“It’s free,” they say. “The agency is covering it.” Which agency? Who the hell knows. Are we talking FBI, CIA . . . is there any other? I remember Hopper saying that his brother is no longer working for the FBI, so then who?
Next Monday, the equipment to fix my land arrives. They tell me I should start planting crops. That I should put down roots. For what? Maybe tomorrow, I’ll be gone again. Or dead. Again, this is paid for by the agency.
But which one?
They refuse to tell me who’s paying for all the things that are being fixed on my property. It’s been two weeks since they moved out, Hopper moved back into his house, and I am wondering what to do with my future.
Do I even have a future? Okay, maybe the part where I’ll be dead is a little fatalistic, but this doesn’t feel safe. Malerick swears they’ve got it under control. Whoever buried the bodies believes the investigation has moved to another state. How do they know?
Nobody thinks the killers are still in town.
But I do, and that should be enough.
When I told Malerick I should just leave, he leveled me with a glare that cut straight through any argument I had and told me I’d be putting myself in even more danger. He has no jurisdiction outside Birchwood Springs.
Here, he can protect me. Out there? I’m on my own. But can he, really?
I should think about Maddie and Hopper, he said. It’d be cruel to make them live in fear. Also, Hopper doesn’t have a babysitter. I need to help him.
Malerick had a good argument. Of course, he won. If this sheriff thing doesn’t work, he can try becoming a lawyer.
Though, the real question is, when did Hopper and Maddie become my Achilles’ heel?
Since it’s Saturday and I’m stalling before heading to the bookstore, I fire off a text to Atlas. Mostly to check in, but also to let him know his brothers are—relatively—okay. Better than he thinks, at least.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and I barely get a word out before his voice slices through the line. “What the fuck do you mean, you’re babysitting my niece?”
I smirk, lifting the phone to my ear. “Well, hello to you too.” Then I ask, “Since when do you answer calls instead of texting?”
“Since you’re telling me you’re back in fucking Birchwood Springs babysitting Maddie,” he grinds out. “Last I checked, Hopper doesn’t let anyone near her. No one.”
“Well, let me tell you that Maddie and I are close,” I gloat. “I might even be her favorite.”
“That brings me to the bigger issue: what the fuck are you doing there?”
His voice drops, rough and angry, the kind of tone that says he’s barely holding it together. “They ran you out with a goddamn gun, Nys. You almost died. Do you think staying there is smart? You need to get the fuck out. I’ll send you money for a plane ticket. Come to Seattle. It’s nice and fucking cloudy.”
“It’s always cloudy,” I retort, then ask, “You making some kind of guest appearance over there?”
“Actually, I’m living here. A friend of mine, Sanford Bancroft, is renting me a spot in his parlor, up in Luna Harbor for the weekends,” he says, dropping the name of the bassist from Too Far From Grace like it’s casual. I forget sometimes that he runs in those circles, that people actively seek him out for tattoos.
“And on weekdays?”
“I work at Ink Art Gallery. By appointment only,” he responds. “That’s here in Seattle. I live in an apartment upstairs.”
“And the comics?”
“I’m still working on them. But, you know, survival comes first. Either I tattoo and eat, or I write comics and starve.”
“You could live here,” I say, only half-joking because he can’t stand this town—and his brothers.
He snorts. “I’m just waiting for my brothers to sell Old Birchwood Timber. I’ll get my cut, and I’ll be out.”
I pause. “You’re getting a cut? Therese Smith left you money?”
“She liked me,” he says, voice flat. “Unlike my father, who ignored me, or my asshole brothers, who hated me.”
The bitterness in his tone punches through my ribs. My heart withers.
