Chapter 5

Dylan

The apple didn’t fall far, indeed. Not only did I make a vile comment to people I don’t know in that classroom, I also don’t feel badly about it yet.

It’s weird. I knew it was wrong the second it came out, and I knew why. But even now, a few hours later, and on my way to face everyone at lunch, the guilt hasn’t really set in.

I’m like my dad.

I’d always understood that he had problems in school. He spent years, not only forcing himself to hate my mother, but to actively—and unjustly—take it out on her. Treating her harshly, he’d told me, felt better than facing everything that was hurting him. His past, his parents, his lack of hope in the future, his jealousy over others’ happiness…

And his fear that she was too good for him.

Fear.

We only ever do anything out of love or fear, and I certainly didn’t say those things this morning out of love.

I don’t want to be like my dad was when he was younger. Bitter.

I stop at my locker, lifting my notebook and the two books I’d been distributed—a copy of Cockney Reds and an economics book—but as soon as I open the steel door, a flutter of little papers spills out. I watch them float to the tile at my feet. Torn-up pieces of lined school paper with jagged serial killer penmanship.

I slip my belongings onto the shelf without looking and squat down, plucking a note off the ground to unfold it.

Hang the Pirate! it reads.

I laugh under my breath. I pick up another one and unfold it. Students probably slipped these through the vent.

We’re coming for you tonight.

The period at the end instead of an exclamation point really drives home the finality of the statement. It’s a fact, not a threat. I should be scared. Maybe I will be later.

Letting the notes fall, I swipe up another one. And then another.

You will never leave Weston.

Rich bitch.

Always Rebels.

Slut.

I drop each one, shaking my head as I pinch another one between my fingers, holding it open.

I’m going to kill you with my car.

My face falls a little. Okay, that was…specific.

I turn the paper over, seeing if there’s a name on it, but no one signed their handiwork on any of these little treats. I know they’re just trying to scare me, but that one was weird.

Slowly, I lift up another note.

I liked watching you this morning.

I narrow my eyes.

I study the words as my pulse kicks up a notch, and I read them again. Watching you this morning…

Remembering what I was doing in bed when the phone rang—what I was doing with Hunter sitting right there—I feel something crawl up my spine.

Even if Hunter registered what I was doing underneath the covers, he wouldn’t write this note.

But it looks like a guy’s writing. Blue ink, block letters, small. Jagged. Kind of like Kade and Hawke’s penmanship.

I turn the paper over.

She used to touch herself in that bed too.

Will you do it for me again tonight?

I drop the note.

I stare at the pile of papers.

It could be a coincidence. Maybe? Everyone knew where I slept last night. They could just be taking a shot in the dark. Messing with me.

I scoop all of the notes in my hands, crumpling them in my fists, and toss them onto the floor of my locker. I don’t want to keep them, but it’s evidence if any of these threats turn out to be real.

A shake rolls through my body, and I slam the door shut. I’ll do a better search of the house when I get back this afternoon.

I head to the cafeteria, noticing a Pirate skull and crossbones flag hanging upside down on the wall above some lockers.

I inhale a deep breath before I pull open the door. I don’t have anyone to sit with, even if Hunter does have this lunch period. He made that clear this morning.

I can’t hide out, though, either.

I walk in, my ears suddenly flooded with noise. Dozens of conversations go on to my left and right, the legs of tables and chairs meeting the floor as students sit or rise, and music plays somewhere, probably from someone’s phone.

And then, just like that, it starts to quiet.

Conversations fade, movement slows, and all I hear is the MXMS song playing from a table near the windows.

I scan from one side to the other, spotting Farrow and his crew at a table far to my right. Hunter sits on top of it, his foot propped up on the chair. A young woman stands close, between his legs.

Who…

But I turn away, grabbing a tray as I try to hide the lump rising up my throat. Is he seeing someone?

Waiting in the lunch line, I take a hamburger in a paper sleeve, moving for the carrots. The chatter starts picking up again, whispers mostly.

“Keep your voice down!” someone shouts behind me. “She’ll hear you!”

