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“So where do we go?” Argent asks.
Connor’s response is a glass pipe to the head. The pipe catches Argent just above his jaw and shatters, cutting the left side of Argent’s face in at least three places. Argent’s legs slip out from under him, and he hits the ground, groaning—still half-conscious, but unable to get up. His face gushes blood.
Grace stands staring at Connor, dumbfounded. “You broke great-grandpa’s bong.”
“Yeah, I know.”
She doesn’t go to help Argent. Instead she just looks at Connor, unsure whether she’s just been betrayed or liberated.
“Is it true what you said about the police coming after us?” she asks.
Connor finds he doesn’t need to answer. Because he can hear cars screeching to a halt outside and the steady beat of a helicopter overhead.
7 • Grace
Grace Eleanor Skinner fears death as much as anyone else. She fears pain even more. Once, a long time ago, Argie had made her go up to the high-dive platform while they were on vacation. She had squandered her willpower, mustering the guts for waterslides and such, but once she had made the climb to the ten-meter platform, she found herself weak. The pool below looked small and very far away. Hitting the water would hurt. As she stood on the edge, toes curled on the concrete lip, Argie had heckled her from down below.
“Don’t be a stupid wimp, Gracie,” he yelled for all to hear. “Don’t think about it—just jump.”
Behind her, others were getting impatient.
“Gracie, jump already! You’re making everyone mad!” In the end, Grace had backed away and gone down the ladder in shame.
That’s what this feels like today. Only now the threat is far more real. Argie’s words from that day come back to her. Don’t think about it—just jump. She follows the advice this time.
She pushes open the cellar door and bursts forth into the light of day. This is a game, she tells herself. I win games.
There are sharpshooters in the yard, but they don’t see her at first. Their rifles are trained on the house, and the cellar is at the far back of the yard. They haven’t gone in yet. The force is still positioning.
“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” she yells, running out into the weedy yard, pulling the sharpshooters’ attention. Immediately all the rifles turn to her. She doesn’t think they’re loaded with tranqs.
“Don’t shoot,” she says again. “It’s this way. He’s over here. Don’t shoot!”
“On the ground!” one of the sharpshooters orders. “On the ground now!”
But no. Rule one—never allow capture unless it gives you an advantage.
“This way! Follow me!” She turns around, hands still flailing in the air as she runs back to the cellar. She half expects to be shot, but the other half wins; they don’t fire. She races down the stairs into the cellar and waits. In a moment, the sharpshooters are there, covering one another, aiming at her and into the dim light of the cellar like soldiers in hostile territory. Although her heart feels like its exploding and she wants to scream, she says calmly, “You don’t need guns. He’s unarmed.”
The marksmen still hold their ground, covering for an officer in a suit who follows them down the stairs.
“I knew it was a bad idea,” Grace tells him. “I told Argie, but he wouldn’t listen.”
The officer sizes Grace up quickly, dismissively, just as everyone does. He guesses she’s low-cortical and pats her shoulder. “You’ve done a good thing, miss.”
More officers come into the cellar, making it crowded.
The figure tied to the pole is limp and semiconscious. The lead officer grabs his hair to lift his head and looks into his face.
“Who the hell is this?”
“My brother, Argent,” Grace says. “I told him not to steal all this stuff from the supermarket. I told him he’d be in big trouble. I knocked him out and tied him up. I had to hurt him, see, so he wouldn’t get shot. He’s not resisting, right? So you’ll go easy on him, won’t you? Won’t you? Tell me you’ll go easy on him!”
o;Sorry,” says Grace as she sets up a second game.
“Never apologize for winning.”
“Sorry,” says Grace again. “Not for winning, but for being sorry for winning.”
