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I glance to the window and see the tree outside dancing wildly in the wind. Branches swing and leaves flutter, a few orange ones flying off into the air.

The floor above creaks, and I draw in a short, quick breath. And then I hear it again and again.

Back. And forth.

Back. And forth.

The chair rocks over and over, and I exhale. But the chills on my spine don’t go away. That wasn’t the sound I heard that woke me up. It was like something being pulled across the floor. It only lasted two seconds, but it was a heavy sound. Different.

My phone rings, and I glance, seeing my mom calling. I grab it, noticing a ton of notifications, as well.

I open a text from Aro.

Happy Birthday! Wanna bet I can get to Weston tonight?

I suck in a breath and smile. It’s Thursday. It’s my birthday. For real, how did I forget?

Which is why my mom is calling. I send her to voicemail and tap out a text.

Got to get to school! HB to me! Talk soon. Love you!

She replies, Happy Birthday!One of your presents is on your debit card. Enjoy.

Yay, money. Thank you. Talk soon.

After school, she insists. We miss you. Have a great day! Remember, you can go to prison now, so watch it.

I snort. Sitting up in bed, I set my phone down, and I’m about to get up, but I hesitate, listening to the ceiling for another minute.

The tree sways, and the only sound I hear coming from the attic is the chair.

I know no one’s up there. If there was danger, it would’ve happened last night while I was vulnerable.

But I slept peacefully.

Semi-peacefully.

A smile pulls at my mouth, and I can’t stop it, no matter how hard I try. My cheeks warm.

I know what I really want for my birthday.

I want to feel him. He was so hard, too much for me not to stare at Tuesday night, and every time I tried to touch myself afterward, I just keep seeing him. Wanting to know what it feels like to have him inside me.

I bury my face in my hands, my insides ready to implode. Hunter.

I fantasized about Hunter last night and the night before.

He didn’t talk to me much yesterday. He had practice before and after school, and was AWOL at lunch. I was worried he was feeling weird about what we did and didn’t want to face me, but then he shoved a guy into the lockers who was messing with me before fifth period, and then he grabbed my hand and walked me to class. I don’t normally go for that “saving a damsel-in-distress” type of thing; but God, it was hot.

I know what his body looks like now. His whole body.

Any time I’ve masturbated, it’s been to faceless fantasies. Maybe we’re in a car or he’s snuck into my room in the middle of the night, but I never knew who it was. I’ve seen the hair or the clothes, but never the face.

Now, though, it’s Hunter on top of me. His mouth in my neck. His body under the sheets.

I was worried he’d be able to read it all over my face when we saw each other, but I couldn’t stop picturing him.

He said he was hard all the time—not to read anything into it.

But last night wasn’t the first time he was hard around me.

I’ve noticed it before.

“No, no, no!” I squeal, steering my PS5 controller into his space like I steer a car.

Hunter ducks away, laughing and trying to keep his car on the track and eyes on the TV screen through my invading arms and body as I bounce next to him.

“I’m not letting you win this time!” he shouts.

“Let me win?” I growl, scowling at the screen as we race side by side. “Let me win?”

YONAKA plays on the speakers in the Caruthers’s basement, and our parents are outside, relaxing with margaritas after the barbecue Madoc and Fallon threw today for Kade and Hunter’s fifteenth birthday. I love summers. My dad would never admit it to his face, but he loves everything my uncle Madoc grills.

Hunter elbows me as I push into him, and I elbow him back. He cruises over a hill, and we both bob up and down, moving our whole bodies as if that helps our game.

He cruises around a bend, and I follow, steering my controller in a wide circle, standing up, and falling on Hunter.

He cries out, I laugh, both of us trying to keep control as I lay half on his body. My shorts and shirt ride up, and I dig my bare foot into the area rug on the floor, resisting as he tries to push me off.

I pass his car and gasp, smiling wide as I shift and nudge on top of him, trying to win.

But something presses into my stomach.

Hunter’s car slows, mine nearly goes off the track, and I look up at him.

