Chapter 4 - Collin

When it comes time to choose a house for myself—Amon is not interested in a roommate unless they have four legs—I choose the house in the back, right up against the woods. When you turn in the driveway it's the one straight ahead at the end of the gravel cul-de-sac. It's a two-bedroom, one-bath that looks like it was last updated circa nineteen sixty-nine.

This particular house didn't have pics online, so once I get inside, I discover that someone has pulled up the carpet to reveal the original hardwood—which is cool, but they are a mess. Every room has a grid of carpet tack strips running across it, and prying those up will be a necessary, time-consuming job, but other than that, it's not bad. And while there is some leftover shit from previous occupants, it's not garbage. It's just thrift-store kind of stuff.

The kitchen is… I dunno. I can't make up my mind. It's either amazing or gross.

All the appliances are avocado green, the flooring is dark brown linoleum—matching the dark-brown cabinets—and the countertops are orange. The backsplash is actually brightly colored daisy wallpaper and even the sink and cooktop were made in matching enamel avocado.

What the hell were people thinking? How could anyone want a green and orange kitchen?

It's not amazing, I decide. It's gross.

But the truly ironic thing about this house is that I bet Lowyn McBride would love it.

I didn't get a good look at what she did to my childhood home, but I saw enough that this is totally her style. Maybe the green in her house isn't avocado and maybe the orange in her place is a little softer than this, but it's all very reminiscent.

I do like the porches though. It has a nice-sized one in the front, but a really huge screened-in one in the back. And the screens are not even ripped. Like maybe this work was done recently.

It needs a total reno. Work I don't really have time to mess with, but I am not unhappy with the purchase or the place I will now call home.

Maybe I'll never love it, but it is my first house. And it's on a compound that will soon be overflowing with men so dangerous and so fucked up in the head, they can't survive in the real world anymore.

And I love the fact that this will be their home too so much more than I ever will the house.

I grin all the way over to Amon's place, which is actually about a hundred feet to the right. I find him in his kitchen, sweeping the floor.

"Where the hell did you get a broom?"

He points to a skinny closet next to the fridge. "There's a built-in ironing board, dude. And look!" He picks up a handset of an old-fashioned rotary phone hanging on the wall. His kitchen has dark cabinets too, but his countertops and appliances are turquoise. And so is the phone. The wallpaper is actually patterned black velvet.

The phone has a dial tone. This delights Amon because he's grinning like a stupid kid. "Can you believe it works?"

"How does it work, though? I mean, whose number is that?"

"Fuck if I know. Fuck if I care. It's mine now."

"You don't even know what the number is."

He taps the center of the rotary dial. "Look."

I lean in and I make out a set of faded, barely-there numbers—four, one, one, two. "What the hell does that mean? Where are the rest of the numbers?"

"This is how they did things back in the day."

"Yeah, but this is the present. So how does it work if it's only got four numbers?"

"Collin. You're killin' my buzz, dude. What do you want?"

"I'm just… bored, I guess. Aren't you bored?"

By the time Amon and I got to the compound Ryan and Nash had already unloaded all the weapons and were in the process of arranging them neatly onto pegboards and shelves in the bunker.

We don't have any furniture, just our duffels. And the only other thing we brought with us was the armored truck. So there's no unpacking to be done. I mean, I guess I could hang up my t-shirts, but they're just as usable folded neatly away inside my bag.

"How can you be bored? Isn't your place a mess?"

I shrug. "It's… whatever. I got a sleeping bag."

"Well, I'm not a heathen. I like a clean house."

"Since when?"

"Since now. I'm a homeowner, Collin. I'm responsible for this place."

He says this with the most serious face, so I can't tell if he's joking or not. "Are you gonna start cooking too? Are you taking on new clients? How much do you charge an hour? I'm looking for a maid."

"Fuck off." He goes back to sweeping.

I'm kinda jealous of his kitchen. Turquoise and black is a little bit badass.

He stops his sweeping to side-eye me. "Why don't you go shopping?"

"Shopping for what?"

He pauses his sweeping to stare at me. "Dude. Are you gonna eat MRE's too?"

"Oh, food."

"What did you think I meant?" He's laughing at me now.

"Couches?"