Laughter rolls across the cafeteria, and my back feels like it has a target on it. I exhale.

“Oh, don’t point at her like that!” another voice booms.

“Hey, hey, hey, Baby Trent,” a guy calls out.

Then others whistle.

I ignore it. I don’t like it, but I do like that Hunter is hearing all of it. He can’t escape my presence, whether he looks at me over the next two weeks or not.

I move down, taking an apple from the young woman on the other side.

I meet her eyes. “Thank you.”

“I’m good at it,” she says in a snide voice. “There’s nothing else for me, right?”

I hold her gaze for a moment, aware too late of the person stepping up and hacking up some spit before he drops it right on top of my hamburger.

I freeze for a second.

I guess my little monologue this morning has spread through the school.

“Rebel-lious for life,” the girl behind the counter taunts.

Farrow shows up at my side, laughing and pushing the guy away. He tosses my hamburger and grabs me another one. “Come on, guys,” he says. “We gotta keep her strength up. Let her eat.”

He puts an arm around me, but I shake him off as I follow him through the lunchroom.

“How was your morning?” he asks.

“Piece of cake.”

“Your hair is blue.”

It is?

Someone must’ve put something—or sprayed something—in my hair, although I don’t know how that escaped my notice. I’ll go to the bathroom and look later. Not now.

We stop, and I drop my tray on the round table next to Hunter’s. All the guys that were in my kitchen this morning loiter around, and I recognize the girl from the office—Codi. She sits to the right of Hunter, Mace and Coral in the chairs next to her. I sit on the table, facing Hunter, and stick my apple in my jacket pocket.

Picking up the new hamburger, I peel back the paper sleeve.

Hunter stares at me.

“Is it satisfying,” I ask him, “seeing me with no allies and you with all of them?”

“Why do you think that would satisfy me?”

Farrow drifts between us, reaching around Codi to grab a football.

“It was never that you didn’t have friends at home.” I take a small bite and then lift my eyes, staring straight at my cousin. “You just let Kade take them all.”

No one around is looking at us, but they’re quiet. Listening.

“You’d socialize as little as possible,” I say. “Skip lunch. You’d go listen to music in your car. Maybe kill time in the library.”

He tilts his head back. “I miss the library,” he muses. “Perfect place to be alone.”

Something about his tone makes me pause.

The girl in front of him moves out of his way as if reading a signal, and my stare flits from her to him.

He glances at Farrow, I turn to Farrow, and then…

Farrow launches his football across the cafeteria, and I watch as Calvin is already running, leaping into the air to catch it. It sinks into his arms, and for some reason, he collapses onto a table of lunch trays that he could’ve easily missed, students screaming and food flying everywhere.

People cheer and howl, the entire lunchroom erupting in chaos.

Calvin slides into a girl’s lap, covered in crap, and she cries out. “Get off me!”

I just stare, wide-eyed.

A teacher rushes into the fray. “Enough!” he barks.

But just as everyone’s distracted, Mace is in front of me, hauling me off the table.

“What?” I gasp as she throws me over her shoulder, her shoulder bone in my stomach knocking the wind out of me.

“Stop!” I scream.

But I can barely hear my own voice over the disruption Calvin has going.

Mace carries me out of the lunchroom, and I twist and turn, catching sight of a half-dozen pair of shoes walking with us.

“Let me go!” I shout.

How the hell can she hold me? She doesn’t have that much muscle on me.

They cart me down the hallway, to the right, and through a pair of double doors. I claw and scratch any wall I can reach, trying to grab door frames for leverage, but in less than twenty seconds, I’m standing upright again, my jacket is being peeled off, and my wrists are secured behind me. A long piece of rope is wrapped around my wrists, my spine pinned to a wooden beam that rises from the first floor to the second floor of the school library. I look up and around, noticing the lights are off, papers scattered around the floor, and chairs stacked on top of worktables. Old iMacs sit in various cubicles, and dust coats just about everything. Books still sit on shelves, but the place looks like it hasn’t been used in a decade. Or two.

Mace holds my jacket, reaching into the pocket and pulling out my wallet. She takes my cash, flipping though it with her fingernail. “Not much,” she tells everybody.

