Chapter 24

Dylan

My Hunter.

He was always my Hunter, wasn’t he?

I can’t be his, though, and walk into this house with the weight of Kade’s anger and act like we’ll be able to be happy at barbecues, birthdays, and Christmas. We won’t.

I yank open one of the French doors and charge onto the pool deck.

“You’re a fucking liar,” I say to Kade’s back, and I don’t give a shit who hears me.

He pours a drink. “Among other things…”

“You don’t want me,” I growl. “He wasn’t here for a year. I was. Just the two of us. Why are you putting everyone through hell?”

He bounces from one girl to the other and never asked me out or even wanted me alone.

He turns and faces me, a lazy smile on his lips.

I can’t stop myself. I slam the drink out of his hand, and it goes flying to my left.

“Ohh…” someone mumbles as more people take notice and watch us.

Kade cocks an eyebrow, moving closer to me. “If I’d made a move, what would’ve happened?”

He pins me a knowing look, and I harden my jaw.

“Would you have let me keep going?” he presses. “You would’ve, wouldn’t you?”

I narrow my eyes, balling my fists.

“Yeah, I think you would have. Maybe Hunter should know that,” he taunts. “That he’s just a consolation prize, Dylan.”

I whip my hand, slapping him across the face. His head jerks to the side as fire spreads through my palm, but I don’t regret it. The way he talks about Hunter…

I close the distance, speaking low. “There were no girls around me who liked doing the things I liked doing,” I tell him, my voice shaking. “Riding ATVs or motorcycles. None of them were into cars. I had you, and I had Hunter.” I look at him, his face still turned to the side and his eyes down. “I looked up to you. Especially you when we were younger, because you took up entire rooms, and you truly did not give a shit what people thought.” Tears stream down my face. “I would watch you, and I learned that your trick wasn’t to be yourself. It was to love being yourself. If I could find that, then…there was nothing to worry about. Nothing to worry about that I could control anyway.”

Kade used to be so impressive. I didn’t want him. I idolized him.

“You stood up for me when we were kids,” I whisper, holding back my sobs. “You were strong, and you always win.”

Always. I think his force will rival his father’s someday in working a crowd, closing a deal, or spreading his influence.

I shrug. “You win.”

His brow creases, and I see his jaw flex.

“I’ll be home in a few days,” I tell him, “and I’ll leave next summer, either for college or training, and Hunter will be alone. And I’ll be alone, but it was worth it.” I pause, trying to hold back the sadness. “I’m glad it was him.”

I take my clothes and backpack off the table and leave, walking back through the house and out the front door.

Once my clothes are on, I climb on the bike and speed out of the driveway before Aro or anyone tries to catch me.

As I turn onto the highway, I catch Hunter in my rearview mirror walking out the front door and watching me go.

I cry behind the helmet, tears blurring my vision so much I have to pull over. I remove my helmet and let the tears fall.

And then I smile through the sobs.

How instinctual it was in that moment. In a single moment when he admitted he would do what hurt him most if it meant I was happy.

It was that quickly I knew… He’s the one I grabbed. Not Kade.

I never wanted to let Hunter go.

Hours later, thunder cracks across the sky, and I open my eyes, unsure if I got to sleep or when. My head pounds behind my right eye and courses up my forehead, over my scalp, and down the right side of my neck. I sit up, still fully dressed, even in my jacket and shoes as I look at the rain pattering the window through puffy eyes. The drops are small but constant.

The rocking chair above swings slowly with the wind, and I look to see my door still closed.

Standing up, I wince and rub the back of my neck as I walk to the window. Hunter’s bedroom is dark, and I don’t see his car on the street. Granted, I can’t see much of the street from this vantage point.

Walking to the desk, I grab my new phone that Hunter got me and press the button, seeing that it’s almost midnight. I forgot to put it on the charger.

I start to walk back to my bedside table, but I see something on my desk and stop.

Turning on the desk lamp, I scan the little folded-up pieces of paper, some in intricate triangles and squares like the kind we passed in class when we were younger, before we got a phone.

These weren’t here this morning. Were they here when I got in tonight? I squeeze my eyes shut against the pain in my head. I don’t remember. I was still crying a little, avoiding calls from Hunter, Aro, and Coral. I laid down on the bed, awake for a long time, running through endless scenarios in my head of how I might be able to be with Hunter and be happy, despite Kade hating us for it.

I look around, finding the room empty and nothing changed.

Someone was in here, though, and I hope it was while I was gone and not while I was asleep.

I open one of the notes, seeing it’s written in blue ink.

Library. After school. 2nd floor. -D

Deacon? The brothers were Conor and Deacon. It could be him.

I drop it to the desk and open another.

Lift your skirt up.

I raise my eyebrows. Wow.

And then he writes, More.

It’s the same penmanship, like Hawke’s, Hunter’s, and Kade’s. Block letters, a little ragged, as if written quickly. I picture them in class, her taunting him.

I take another note and open it.