Now he's guffawing. "You're hilarious. Go grab some lunch then. Not fast food. I've eaten enough fucking crap these past few years to last me a lifetime. I'll call in an order at the inn in Bishop. You go pick it up. What do you want?"

"What do they have these days?"

"Same shit they've always had, Collin. This is Trinity County. Nothin' ever changes. Burgers, spaghetti, pizza, meatloaf. Just pick something."

"Steak, then. Medium rare. And baked potato."

"Salad?"

"Sure." I point at him. "With ranch. No onions."

"No one puts onions in a house salad, Collin."

"I just like to make sure."

He's shaking his head as he takes out his phone. "Go. I'll order and it'll be ready by the time you get there."

I let out a long breath, then throw up my hands. What the hell. If I'm driving at least I won't be bored all by myself in an empty house.

Bishop is a curious place if you're not from around these parts. It's got a historic district right smack in the middle of town that's cordoned off and no modern modes of transportation are permitted, just the ol' horse and buggy.

Authentically restored to 1700's specifications, it's a lot like Colonial Williamsburg—in fact, that's what it's modeled after—but on a much smaller scale.

It's about four blocks wide on all sides and the whole downtown is nothing but people in old-timey costumes, peasants tending to pigs and chickens, and time-period-appropriate businesses like a blacksmith's, the general store, and the Pineapple Pub.

The Bishop Inn in Bishop has been in business longer than I've been alive. It's not technically inside the historical zone, but it is right on the edge. So if you're coming to do the whole Trinity County thing, it's a nice place to stay and it's close to everything.

The Bishop Inn was a once-a-week thing for my family when I was a kid. Every Sunday we'd go for brunch. And after I was done eating, I'd take Olive out back to the gardens so my mama could sip her mimosas and my daddy could read the paper. I started doing that as soon as she could walk. We were close when she was really small like that. But that's because I was still basically a kid and playing hide-and-seek wasn't a distant memory yet.

That was every Sunday morning until I was almost sixteen. And by that time Olive was in school and too big to play hide-and-seek because the hedges were only four feet tall.

I smile thinking about those days. I had no idea that in just two short years my whole life would be flipped upside down and it would stay that way forever.

I am going to be this guy forever.

Even after all these years the Bishop Inn mostly looks the same when I enter the foyer and wait for my turn to talk to Jessica. It's bustlin', and busy, and packed with people. Jessica looks a little flustered.

It kinda surprises me that she's still here. It also surprises me that I remember her name.

She finishes with the people in front of me and she's still looking down at her book when they move along and I step up, so I catch her full reaction when we finally lock eyes. She starts to say, "Hi, how can I help?—"

But that's as far as she gets.

There are about five seconds of awkward silence and then she lets out a breath. "Collin. I didn't expect to see you here."

"Yup. I'm back." I shrug, not sure I owe her an explanation, but also not sure I don't. "I'm picking up food. Amon called it in."

"He did?" She looks over her shoulder to her husband Michael. He's on the phone—taking orders, probably—so she just looks back at me. "Is it under Amon's name?"

"I dunno. His or mine, I guess."

Jessica smiles. "OK. I'll go check and…"

"I'll hang out in the gardens. There's no rush."

"I didn't… I didn't mean you had to leave, Collin. That's not what I was saying."

"It's fine. I'll be outside."

When you kill someone when you're eighteen, people look at you different afterward.

Jessica watched me grow up. Saw me once a week, every Sunday at brunch. She probably thought she knew me. My parents used to be invited to the New Year's Eve party here every year. One time, when I was fourteen, they even brought me along.

So Jessica might actually have thought of me as family once upon a time.

And then, one night when I was home alone with my nine-year-old sister and my parents were right here at the aforementioned New Year's Eve party, a man broke into our house and tried to steal my sister right out of her fuckin' bed.

Like all boys growing up in the hills of West Virginia, I had been hunting since I was small. Turkeys, mostly. But I had gotten my share of deer too.

Lowyn was over at my house. Her house now, but still my house then. We were making out on the couch when she heard a noise coming from the back mudroom.

"What is that?"

"The wind." That's what I told her. And we just kept kissing.

I would think about these moments every fucking day for years.

What if I had gotten up and looked? Would I have scared the guy away? Would he have walked off, found another house with kids in it, and tried for them instead?