He stares at the screen, jaw clenched.

I shift a little, a grunt escapes him, and I let my mouth fall open, realizing what the hard ridge thickening against my tummy is. Oh my God.

I start to look down, but he shoves me off. “Your winning streak is overrrrr.”

It takes a minute to remember to breathe, but eventually, I let out a laugh, sinking back into the game. “Nothing is over,” I say.

I elbow him, he elbows me, and I speed over the last hump, raising my controller in the air, about to claim my win.

We fall together, chuckling, but the next thing I know someone is grabbing me.

In a moment, I’m in a lap on the other side of the couch from Hunter. Kade puts his hands over mine on the controller, holding me tightly between his arms.

The warmth of his bare chest hits my back.

“Come on,” he tells me, starting the game again. “Let’s do this, my queen.”

I sit there, letting his fingers work, the room suddenly quiet. Hunter stares at the screen, racing us but differently now. His shoulders are tight and his knuckles white.

“Where’s Lake?” He jerks the controller, speeding past Kade. “Or River or Ocean or whatever this one’s name is?”

“Sent her home,” Kade replies, still holding me in his lap. “I’d rather hang out with Dylan.”

The hair on my arms rises. Kade is like this sometimes. He’s not usually affectionate or playful like Hunter is, but when he does show this side of himself, it’s like he’s jealous.

Is he jealous?

After a few moments, Hunter tosses his controller toward me. It lands on the couch. “Here, you can both play,” he says to me, not looking at either of us.

Then he leaves the basement.

There were lots of instances like that, now that I think about it. It seemed, for years, like Kade just wanted me to go away. Later, I chalked it up to boys against girls and kids’ stuff, and I tried not to be hurt by it, but when we grew up, things changed. He started showing me more attention. Wanting me around. Including me. Even insisting I sit next to him at a movie or in the car.

And that’s about the time his and Hunter’s relationship deteriorated to the point where everyone could feel how thick the air was whenever they were in a room together. All the energy shifted, and I just wanted to be with them. I didn’t—and still don’t—understand what was wrong.

Sometimes I felt things for Hunter—like longing—but he never brought it up, and I was too embarrassed to think about it. Kade would touch me, hold me, and serve me lots of attention, and then other times, he would ignore me.

I’ve missed them both.

I throw off my covers and head into the hallway, looking left to right, and only hesitating a moment before I walk to the attic door. Opening it, I lift my eyes up the staircase, lit by the gray morning light coming in through the windows up there.

I don’t hear the rocking chair now.

I ponder going up, but almost immediately, I slam the door shut again, shaking off the chills.

The ghosts are leaving me alone. I’ll leave them alone.

I grab a pile of clothes and carry them downstairs to the washer. Dumping everything in, I find some powder on the shelf above and scatter it in the machine, starting the cycle.

The washer vibrates against my thighs as it starts, and I remember Weston’s obsession with exhibitionism. Reaching over, I turn on the empty dryer and move in front of it, slowly resting my hips against the machine.

The tremors shake through me, the ancient dryer rocking more than it probably should. But I tingle between my legs, and it’s not entirely unpleasant. I turn one of my legs out, pressing myself a little harder into it, and I close my eyes, letting it quake through my sleep shorts. My clit throbs, and I break out in a sudden smile.

My phone rings upstairs, and I jump, opening my eyes. Shit.

I turn off the dryer and run back upstairs. I race into my room and grab my phone, seeing it’s my dad.

I answer it. “Dad?”

“Can you tell me why I woke up to a half-naked photo of you online this morning?” he snaps.

The smile I didn’t know I was wearing falls. Photo… Calvin grabbed a pic of Hunter and me the night before last coming out of the shower.

And my dad’s just seeing it now. I’m guessing my uncles and Hawke worked very hard to hide it from him this long.

I blow out a breath and grab the towel I left at the bottom of the bed. “Because someone took an unauthorized picture of me coming out of the shower in my house?” I explain, making no effort to disguise the sarcasm from my tone. “Dad, you know where I am. These people are going to mess with me.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about!”