Feel me licking it right now. I know you can feel me.

Licking it? An image of Hunter in the back seat of his car flashes in my head. I swallow, scanning the rest of the note.

I want you so bad, they write again.

It’s the same writing. Same blue ink. The messages aren’t signed, but it looks like the same person. D.

You’re not going to kill me?someone replies underneath in black cursive.

Not tonight, D replies.

My heart starts beating faster. It has to be Winslet MacCreary and Deacon Doran. They were in school, and he was writing these to her. Did she fear him? Was this a game for them?

I open another.

You know, I jerk off when he comes at you at night? He waits until I’m in bed before he descends from the attic like some nightcrawler to feed on you. As if I won’t hear your headboard pounding against the other side of my wall at one o’clock in the morning.

I glance at the wall behind my headboard, imagining Deacon in the room on the other side. Chills climb my spine, all the way up to my neck. Who was she in here with when he was over there?

I love listening and stroking it,” he writes. He had you on your hands and knees last night. I can tell because everything makes noise. The springs in the bed, the headboard, and you. Does he come inside you? Tonight, I’m going to come in right after he’s done and fuck you too. -D

Mr. Bastien said Conor was dead. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe it was him in here with her? Maybe it was just like what Hawke thought. That Conor made people think he jumped off the bridge. Maybe a body was never found and the story Bastien told me is just a narrative that became the truth to people.

I bet if I bend you over right now and spread your ass apart, he’ll drip out.

Leave me alone!Winslet writes in her dark cursive.

You love it when I don’t, he replies.

I breathe harder, wincing a little. She’s not playing along with it anymore. She’s angry. Or scared. Hurriedly, I pick up another and open it.

I’m sorry. I just got carried away last night. I thought you were liking it. You were. I just lost my head. I’ll be gentler next time. I promise you’ll like it.

It’s Deacon’s writing.

When I open the last one, it’s a drawing in blue pen that takes up half the sheet of lined school paper. It’s the top half of a woman, breasts bare, a hundred tiny circles carved on top of each other onto the paper with his blue pen for her nipples, a rope around her neck. Head thrown back, spine arched, mouth open, and if not for the rope, she might look…euphoric.

With the rope, though, it looks like torture.

You like it, the caption reads.

They don’t talk about the other one who comes down from the attic again. Did he write her notes, too? I look at the desk again, having opened all that were left.

I don’t realize my fists are clenched around the last note until my hands ache. I relax, setting it on the desk with the others.

Both brothers whirling around her, one quiet and one very threatening. How did these get here? The chair above rocks faster, and everything in my gut tightens like a coil. I grab my phone and bolt from the room.

As soon as I land in the foyer, though, I see Calvin and Coral rolling out sleeping bags, Coral on the couch and Calvin on the floor.

I halt, glancing to the door, into the kitchen, and then up the stairs.

I don’t see anyone else.

“What…what are you guys doing?” I ask, a little breathless.

They each have a bag, and Calvin plops down in the chair with a beer in one hand and four more hanging from a six-pack ring in the other.

“Relax,” he says, yawning. “We’re going to take turns every night until we return hostages. Farrow doesn’t want you to be alone.”

That’s odd timing. Does he think someone’s coming into the house, too, like I’m starting to wonder?

“For my safety?” I ask.

“He thinks you’d like company,” Coral replies, fluffing her pillow.

Calvin brings the beer to his mouth. “And maybe a buffer, in case you don’t want other visitors.”

Like Hunter or Kade?

Maybe Farrow is doing it for the team. Keeping Hunter mad and horny until he’s ready to let him loose to kill.

My nerves ease a little, though, grateful. I’ve been fine for over a week. I don’t know if I should be that scared of anyone sneaking in.

And the notes could totally be a prank. “Did you guys leave the notes on my desk?”

Calvin pinches his brow together in confusion. “Huh?”

Coral looks at me.

I shake my head. “Never mind.” I take a seat at the end of the couch and let out a sigh. “So where is Farrow?”

“Tending to needs,” Coral says.

Calvin laughs, still in his swim shorts, sneakers, and a hoodie.

Coral opens a pizza box on the floor, and I see steam rise into the air. “Want some?” she asks me.

I take a slice of cheese, folding it the long way, but I stop before I take a bite.

I glance at both of them, getting an idea. “Are you guys tired at all?”

Calvin holds up his cans. “I will be in four beers.”

I reach over and snatch the pack away from him. “Give me that.”

“Hey.”

“You can drink after the game.”

I toss the pack to Coral, who dumps them in her backpack.

“Plus, I need your help.” I shoot to my feet, taking a bite of pizza as I leave the room. “Let’s go!”

“Where?” he calls out behind me.

But I just walk for the door, waiting for them to follow.

Ten minutes later, we’re climbing out of Coral’s car, as she runs to the trunk to grab a couple of flashlights. I look out at Esplanade Street Cemetery, the rain light, headstones peeking out of the tall grass.