“Bitches like her get credit cards,” Calvin says.

Codi stands behind everyone, quietly observing.

“Leave the cards,” Farrow tells them as he takes my cell phone from Mace and tosses it to Hunter. “Shred the driver’s license.”

I dart my gaze to Mace. She slips my I.D. out of the wallet and pockets it with my cash.

“No!” I yell. Then, I shift my glare to Farrow. “You said I could ride.”

“You can,” he teases. “All you want. Just don’t get pulled over.” His eyes gleam. “Or you could be here for sixty days longer than you planned.”

Everyone laughs, and they all turn to leave, Mace throwing my wallet back at me.

I pull against the bindings, watching them go and leaving me in the dark. Mace pulls on my jacket. I growl.

Hunter remains, stepping in front of me to slip my phone into my jeans pocket. How could he just stand there while I got robbed?

“What did you do for their loyalty?” I spit out.

“Go home.”

I ignore him. “What have you been up to here? Hmm?”

He leans in, pulling the key Farrow gave me out of my pocket.

“Hunter…”

“Go home,” he whispers. “Killer.”

My heart flutters in my chest. Killer. People called me that when I was a kid because I was always racing. Skates, bicycles, dirt bikes, then my car, my motorcycle…

I never found it cute. I found it condescending to give a girl a pet name for doing what racers do. They go fast. It was like it was all so cute. Me trying to drive.

But he says it differently. It sounded like an endearment because it was proof that he remembered.

I lean in. “You can’t make me leave.”

Amusement dances behind his eyes, and he takes out his phone, hitting the screen with his thumb a few times.

He holds it to his ear, and I hear it ring as he stares at me.

“Hunter,” the voice on the other end says.

Kade.

I go still, hearing his twin’s voice.

“Why don’t you come and get her?” Hunter asks him. “She doesn’t belong here.”

What?

“Zero-one Knock Hill,” he tells his brother.

I start to shake my head but stop. I’m not ready to go home.

And despite the hardness in my heart, my eyes well with tears as I whisper, “You don’t get to decide where I belong. Neither of you.”

My chin trembles, and I lock my jaw to still it.

I roll my wrists inside the rope.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Kade replies. “How about we fight for her? Whoever wins gets to take her.”

Hunter plants his hand over my head, against the beam, boring down into me with his eyes. “Just like when we were ten?” he says to Kade. “You’re still so sure of yourself.”

“Yeah.” Kade’s tone is final. “I know I’m better. Just like when we were ten.”

I’m able to slip my thumb inside the binding. I pull, working it farther and farther off my hand.

“And if I win, you’re fine with her staying here?” Hunter asks him. “With me?”

“You won’t win.”

Kade doesn’t want me home. If he did, he would’ve called.

If he did, he would’ve just come.

Hunter knows that. He wants to make sure I do too.

“Let’s meet,” he says. “Have it out. I’m fucking dying to see you, little brother.”

“Soon,” Hunter replies.

And then he pulls the phone away from his ear and hangs up. Tucking it into the pocket of his jacket, he leans in. “We’re not ten anymore,” he tells me. “The next time I fight him, it’ll be for something more important.”

I hold his gaze, clenching my teeth to stay hard.

He slips the key into my jeans pocket as I work free of the cloth.

“Red and white bike parked in the lot,” he instructs, “near the fence, on the side of the football field. Don’t—”

But just then, the rope slips from my arms, and I shove him away, running. I burst out of the library and into the hallway, flying past the cafeteria. Leaping high, I rip the Pirate Flag off the wall and dive down the stairwell, back to the auto shop. Rushing inside, I ignore the students working, and the teacher barking, “Hey!”

I search for anything, grabbing the first thing I see. Plucking a can of lacquer thinner off the shelf, I toss the flag over my shoulder and scurry back upstairs, some of the students following me as I race.

Charging outside and back down the front steps of the school, I hurry up to the flagpole, set down the lacquer, and clip the flag in through both metal rings as students come spilling out the doors.

“What are you doing, Dylan?” someone calls.