His growl is like a needle in my ear. I flinch.

“You need to calm down.” I hear my mom in the background.

But my dad doesn’t seem to hear anything she’s saying. “You were in a towel, and Hunter was in a towel!”

“Right now, babe,” my mom warns.

“You sit tight,” his voice pulls away from the phone slightly, like he’s covering the speaker. “I’m not happy with you, either. Who are these people she’s staying with that just let this go on under their roof?”

“Do you expect them to do it in the car like we always did?”

I press my lips together to stifle my laugh.

“I can still hear you when you cover my ears,” James says loudly, to Mom, I assume.

I head to the shower. “Nobody’s doing anything,” I assure him.

But my dad just gripes, “Goddammit,” and I hear a door slam shut.

He probably went into his den for privacy.

He hasn’t said happy birthday. He’s definitely not concerned with the other pictures of me breaking into the school.

“What do you want from me?” I ask.

“I want you to find a new hobby.” His reply comes quickly. “I’m glad you’re ambitious and excited, but you don’t know the world yet. Trust that I do, and there are a dozen other things you’ll love just as much, if you open your mind.”

I drop my eyes, clenching my teeth. He just doesn’t get it. I’m in love with motorcycles. I’m in love with racing.

“And I want you to behave,” he continues. “There’s nothing to prove. I don’t know why you act like there is.”

I shake my head. He says that to me? Right now? At the same time he’s trying to make me feel like I’ll never be able to have what I really want? There’s everything to prove.

“Won’t you ask me what I want from you?” I press.

He says nothing. Because of course, he’s perfect. Everyone else is wrong.

“I want to feel like I don’t always have to lie to you,” I tell him, but a sob lodges in my throat, making it almost a whisper. “I’m not bad, you know?”

Tears fill my eyes.

I’m pretty great, and he shouldn’t forget it. I’m not letting him make me forget that, either.

He doesn’t say anything, and I simply tell him, “I have to go to school.”

I hang up, but I doubt he wanted the conversation to continue anyway. He won’t apologize or admit he’s wrong, and he’s not ready to surrender. Let him process for a while.

I start the shower, scrolling through texts, TikTok, Instagram, and Snapchat, seeing the picture of Hunter and me everywhere. Pirates are talking shit, and the Rebels aren’t helping.

I power off my phone. “Great.”

I strip down, even though I had a shower last night.

Standing in front of the mirror, steam fills the bathroom, and I gaze at myself in the mirror.

Someone is always going to misunderstand me. Everything I do will be a problem to someone.

All I can do is what I must. “You’re going to be someone’s villain,” I say into the mirror. “So be their fucking villain.”

I turn off the shower, get dressed, and grab all the money Hawke gave me.

I walk briskly through the school parking lot, gazing around haphazardly at the sparse number of cars. I’m about forty-five minutes early—on purpose—but there are usually a few more people here by now. Track and band have morning practice, but there’s no one around. No sounds. The place is nearly empty.

I jog up the steps and dive into the school. Following the same route that I took when I explored on Monday, I hurry down the hall, to the stairs, and descend to the lower level. I run into the auto shop and spin around, looking for a crowbar. Spotting one on a rack, I snatch it and leave, glancing through the door to my left and spot the empty cage. The guys aren’t working out this morning. Hmm.

I leap back up the steps, all the rushing keeping me warm during the chilly morning.

I slip into the women’s locker room, my school bag knocking against my thigh as I trail down a row of lockers. Stopping at eighty-one, I plant my hand on the steel of Mace’s locker—black, like ours. A combination padlock secures it.

A shower runs down the hall to my left, but I look around, not seeing or hearing anyone else.

I don’t waste time. Jamming the straight end of the crowbar through the loop of the lock, I throw all of my weight and muscle into it, yanking and prying, until the locker door pops open. But not because I broke the lock. The whole damn latch busted. Whoops.

It falls to the ground, and I drop the crowbar, grabbing my jacket hanging inside.