There's no way to know, of course.

It happened the way it happened.

That guy broke into our house, crept into my sister's bedroom, gagged her with his hand, dragged her out of bed and was already in the hallway outside the back mudroom when Olive was able to scream.

I don't know if that's exactly how it played out because obviously the guy is dead and Olive never gave a statement. She said she couldn't remember anything but a hand over her mouth, and then she screamed, and then… then she was covered in blood.

Lowyn said she didn't see anything. That I told her, "Stay here and don't move," after Olive screamed, and that's exactly what she did.

But she didn't stay there. She got up with me. She was right next to me when I pulled the rifle out of the front closet—I meant to get the shotgun. That part gets me every time. Because I wasn't thinking clearly and if I had the shotgun instead of the rifle, I'd have killed Olive too. I checked the magazine, snapped it back in, and walked into the hallway with my eye looking through the sight like I was on patrol in fucking Iraq or something.

That guy took one look at me, let my sister go, put his hands up, asked me not to shoot, and I shot anyway. I hit him right between the eyes.

Lowyn saw the whole thing.

Olive saw the whole thing.

And neither of them contradicted me when I lied to the police ten minutes later.

I became another person that night. Maybe I was always that guy, maybe not. But no one gets to walk into my fuckin' house, manhandle my fuckin' sister, and then live to tell about it.

No one.

This is the part that gets me though… why would Lowyn want to buy that house? Why? After what I did in that hallway, why would she buy that place?

The whole reason my parents moved was to get the fuck out of there. There were bloodstains all over the wall. The carpets had to be pulled up. We couldn't even live there for a week because of the investigation.

My parents couldn't wait to put that place behind them. And Lowyn McBride bought it?

What the actual fuck, ya know?

And my stuff in the room? I don't get it. But she really does have it up on her website. I checked a couple hours ago and sure enough, there's a page titled ‘Get the Look—Retro Rock Teen Boy Bedroom' and pretty much everything that was in my room is for sale on that page.

I go out onto the back porch of the inn and skip down the stairs, automatically heading for the hedge maze. It never occurred to me that it wouldn't be here, but as I enter, it does occur to me and I'm suddenly grateful it is.

That's when I see Lowyn. She's walking the maze too, but she's got her head bowed looking down at her phone. She stops, puts a hand over her mouth, and even from thirty feet away, I can hear her gasp.

"Somethin' wrong?"

Her head jerks up, her eyes meet mine, then they narrow down. "What are you doing here?"

"Picking up food."

She scoffs.

"What? I'm not allowed to eat here or somethin'?"

"Well…" She pauses, maybe wondering if she should have this argument with me. She decides in the affirmative. "Bryn is the head chef here, so?—"

"So what? Are you really telling me that I'm not allowed to eat here?"

"It would just be a common courtesy if you found somewhere else to frequent." She starts walking forward in the maze, which is actually walking to my left. I start walking forward too, which is also to my left.

"Are you following me?"

There is no way to stop my laugh. "We're in a hedge maze, Lowyn. I'm not following you."

But I… sort of am following her, because for some reason my part of the maze lines up perfectly with her part of the maze and the next thing I know, we're walking side by side.

"Oh. My. God." She whispers this under her breath.

"Look." I sigh and run my fingers through my hair. "I'm sorry I was such a dick this morning. What Bryn said makes sense. It was just weird, ya know? I've been gone all this time, and I come home, meet up with my ex-girlfriend in a random bar, and when I drop her off at home, I discover she's living in my house. I mean, you can see my point, right?"

"Why are you here?"

"That's your answer? Why am I here? I told you, I'm picking up food."

She stops walking and faces me, jaw set, eyes narrowed, anger coming off of her like heat. "Not here at the inn, Collin. Why are you back?"

"I… we… we started a business."

"You don't sound too sure of yourself."

She's right, I don't. "Private security. Amon, me, and a couple other guys from work?—"

"Work? What is ‘work' these days, Collin?"

For a moment I'm at a loss. I didn't prepare for this. Of course, I know what to say, but that's to strangers and clients. This is Lowyn. Still, the practiced monologue is all I've got. "Private security, I just said. We offer bodyguard service, cybersecurity, home and business security, firearms training, and protection dogs."

She doesn't say anything. Just stands there, staring at me.