But I don’t stop. Windows fly open as students poke their heads out, and I grab the rope, wrap my arms and legs around the pole and climb. People watch from below as I scale only as high as is out of their reach—seven or eight feet—and loop the rope around the pole, tying it off.

“Ohhh!” comes howls as the Pirate banner whips in the wind, high above for all to see.

More people rush out of the school and onto the lawn, toward me. Sliding back down, I swipe the can of lacquer thinner off the ground, uncap it, and squeeze hard. The fluid shoots out of the can, onto the pole, as Farrow and Calvin move toward me.

I smile, side-stepping swiftly around the flagpole, raising my arms and spraying the thinner as high as I can. I cover every inch.

Farrow reaches for me, and just then, I drop the can, hands up in the air.

He stands over me, and I stare at the ground, trying not to laugh.

“Get that flag off the fucking pole!” someone shouts from a window.

“What’s going on?” a teacher shouts from somewhere.

And I watch as Calvin jumps onto the pole to try to lower the enemy flag, but immediately…he slides back down on the lacquer thinner.

Howls and shouts go off in constant succession, angry curses filling the air as one by one, people try to get up the pole to rip the flag off.

I fold my arms over my chest, laughing, and I almost take out my phone to video, but that’ll just lose me my phone. Avoiding Farrow’s eyes, I gaze up with love at the skull and crossbones waving in the Weston sky.

But just then, a flicker ignites to my left. I look over as Hunter steps up, holding a lighter to the pole. My heart thumps in my chest as the flame catches, spreading like the wind up the steel beam, following the trail of lacquer thinner higher and higher. The corner of the flag ignites, and I watch the Pirate banner go up in flames as everyone erupts into cheers.

In a moment, it’s gone, Farrow and his friends laughing as Hunter lifts his eyes, looking at me.

Damn.

Motor oil isn’t flammable. Just combustible. I should’ve used motor oil.

Near the fence…

I pull the key out of my pocket, trailing down the edge of the parking lot. A whistle goes off, filling the air, and I hear shouts from the football field, catching glimpses through the slits in the bleachers. Players run back and forth, sweating under the warm fall sun, and I step up to the fence, watching the light breeze blow through Hunter’s hair.

Coach Dewitt stands over him, yelling as Hunter does push-ups with the sun beating down on his shoulders and back. I can’t see the sweat curling up the ends of his hair above his neck or around his temples, but I know what he looks like when he’s getting a workout.

At least they’re not making me do push-ups for the flag incident. I’m surprised he’s getting punished, though, but I guess starting a fire was going too far for the teachers.

It was so unlike Hunter. And yet, exactly like him to be so resourceful in a crunch. Still a straight-A student, I’ll bet.

The palms of his hands press into the burnt grass of the field, and I can hear the rickety bleachers whining against the wind. Car engines kick up behind me as people leave school, and I take out my phone, holding it up and snapping a picture of the team at work on the field.

No prey, no pay, I type out the caption.

#underablackflagwesail

I tuck my phone away, already feeling it vibrate with notifications. Over my shoulder, I spot the bike Farrow left me. Red and white, late model Ninja. I shoot my eyebrows up, impressed, but then I immediately adjust my surprise because it’s probably stolen.

I glance back once more at Hunter, seeing Farrow and the guys line up with him as he continues his push-ups.

One by one, they all drop to their hands and toes, taking his punishment alongside him, exercising in sync.

The Pirates never would’ve done that for him. For anyone.

Moving for the bike, I throw my leg over and stick in the key. I should inspect it—check the tires, look at the brakes, do a practice run around the lot to make sure they didn’t sabotage it—but I just want to get out of here.

Taking the helmet off the handlebar, I slide it on, fasten it, and grab the bars. I start the bike, giving it some gas and feeling the machine pull underneath me. Rocking my wrist back and forth, I feel the wheels spin, and I turn, racing off, propping my feet up on the footrests.

I race through the parking lot, zooming around a car and hearing it honk at me as I peel out onto the street ahead. The bike whirs under my thighs, pulsing through the handlebars and up my arms, into my chest, and in less than three seconds, everything relaxes. I lean down, at one with my line of sight, and I flex my jaw to keep the smile at bay.

