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“Any last words?” he asks Martin.
“Who the hell are you?”
Salem looks him in the eyes. “Angel of death.” He pulls the trigger. A single shot and Martin slumps to the ground. Not a single word is muttered by the other sinners.
With the women safely secured and out of harm’s way, we waste no time exiting Cape Cod. We leave no trace of our presence behind, save for the bodies of the corrupt men who had threatened the lives of the innocent. As we drive away, our hearts are heavy with the weight of what we just accomplished. We delivered retribution to those who deserved it, and in doing so, we saved the lives of a few innocent souls.
2
SUKIE
Sleepless nights are becoming a regular part of my life. I can’t put my finger on it, but I have this dread, this sense that something terrible is coming to Salem, and I can’t shake it. My grandma Pierce used to say I had a keen sense of foreboding. She was the same way. She called it a gift. I never saw it that way, because when I got my feelings, it was never for anything good. But my grandmother said it was all in how you perceived it. She said to think of my “feeling” as a warning. Like the time she showed up at my house in the middle of the night when I was seven and urged my mother to take me to the emergency room. I had stayed home from school that day with a slight tummy ache. Grandma said she knew it was more than your run-of-the-mill stomach bug, and she was right. It turns out I had appendicitis. It wasn’t long after we arrived at the hospital that my appendix burst, and I was rushed into surgery. Unlike my grandmother, though, I don’t know who the bad thing will happen to. I only know something will happen; and whatever it is, it will be terrible.
The last time I had this sickening sense of dread was before my friend, Sage, was kidnapped. Sage and Juniper moved to Salem a few months ago, opening a hair salon across the street from Belladonna’s. Belladonna’s is my shop. I sell soaps, shampoos, conditioners, body lotions, bath salts, candles, etc. All my products are handmade and organic. My mother plays a huge role in the making of our merchandise. The greenhouse behind our house is used to grow flowers and herbs. Belladonna’s is popular amongst tourists during the summer months, and if not for them, my shop would not thrive. When it comes to local support, that’s a different story. Sage and Juniper have been a godsend; their business plays a huge part in keeping Belladonna’s doors open. The Pierce women are the town’s local outcasts. It’s been that way since before my grandmother’s time.
I’m brought out of my thoughts when I hear the sound of glass breaking, followed by my mother’s shrill scream. I burst into action, jumping out of bed. Along the way, I grab the baseball bat beside my bedroom door, then make a beeline down the hall toward my mom’s bedroom. I flip the light switch and immediately spot the broken pieces of her window scattered across the floor and the massive rock used to break it.
“Mom!” I rush to her bedside, ignoring the searing pain in my foot as I step on a piece of glass. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay, sweetheart.” She goes to climb out of bed.
“Don’t.” I stop her. “There’s glass everywhere. I don’t want you to cut your feet.”
The distant sound of laughter and the chill of the breeze blowing in through the window draws my attention.
“Assholes,” I hiss, storming out of the bedroom. I march down the hall.
“Sukie, stop!” Mom calls.
I ignore her, fling the front door open, and rush onto the front porch. By the time I get there, the jerk is long gone. I stand there with my bat in hand, searching the darkness beyond the trees and brush but not seeing any sight of the culprits.
“Sukie.” My mother comes up behind me and puts her hand on my arm. “Come back to the house.”
I cut my eyes to hers. “I’m sick of this.”
She sighs. “I know, baby girl. I’m sorry.” Mom’s face falls. She blames herself every time an incident like this happens, which is often. The defeat she carries on her shoulders shows as we turn and return to the house.
“It’s not your fault, Mom.”
“Sukie, your foot!” Mom cries.
I look down to see a trail of blood smeared across the wood floor at my feet.
“It’s just a little cut, Mom. It looks worse than it is.”
“Come on.” She ushers me to the living room sofa. “Sit while I fetch the first aid kit.”
I don’t bother arguing with her. She’s gone into momma bear mode, so it’s best to do as I’m told. Plus, my foot really does hurt.
Rushing back into the room, my mom sits on the coffee table and pulls my foot into her lap. First, she takes a wet towel and wipes away the blood. She purses her lips as she inspects the damage.
“There’s some glass in the cut.” She grabs the tweezers from the kit. I wince when she digs the shard of glass out. “I’m sorry, baby girl.”
“Stop saying that, Mom. You didn’t break the window.”
“No, but I’m the reason stuff like this keeps happening.”
“No,” I say. “It keeps happening because the sheriff won’t do anything about it, no matter how often we file complaints.”