"What?" I'm still a little hostile and it comes out in my tone, even though I don't mean it to. Everything about Lowyn feels provocative. And not in the sexy way. The confrontational way. Which is ironic, since she's never been a confrontational kind of person. "What?" I demand again.

"That's what you've been doing this whole time? Since you were kicked out of the Marines?"

"I wasn't kicked out. Who told you that?"

"Your… daddy."

My jaw is clenched now too, and I look up, trying to control my anger. "I didn't get kicked out. And neither did Amon. We… just… got pushed in a different direction."

"I thought it was a dishonorable discharge?"

"It was, but?—"

"So you got kicked out."

"That's not how it works, Low. You've got no idea how it works."

She folds her arms across her chest. "OK. So how does it work?"

I open my mouth to tell her it's all private. There are NDA's involved and worse. Were, at least. The congressional hearings kinda made all those things moot.

But there have been some threats since then. Thickly veiled ones, but threats nonetheless. It's not the kind of thing the military-industrial complex wants the general population hearing about. Or, God forbid, talking about.

But I'm saved by Jessica, of all people, calling my name from the back porch. "Collin! Food's ready!"

I look back at Lowyn and shrug. "I gotta go."

And that's exactly what I do. I don't even say goodbye.

When I get back to the compound all the guys are hanging on my front porch waiting for the food. Sitting on various pieces of outdoor furniture that weren't there when I left.

I pull the Jeep right up to the porch, parking a little sideways and balancing one tire on a rock the way I used to back in high school. I look up at the guys, find Amon's face, and see him smile as he remembers this miniscule act of rebellion.

I was such a good guy back then. Before that asshole broke into my house, I had the whole world at my fingertips. I was playing the game and I was playing it honestly too. I didn't drink, or smoke, or cheat on my girlfriend. I worked out five days a week, was the star receiver on the Trinity football team, and got good grades. I went to the Revival and played my part every fucking weekend—and I know it's not church and it's got almost nothing to do with God, it's just a fucking sideshow, but I would play my part. I would sit up there, watching my daddy preach his message, and I would close my eyes, and think on the words coming out of his mouth—time-honored things like respect, and honesty, and working hard.

I know it's easy to assume that the whole thing from top to bottom was a fiction. His showmanship, fainting women in the crowd, the whole ‘amen' thing.

But there are people who come regular. People not from Disciple. Like it's an ordinary church or something. And it's meaningful to them.

It meant something to me too. It meant a lot to me, actually.

I was the Revival. An honest-to-God son of it. And yeah, everyone in Disciple is part of the Revival. We're all descendants of the original organizers, but I come from a long line of tent preachers and even though that was never gonna be my future, the tent had always been my sanctuary.

It grounded me. Helped me be good.

That was then, though. This is now. And these two whens have almost nothing in common.

Three scouts had come to see me play ball junior year. Two full scholarships were offered in the fall of senior year. I was gonna play for Ohio State. I was gonna major in business—not so I could climb some corporate ladder, but so that, once the football career was over, I could start my own business. Make my own way.

I guess that part's still true. I do have my own business and I certainly have made my own way through this shitty world.

But so many things are different. My family used to love me. They used to be proud of me. My sister and girlfriend didn't look at me like I was a murderer.

But I am a murderer.

I murdered that guy who thought he could touch my sister. Scare her, and my girlfriend, and me. And the moment that bullet hit him, everything I ever was just… stopped.

And the moment after, I was this guy right here.

Before we eat, we drink. Four little stainless-steel canisters with twist-off caps are lined up on the porch railing. The smoothies are not quite cold, but it doesn't matter. We drink them anyway. We don't really have a choice.

I'm quiet as we eat, but the guys are so busy talking shop, they don't even notice this about me. Nash is in charge of renovations. We need every one of these houses fit for livin' in before the rest of the guys get here in June. We're about six weeks out, so it's gonna be tight. Nash is ticking off all the people he's gonna need as Amon holds his burger in one hand while jotting down notes in the other. He's in charge of the hiring since he's local and, unlike me, charismatic. Which is kind of ironic considering who my daddy is.

Ryan is in charge of heavy machinery. We have a good place picked out for the shooting range in one of the valleys, but it needs some dirt work done to make it safe, not to mention a proper road leading out there.