The house isn’t far, and I want to do a spin to get a feel for the bike, just a basic lay of the land.

But I don’t have my license.

I need to get online, request a replacement, and see if I can print off a copy to carry with me until it comes.

I turn onto Knock Hill, fly down the street like a dart, and slide into a parking spot at the curb. Turning off the bike, I climb off and remove my helmet, noticing my bedroom on the second floor. The curtains billow in the wind pouring through the open window on the side of the house. The overhead light is on too.

Did I leave the light on?

I look both ways, seeing a barber across the street sweeping the floor of his converted-garage shop. Down the road, a woman sits at the top of her steps on a lawn chair.

The cars look the same as the ones this morning. I don’t recognize any of them.

Tightening my grip on my helmet, I stick my key between my fingers and head up the staircase to my front door. I twist the handle and push it open, angling my head to keep my ears peeled.

When I don’t hear anything, I slip inside and quietly shut the door.

I move toward the kitchen, but then, the floor above me creaks. I stop and stare at the ceiling.

Another slow step whines across the floor upstairs.

Oh, shit.

The rocking chair? No, that’s in the attic, on the third floor. The sounds are coming from my room directly above.

I hurry into the kitchen and grab a blue plastic broom just as footfalls descend closer to me. I face the living room and entryway again, rearing the broom back behind my head, but then the pantry door to my right suddenly opens, and an arm appears. I whip around and swing, but he shoots his hand out, catching the broom and glaring down at me.

“Whoa!” Hawke chides.

I expel the air in my lungs, gazing up at my cousin. His father’s azure blue eyes regard me like I’m crazy.

“Hawke?” I growl. “What the hell?”

He yanks the broom out of my hands. “Give me that.”

He reaches over, still dressed from his own school day in jeans and a brown Oxford, shirttails out. He sets the broom aside.

Of course, he’s here. I should’ve known he’d show up to check on me. His college is close.

I pull open the door to the pantry—or to what I thought was a pantry. “There are stairs here?”

Lifting my eyes, I take in the narrow wooden spiral steps until they disappear around a curve above me.

“Yeah, they go up to the second floor.”

I look over at him, annoyance setting in. “What were you doing?”

“Investigating.”

I’m not shocked he’s here. Like his dad, Hawke has a penchant for sticking his nose into his family’s business. He wants to see all, hear all, and know all, and Hawke does not like surprises. He wants to be there if we need help, even before we ask for it.

“Did Aro tell you where I was?” I ask him. “Or are you tracking my phone too?”

The Trent men are all the same.

“I’m not tracking you,” he retorts. “I mean, I could. Easily.” He walks toward the living room. “When Aro and I pieced together the clues on those old cell phones and realized our Carnival Tower story in the Falls is related to Weston’s urban legend of Rivalry Week—and that you were the first female student they’ve taken since Winslet—she knew where you’d be.”

“Where is she?” I question. “She was bringing me stuff.”

He picks up a duffel that I didn’t see on the floor and tosses it at me. I smile, catching it. Yes. Clean clothes. My clean clothes.

“She packed it. I didn’t look,” he spits out. “Your dad needed her at the shop today.”

I’m not sure that’s true because my dad would’ve let her bring me things I needed. I don’t think Hawke wants her here. Green Street wants her back.

He gestures to the counter. “Brought you some tacos too.”

I suck in a breath, rushing to the brown bag and ripping it open. The scent immediately makes my mouth water. “Thanks,” I groan a little, pulling out a tortilla chip. “I’m starving. There’s no food here.”

I stuff the chip into my mouth as he pulls open the refrigerator. “There’s food now,” he says.

I arch my neck, peering into the fridge. Bread, deli meat, juice, milk, a little produce… I walk to the pantry, opening the door. There’s an unopened box of cereal, some microwave popcorn, canned soups....

“Did you put all this in here?” I ask him.

He shakes his head.

Hmm. Maybe Farrow and the guys brought it this morning before I came downstairs.