I give it a shake, holding it up and seeing that it’s entirely unharmed. She made a very good show of putting it in her locker yesterday.

Slipping it on, I catch sight of pictures taped to the inside of the door. One of her flanked by two guys dressed in military fatigues. Another of a woman with a baby in one arm and a cigarette in the other hand. She stands on a porch, in the midst of people in lawn chairs around her. The woman doesn’t look much older than Mace is now.

I close the door, best I can, and leave the rest. There’s no way to hide what I’ve done. I won’t try.

I start to leave but notice Codi coming out of the shower, wrapping a towel around her body. I quickly jump down another aisle before she sees me.

I leave the locker room, suspicion climbing up my skin. She could have sports before school, but something tells me this is the only place she has to shower.

I’ve never heard her speak, but everyone seems to care about her a lot.

The hallways are still empty except for a janitor installing a tarp over the broken window to my left. I turn and start to pass my first class, but I see Mr. Bastien holding a packet of stapled papers and reading from it as he writes on the whiteboard.

I was going to head back outside for a bit, but I stop in the doorway, noticing the empty classroom.

“I thought the clocks didn’t fall back for another couple of weeks.” I joke. “Am I early?”

He turns his head. “It’s Ditch Day.”

He says that as if I should know what he’s talking about.

“Ditch Day?”

He twists around, tossing his papers on his desk. “It’s a Rivalry Week thing. Most of the school ditches,” he tells me. Then he smiles to himself. “Nobody told you, did they?”

I arch a brow and walk in, taking a seat at my desk. “But the teachers still come?”

“In case students show up.” He leans down, working his mouse and looking at his laptop. “It’s still technically a school day, and we are their care while their parents work, after all.”

I take in his jeans and a tan and blue plaid button-down. His sleeves are rolled up. His forearms are tan and thick, like he didn’t always have a desk job.

“You went to high school here?” I ask.

He was insulted by my comments on Monday. At first, I assumed he was defensive of his students, but I don’t think many people are willing to move into Weston. Most are just stuck staying.

He nods. “About twenty-five years ago.”

Before the storm. The flooding. Her.

He was here when the town thrived.

I remove my bag and set it on the floor. “Was the rivalry the same back then?”

He scoffs. “No. Not everyone had a cell phone. There weren’t cameras everywhere. No Internet in every house to spread news like a fire, and no social media to wrangle a posse.” He looks at me, and I can see the happiness as he remembers. “You didn’t go to jail for anything, and the only consequence was someone dying. It was a lot worse.”

Sounds exciting.

“Did you do anything you’d go to jail for if someone had caught it on camera?” I inquire.

He shoots me a look, and I’m shocked to hear him say, “Yes. You?”

I look away, biting back my smile. “Fair enough.”

I’ve done a lot I could’ve gotten arrested for, if not for my dad and my uncles.

I peer up at him. “You knew my father.”

“I knew of him,” he says. “Saw him race a few times when the Loop was young.”

He comes around the front of his desk and sits on the edge.

“What did you think of him?” I ask.

“Initial impression, I thought he was a little shit.” He smiles, combing his brown hair back over the top of his head. “I thought, here was this kid who comes and goes as he likes and answers to no one. No one’s on his back, making demands. Why the chip on his shoulder? Why’s he always pissed off?”

“Pretty much.”

Mr. Bastien locks eyes with me, his smile softening. “And now, I think, here was this kid, answering to no one,” he pauses for a moment before continuing. “No one on his back, caring where the hell he was or what he was doing.”

I fall silent. I know my dad’s history, but I guess I know my grandma as she is now, and it’s hard to picture anything different. He was on his own a lot, wasn’t he?

“Your parents were around?” I ask Bastien.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I still couldn’t come and go as I liked, though. Siblings.”

“Did you know the people who lived in the house where I’m staying?”

He holds my gaze. “What have you heard?”

“Nothing.” I shrug. “Just that the only Pirate girl to trade to Weston twenty-two years ago stayed there. She never made it back home. Drowned in the car you can still see on the bottom of the river when the water level is low. But we don’t have a record of any student deaths that year. Or the year before or the year after.”