I'm the business end. I take meetings, make calls, and do the interviewing for the new hires. And I'm not talking about the locals, obviously.

It took us forever to agree on a name for the company since we're all equal partners, but finally Amon suggested Disciple's Edge. I didn't want Disciple in the name, so I said no. And then we tossed around about a dozen other contenders, but in the end, we met halfway and stuck with Edge.

Edge Security.

I don't know what Lowyn is thinking about our choice of location, but there's a very good reason behind it. Lots of them, actually. Number one is the close proximity to DC. Number two is the gun regulations. West Virginia is firearm-friendly. Not that we don't have all the fuckin' permits, but it's just easier to work here than it would be in Virginia, Maryland, or, fuck's sake, DC.

I personally find it hilarious that all the politicians up there on Capitol Hill hate the guns but want people like us around them twenty-four seven for protection. The hypocrisy is jaw-dropping.

But hey, their personal philosophy is none of my business as long as they pay the bill every month.

And actually, it's only one asshole that we need to deal with. Charlie Beaufort is what's called a ‘staffer' for the government. He's never been elected, never made any campaign promises, and gives absolutely zero fucks about anyone not on his payroll. He's not my boss, but he's the closest thing I have to one because all the security contracts for the government go through him.

Maybe one day, once we're all settled in, we won't need the government contracts. But that day is not today, so whatever. Charlie says bark, I'll give him a growl if it keeps the money flowing.

I'm just about to turn in—the guys having gone back to their own houses long ago—when my phone starts buzzing across the floor next to my sleeping bag.

It's only about nine, but still. I hate when people call me. Especially this guy. "What's up, Charlie?"

"Just checkin' in on ya." Charlie Beaufort is a Southern boy. People think West Virginia has an accent? Fuck, Georgia is the mother of all accents. And down there, if you know how to finesse it in just the right way, no one thinks you're ignorant and uneducated—if you drawl those vowels out just right, you're not a hick hillbilly like us guys up here, you're just a good ol' boy. And if you're from the South, being a good ol' boy is a goal one aspires to. Sometimes.

It's a confusing title, to be sure, because these days it's almost lost all meaning. You see, if you are a traditional man in the South you are one of two things and both of those things are good ol' boys. It's how you present yourself that matters and Charlie here is the height of good ol' boy aspiration, polished and rich. He doesn't drive a pickup or a Jeep. He hunts, but only because we all hunt. But he's not hunting for dinner, he's hunting for sport. And not the way a man from Ohio might hunt for sport, either.

It's all very nuanced. And maybe you just gotta be from here to get it.

Or care about it, for that matter.

I tried really hard to give up my accent. And I can turn it on and off—mostly. But it's hard to do that when I can't even hear it.

"Yeah, I'm good. We all made it OK."

"So…" Charlie stops there and I already know what he's gonna say before he can manage to spit it out. "Did you think about my offer?"

"I did. I did, Charlie. But the answer is still no. I'm runnin' the business here. Someone's gotta run it and that someone's me. I need to be here, ya know what I mean? I need to keep tabs on shit because the guys we're gonna be dealing with—the kind of guys you insisted we deal with—are gonna require a lot of supervision in various forms."

"Well, you make it sound like I prefer murderers over good, honest men. And that's just not true! I'm all about second chances, Collin. You know that, right?"

Do I? Uh. No. Let's refresh our memories, shall we? Charlie Beaufort is a good ol' boy of the highest caliber. He's interested in power and money, order interchangeable. But do I say that? Fuck no, I don't. I just agree with his delusions of grandeur because he signs the checks.

And anyway, I don't mind the guys. I want them here. They deserve to be here.

"I know that, Charlie. And these men really do need a second chance. You're a fuckin' angel, you know that? A goddamn saint, as we say around these parts."

"Oh, come on now. Don't be blowin' no smoke up my ass, Collin Creed. Son of a tent preacher. Goddammit, you're so fuckin' Southern. Have I told you how much I love that about you, Collin?"

He has. About a million times.

Charlie had never heard of Disciple, West Virginia, but when I told him how I grew up and what this town is about, he looked at me like I was some kind of mythological creature that just stepped out from between the pages of the New King James.

He's the one blowing smoke up my ass, not the other way around.