He picks up a cheese stick and tosses it back in. “It’s not much, but it’s only two weeks.” He closes the door and faces me. “I could place an order on Instacart, but I don’t think they deliver here.”

“It’s fine.” I wave him off, pulling out the foil-wrapped tacos and opening them up. “I’ll get to the store if I need anything.”

I pick one of the three grilled chicken tacos up and take a bite, my stomach growling. “That’s good,” I sigh, grateful. “Thank you.”

Seriously. Other than the bite of hamburger at lunch, I haven’t eaten anything in eighteen hours. Mace took my apple when she took my coat.

I take another bite. “You shouldn’t stay too long.”

There’s no telling how long the Rebels’ football practice will last.

But he rushes to add, “No one saw me.”

“Someone saw you,” I fire back. “Did your investigation reveal anything?”

“Maybe.” He looks around, and I can tell he’d like to have more time here. “There’s no way in hell I’m taking a blacklight to this house, though. It’ll give me nightmares.”

I snort. “If you were that worried, you wouldn’t let me stay.”

“I’m still deciding.”

Hawke’s only slightly older than Kade, Hunter, and me, but he knows more, and we never forget it.

He takes something out of his back pocket. “Spare phone.” He hands it to me. “Keep it charged. Keep it hidden. Keep it silent.”

I take it, pressing the button to see the screen light up.

“You know the code if you’re in danger,” he tells me.

I nod. I text 2357 to him. He came up with it. Prime numbers. Don’t ask me why.

Next, he pulls out a smartwatch and wraps it around my wrist. “This will give you a notification if I’m calling or texting it, but I only will if I have to,” he explains. “Otherwise, I’ll call your regular phone.”

Great. Something else to keep charged. How does he expect me to do that with one cord?

“Where’s your jacket?” he suddenly asks.

I take another bite. “Somewhere,” I mumble over the food, avoiding his eyes.

“You got robbed.”

I take another bite.

I hear him blow out a breath, reaching into his breast pocket, taking my hand, and slapping a wad of cash.

I widen my eyes, holding up the bills. “Wha—” I cough over the food, meeting his eyes. “Oh, I love being cousins with a doomsday prepper!”

“I’m not a doomsday prepper,” he grumbles. “You just never know when you might have to go into hiding. Or suddenly leave the country.”

I chuckle, slipping the money into my pocket.

“It’s for necessities only,” he states. “If you don’t spend it, you give it back. And don’t let them get it. Act like a Trent, for Christ’s sake.”

I toss him a salute and pick up the drink he brought, tasting lemonade through the straw.

“Come on. I want to show you something,” he says.

I set down the taco and dust off my hands, pulling off the hoodie wrapped around his waist and slipping it on. He moves for the door I thought was a pantry and stands aside for me.

“Go first,” he says.

I wouldn’t if it were anyone else telling me, but I follow instructions and ascend the stairs. I climb, winding step after step, but I’ve only taken a few before Hawke orders, “Okay, now stop.”

I turn, seeing him just below me. But instead of following me to the right, he runs his hand along the panel to the left—the wall—and pounds his fist. The board snaps back, and he slides it easily, revealing more staircase, leading farther down.

Light spills in from somewhere I can’t see, but the stairwell is considerably more ragged. Stones are coated with cobwebs and a draft pours up from the basement. Why was it concealed?

“That’s scary,” I say more to myself.

He waves for me to follow, and he descends, spiraling around and around as I follow.

We come to the bottom, into a large room, but instead of boxes, old lamps, or an ancient wooden wardrobe, the room has a table and chairs, a fireplace big enough to sit in, and cabinets lining the walls with shelves holding old jars, dishes, and tins. A lone white plate lays discarded on the table, the late afternoon sun spilling through all the windows on the west side.

I gaze around, noticing two hallways, maybe another room down at the end of one. “It’s like…”

“Another kitchen,” Hawke tells me.

I spot the large basin sink, and a wood-burning stove, but there are no electric appliances. No fridge, no dishwasher. Judging from the grayed marble tiles that were once black and white, this room hasn’t been used in more than a hundred years.