He folds his arms across his chest. “But I’ll bet she doesn’t show up to any of the class reunions, does she?”

Does she? I didn’t think of that. I’ll have to ask Hawke.

Bastien seems to believe the story, though.

“I don’t know anyone who was in school with her,” I admit, “and happenings back then are hard to track online.”

He exhales a laugh. “Winslet MacCreary,” he tells me. “I was a few years ahead of her in school. Our version is that she was dead before she was put in the car that went over the bridge.”

That would be a blessing. What a terrible way to die otherwise.

“Her body was washed away,” he explains. “Her parents probably held out hope for a while, which is why there was no memorial before the end of the school year or mention in the yearbook or school paper.”

“What does your version say happened to her here?”

He draws in a breath, bowing his head for a moment.

“Twin brothers.” He meets my eyes again. “One in love with her to the point of madness, and when she refused him, he stood on the bridge, with rocks in his pockets, and swallowed the key to the handcuffs around his wrists.”

Wow.

“Just before he jumped,” Bastien adds.

A shiver courses down my spine. That’s a terrible way to die.

“He waited for a stormy night,” he goes on. “When the water would be high, the current strong, and the visibility zero. It took eight days for his body to wash up about ten miles downriver.”

“So, it was found?”

“His grave is in the town cemetery.” He nods. “Conor Doran.”

Conor. It is his house I’m staying in then.

“His twin, in the vein of revenge,” Bastien retells the story, “secured himself as her host for the prisoner exchange. After that, it’s anyone’s guess. Some say he hurt her. Others say he took everything she didn’t give his brother. Some say he was the one she was in love with all along, and when he still hated her, she knew everything his twin felt and took her own life too.”

Deacon. The story in the Falls is that it was a guy and his best friend, but Hawke realized several weeks back that they were twins. I need to tell Hawke about the grave. If Conor is really dead, then we know it was Deacon who lived with her in that house. And no one else.

Mr. Bastien continues, “Maybe he put her body in the car and pushed her over the edge of the bridge, as was her due, her soul to rest with his twin forever.”

“But they never found her body…” I say, just to see if their version of that matches ours.

He nods. “A few of us like to think she survived and escaped them. And they’re continuously on the hunt for her.”

He smiles a little, and I almost do too. I’d like to think that. It’s a little convenient and real-life stories never leave much mystery. Or hope.

But as long as there’s no body, it’s possible.

The room goes quiet, and we’re still alone. No one has shown up for class.

I sigh. “I’m going to ditch.”

He smiles, pushing off the desk and walking back around it. “Be safe.”

Picking up my bag, I walk for the door, but something he said keeps picking at the corner of my brain.

I stop and turn toward him. “You said ‘them.’”

He looks up at me.

“You said ‘a few of us like to think she escaped them.’” I tell him.

If Conor is really dead, and it’s just Deacon, then who else…

“The Rebels,” he finally replies.

Ah. Okay.

“See you tomorrow,” I say.

I walk out, heading down the hallway and back out the front entrance, my mind wandering through all the pieces of this story.

I’m not paying attention when Farrow Kelly takes my collar in one hand and shoves me up against the wall of the school.

“You left without us this morning,” he scolds, glaring down at me. “I told you not to go anywhere without us.”

I don’t listen. Everyone knows that.

Not to mention, his crew, or at least some of them, tried to kill me last night. Or maybe they just wanted to scare me, but either way, I don’t believe my safety is all that important to him.

Pulling out the wad of cash Hawke gave me, I hold it up between him and me. He smirks, grabbing it out of my hand. “Is this a payment for the bike sitting at the bottom of the river?” he asks as he flips through the bills.

“You mean, the stolen one?”

I don’t owe him for a bike he didn’t pay for.

“I need you to get me some party supplies,” I tell him.

He narrows his blue eyes. “Like drugs?”

Idiot.

“Girls,” I tell him, grinning. “Lots and lots of girls.”