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A screen flips to a residence where an older man and an older woman are sitting in their living room. They’re right across from where Lana would have been assaulted.
They’re talking about the madness going on outside and how they plan to wait it out, when suddenly the TV flicks on, and a masked face comes into view. Instead of the mirror mask Lana was wearing, it’s a red mask.
“Get out, Whitmires! Get out now!”
The woman and man both scream, and the man clutches his heart, his eyes wide in horror. That’s all the prompting they need.
They don’t even bother grabbing a bag before rushing out.
The screens all change again, and I try to focus on the ones that seem the most important.
“How is he viewing all this from one phone?” I ask Hadley.
“He has a system set up to flip between screens, but he can minimize up to five at a time and watch them in thumbnail size. I wonder if he’ll go house to house with that tactic.”
“What happens if that tactic doesn’t work?” I ask more to myself than her, dread creeping up my spine.
There has to be a reason they’re focusing on evacuating the town.
My eyes hone in on the monitor with the most activity. The deputies are scattered, all of them looking angry and desperate to keep people in the town. One even punches a civilian, but two men grab the deputy and sling him into a car.
He backs off when one pulls a gun on him, and the civilians help the fallen man back to his feet before backing away into a car.
“They’ve bound them together to stand up to the sheriff and his men,” I surmise.
“No one will fight for the town, and after the show they put on with the broadcast, no one wants to be there when the sheriff goes down either,” she says, but then sucks in a breath.
She turns to face me, her eyes wide. “I think I know where Lana is.”
“Where?”
She gestures to the screens. “Who’s missing?”
Chapter 13
Don’t impose on others what you yourself do not desire.
—Confucius
LANA
The door slings open, and I watch through the wooden slats of the closet door as the sheriff stomps in, angrily slamming the door behind him. He grabs an empty glass off the table by his recliner and slings it across the room. It shatters against the wall as he roars like a beast enraged.
For a few long minutes, his head hangs, his chest heaves, and he grips the sides of the chair for support. He always puts up a good front, but he’s as mortal as the rest of us.
My smile kicks up as he predictably goes to the bar in the living room, opening the door and pulling out a bottle of whiskey. His hands are shaking when he pours a glass and drinks it down quickly.
Any time the pressure mounts, the sheriff has to have a drink. But he can’t let his deputies see him carry a bible and a glass of whiskey. He can sentence innocent people to a gruesome death, but being so weak as to need a drink is simply unforgivable. Not to mention shameful.
I’d roll my eyes, but I’m busy watching as he takes his gun off, putting it by the door.
Finally.
“You’ll pay for this,” the sheriff hisses, glaring at my brother and me as we get carried out of the courtroom.
“He was with us!” I shout again, staring frantically at the jury as they continue to wrangle me out. “They’re hiding the truth! They’re suppressing evidence! This is just a fucking witch hunt, and my father is being framed!”
“Just make them show you our statements!” my brother bellows as they finally haul us all the way out.