“I had no idea these houses were this old,” I murmur.

“They were something back in the day,” he offers. “This was probably the servants’ quarters, and that was the servants’ staircase.”

He gestures to the stairwell we just came down.

“It gets better,” he tells me.

Bidding me to follow, he moves across the kitchen, around the fireplace, to one of the hallways I saw. We stop, looking ahead to the door flapping in the breeze, the dry leaves of the walled-in back yard blowing just outside.

Ground-level entry. Unsecured door. No knob. Great.

I move toward it.

“Granted, it wouldn’t be hard to get in the front door if they really wanted to get to you,” Hawke says behind me.

“But someone using this entrance will use it when they don’t want witnesses,” I add, his concern heard even without him saying.

“Assume the worst,” he repeats what he already trained me to know years ago.

I squat down and remove a shoelace from my sneaker. Slipping it through the hole for the doorknob, I pull the door closed as tightly as I can and secure the shoelace around a nail jutting from just inside the door.

I back up, satisfied it’s shut, and turn, seeing Hawke look at me like I’m an idiot.

“Hunter is next door,” I point out. “And this was all here long before me.”

I walk past him, into the servants’ kitchen, and toward the stairs.

“What makes you think I won’t tell your parents that you’re living here unsupervised,” he goes on, “next door to one of Ciaran’s safe houses?”

Safe houses?

Now it makes sense. Hunter’s grandfather owning that house is why Hunter stays there. His parents probably believe Ciaran is there all the time.

Hawke goes on, “And sleeping in probably the same bed where the last Pirate slept before she was murdered?” We climb the steps. “This entire situation feels…”

We come back into the upstairs kitchen, and I hear him quietly grunt as he searches for a word.

“Rapey?” I offer.

“Yeah, rapey.”

I turn to face him. “Because if you ruin this for me—when I will undoubtedly ruin it all on my own just fine—I will tell Hunter all about Carnival Tower.” I smile. “And its location. He’s family. He should know. It won’t be my fault if he tells the Rebels.”

“You brat.” He pinches his eyebrows together. “You wouldn’t.”

I offer a contrite look. “I would hate myself a little, Hawke, but gosh, it would make tonight fun, wouldn’t it?”

And I bat my eyelashes twice.

He arches a brow, tipping his chin up. “I guess you’ve kept all of my secrets.”

“I’ve helped you and Aro hide from the police.”

“Yeah, all right,” he spits out.

“Stand by me, not in front of me.”

“All right,” he growls.

I grab the lemonade and take another drink, really damn grateful for my overbearing cousin. Thanks to him, I now have dinner, clothes, a spare phone, and money.

“How does Hunter look?” he asks.

I shrug. “Healthy.” I’m not sure how to answer that. Hunter looks very healthy. “A little bigger,” I tell him. “He got on the weights, it looks like.”

“Well, at least you have him here.” He breathes out, appearing to relax. “He’ll keep an eye out for you.”

I swallow the truth and simply say, “Yeah. Sure.”

I don’t have the energy, and he doesn’t have the time for me to explain that Hunter won’t be protecting me from shit.

I start to close the stairwell door, but Hawke stops me, peering back inside. “What’s that?”

I open it again, following his gaze to the frame, just inside. Notches are carved into the wood in two distinct lines, the kind you see when parents record heights, along with children’s ages. Four, five, six, and so on. Both of them, head-to-head, in sync.

At the top are names.

“Deacon.” I trace the carvings with my fingers. “And Conor.”

I reach up, touching the highest cuts, and then bring my hand over to Hawke. Just about his height the last time they were measured. Both of them.

I look up at my cousin. “Twins.”

“Yeah,” he whispers, lost in thought.

If this was the house, then…

“It was only twenty-two years ago.” I tell him. “They have to be on the Internet somewhere.”

He flexes his jaw. “On it.”

Birth certificates, school records, social media pictures. No one is invisible. And now we have their names.

Engines rumble in the distance, motorcycles and at least one car. I look to Hawke. “Go.”

He ruffles my hair and slips out the back door to his car, hopefully parked on another street.