I turn to Calvin, continuing our discussion. “How do you not know where Conor Doran’s grave is?”

It’s local folklore. The town’s youth doesn’t have some tradition of making a pilgrimage or offering to it or something?

But he just waves his hand. “Look at this shithole.”

I bring up the light on my phone, Coral and Calvin taking the flashlights.

“I mean, how do you expect to find anything here?” Calvin goes on.

We head through the narrow opening in the short rock wall around the old graveyard, the overgrown landscape almost swallowing any sign of what’s buried underneath.

I flash the light around, seeing sporadic markers peeking out of the tall grass. “Yeah, it’s pretty awful.”

I shuffle through the brush, finding a row and holding up my light to the names.

Cool rain wets my face, and I gaze over at the wooded area to my left, dense and dark.

“Spread out,” I tell them. “I’ll take this section.” I point to Coral. “You sweep the bottom.” Then I nod to Calvin, gesturing to the hill above us. “You go over there.”

“What are we getting for this?” Coral grumbles.

I stand up straight and let my head fall back. “I can’t believe I have to pay friends.”

“Oh, you’ll get used to it,” Calvin points out. “Last week I had to pay Farrow gas money for a ride he was already making anyway.”

Hustlers. I cock my eyebrow, looking to Coral.

She crosses her arms over her chest. “I want season access to the raceway next summer.”

“To compete?”

“To watch, dipshit,” she retorts.

I shoot a glare at Calvin.

“A hundred-dollar gift card to Frosted,” he says.

I turn away. “Fine.”

We spread out, Calvin working through the headstones above and Coral below. There are tall monuments, groups of similar stones for husbands and wives, and once in a while, I step on one planted in the ground.

This cemetery feels like it should be bigger. Next to seaside towns, river towns are the next most settled areas. Weston has to be over a hundred years old. Maybe there’s another cemetery?

But Bastien said it was Esplanade Street.

I squint at a white marble marker. “Can you guys see the names okay?”

“Some of these markers are old,” Coral calls out.

I rise up, realizing. “Yeah, his won’t be.”

Conor only died twenty-two years ago. I can ignore the ones that look like they’re from the Prohibition.

“I got nothing!” Calvin shouts.

If we come up empty, then Bastien was mistaken. The twins, Conor and Deacon, are probably alive.

“Do people get buried here a lot?” I ask.

“No.” Coral moves to another row, flashing her light. “We don’t have the population anymore, and when someone does die, it’s often off to the crematory.”

It’s the same in the Falls. Mausoleums are more popular too. Whatever’s cheaper.

“Dylan?” Coral says.

I turn my head, seeing her staring at a block of stone in the middle of the last row.

I run over, hearing Calvin trail in behind me.

Rushing to her side, I look down to where she flashes her light and see a marble bench with a bottle of liquor sitting between the two support posts.

She picks it up. “I would’ve missed it, if not for this.”

I take her light and read the name in black letters on the front of the stone slab. Conor Doran

The birth date is listed before the name and the date of his death after. Twenty-two years ago.

I take the bottle from Coral, flashing the light on it. “Chimney Wind,” I read, swiping the grime off the faded and wet label.

Calvin takes it, tossing it up and catching it, the liquid inside sloshing against the brown glass. “It’s been here a while.”

“Not that long,” Coral chimes in.

I glance at her. “What?”

She scrolls her phone, droplets of water landing on her screen. “The brand’s been in the works for a decade, but it looks like they didn’t bottle their first batch until two years ago,” she says, showing me the website. “It’s made in New Orleans.”

Only two years.

My light catches a glint of something silver, and I bend over, picking up a tiny skeleton key off the bottom of the bench, next to where the bottle sat. I lift it up, searching for markings or numbers, but there’s nothing. It looks like a key to an old padlock.

Something cracks next to me, and I look over to see Calvin twisting the cap off the bottle.

Coral flashes her light at him. “What are you doing?”

He lifts the bottle, smiling. “Waste not.”

Tipping the bottle back, he gulps down a swallow, and I shake my head.

But immediately, he pulls the bottle away and coughs.

“What?” I ask.

“It’s not whiskey.” He laughs, clearing his throat. “It’s cognac. And it’s fucking good too.”

He gulps down some more as I pull up my camera and snap the pics Hawke requested.

Tucking my phone away, I lead Coral and Calvin back to the car. Calvin holds out the bottle to me.

“No,” I tell him.

He offers it to Coral, but she damn near runs away from him. “No, that’s bad luck,” she scolds. “You don’t steal from the dead. Didn’t you ever see The Mummy?”

I laugh, but yeah, she’s right. I’m not that brave.

“That wasn’t us!” she shouts to whoever is listening, making a big show of pointing at Calvin. “If anyone is listening, that was him!”

We reach the car, and she growls at him. “Put it back.”

“Fuck, no.” He opens the door. “It’s free.”

We climb in, turning off our flashlights, and we’re gone before I realize I still have the key in my hand.