Well, maybe it's reciprocal.

"I just want to make sure you know how much I respect you, OK? Is that so bad? And I would like you to keep in mind that I would take you over any of those boys of yours in a fuckin' heartbeat. And I would pay you the money you deserve."

"Well, I certainly appreciate that, Charlie. But you know I'm not much of a money man."

"I do, I do!" He's chuckling now. "OK. Well, I'll let you go. I just wanted to make sure you boys are settling in OK and that we're on track for delivery by August one."

"We are. It's gonna go down smoother than a shot of Whistlepig."

This makes him guffaw. The more hillbilly I act, the more he likes me.

So be it.

"You take care now, Collin."

I end the call.

I set the phone back down in the floor, crawl into my bag, and turn off my little pop-up solar lantern before deciding to reach for the phone again. I don't have her number, but I have my number. And that's the number I call.

Lowyn answers on the thirteenth ring, all out of breath. "Hello?"

"Hey."

There is almost ten seconds of silence. I don't say anything, I let her work it out. Who else is gonna call her on the landline?

"Collin?"

"It's me."

"What… what are you doing? Are you drunk?"

I laugh out loud. "No, I'm not drunk. I just thought of something and I wanted to tell you about it."

"It's nine-fifteen at night."

"Is it past your bedtime, Lowyn?"

"What do you want?" She's irritated now.

"I'm not sure if you heard, but we bought that old mining town down the highway between Bishop and Disciple."

"Yeah, I heard. Amon told Rosie and?—"

"Rosie told everyone." She and I both laugh. "Some things never change."

"So… why are you calling again? And how did you get this number? It's the landline."

"It's my number, Lowyn."

"Oh." She huffs a little. "Right. I guess I never turned the phone off." There's a pause here as she works out the details. "Wow. I'm a really bad bookkeeper. How have I been paying this bill all these years and never knew it?"

I bypass her rhetorical question and skip straight to my own explanation. "I don't have your cell number. And I wanted to tell you that there's all kinds of fuckin' retro shit up in these houses."

"Really?"

"Is that excitement I detect?"

"Obviously, I am in love with the retro shit."

"Obviously. Well, I was just wonderin' if you'd like to come up and take what you want."

"Take what I want?"

"Help yourself to whatever's here."

"Don't you want it?"

"It's crap, Lowyn."

"It's treasure, Collin."

I really like it when she says my name. I don't know why, but I always have and that has not changed. "Our opinions diverge here. It's yours, if you want any of it. And I really am sorry for jumpin' down your throat this morning. Being home is… weird."

"Especially with your family gone. It's got to be a shock."

There's a silence after she says this. It wasn't a shock. She has no idea what kind of conversations I had with my daddy since I left. It wasn't a shock.

"It was, I guess." I don't like liars and I don't like to lie, but I will do it on occasion to spare a sadness. Mine, in this case. Not hers.

She lets out a breath. "Well, thank you. And to repay you for this kindness… you can eat at the inn."

I laugh again. And this time, it feels good too. "You are the most generous woman I have ever met."

"And you're the most…" I wait for it, dying for it. "The most… talented… wordsmith."

I just shake my head.

"Seriously. I had forgotten how you speak."

"How do I speak?"

"You choose your words so carefully. And you say things in the most interesting way."

"Do I now?"

"‘Our opinions diverge here.'" She says this in a low tone, imitating me, but not mocking me. "That's just so… good."

"Good?"

"Yeah. I've missed it."

She doesn't say, ‘I've missed you.' But I know that's what she means. 'Cept she's not talking about this me. She's talking about the old me. The good one.

"I've missed you too." And that's not really what I mean, either. What I'm saying is that I've missed us.

"The rumble and the glory."

"What?"

"The sermon that plays on the speakers? It always reminded me of you. Maybe you don't remember it."

I do. How could I forget that? They were my daddy's words. And his daddy's before him. And his daddy's before him. When you look upon the hills, the sun shining on the peaks, and you hear the rumble in the distance, don't you ever forget that behind it comes the glory.

Lowyn huffs a little. "I guess I know where you get it from."

"Get what from?"

"That wordsmithing you do."

I smile. "You come up any time you want, Lowyn McBride. I'll be here." And then I end the call and this time, I really do go to sleep.