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“First, you will run through the tires, making sure that your feet touch each one. From there, you will cross a balance beam without falling. If you do, you must go back and try again. Then you will army-crawl through a pit of wet ash and mud. Stay low, because there will be razor wire above you, so watch your heads. Once through the pit, you will come to a sandbox. In the sandbox, you will dig until you find a canvas bag that is the same color you are wearing right now.”
Camille looked down at her yellow T-shirt.
Fern continued with the directions and Camille struggled to stay focused. This was only the second challenge. How was she going to make it through thirteen more days? “Once you get your bag,” Fern explained, “you will open it and begin assembling the puzzle pieces you find inside. Once you assemble your puzzle, memorize it, because it’s a clue. It will definitely come in handy for you later. After the puzzle, you will climb the forty-foot rock wall.”
Camille eyed the wall; it didn’t look like there were any tethers or harnesses nearby. Did that mean they were going to have to climb with no protection? One misstep and someone could fall.
“Once atop the wall, you’ll use a rope to climb down. Finally, you will run to the station we have set up as a shooting range. The first contestant who hits the target wins the Super Clue.”
Chances were, Camille thought, she wouldn’t be the first one through the obstacle course. She might not win the Super Clue but if she could get to the sandbox and find the puzzle pieces, she could solve it. And she’d search for as many Game Changers as she could find, in hopes that the others would be focused on hitting the bull’s-eye first.
“Are you ready to face what could be the most grueling and dangerous hour of your life?” Fern asked.
“Well, it’s not like any of us have an eight-year-old son,” Camille said, deciding that this was the time to utter one of the sentences on the piece of parchment paper in her pocket.
Camille watched the others as they took in her seemingly random statement. Ned raised his eyebrows, Samuel gave her a sideways glance, and a muscle in the senator’s jaw twitched, but that was all. Maire met Camille’s gaze and stared back with resolute determination, maybe thinking of her own young child, but she had daughters, right? She tried to remember.
“Luckies, are you ready?” Fern asked from her perch. “On your marks.” Everyone hurried to a spot behind the white chalk line. “Get set.”
Camille inched her toe as close to the line without crossing it. Fern raised the starter’s pistol, pulled the trigger, and Camille lunged forward.
She nearly stumbled right out of the gate. The crumbly soil beneath her feet was slippery and she couldn’t gain traction. Somehow, she righted herself, but next to her, Ned wasn’t so lucky. He fell to his knees, causing a mushroom cloud of dust to rise up around them. Camille was the first to make it to the tires, but Samuel, Maire, and even the senator were close behind her. Thighs burning, she carefully stepped through the eighteen tires. Camille wished she had spent a few minutes stretching that morning.
Once through the tires, Camille set her sights on the next obstacle: a steel beam, about forty feet long, four inches wide, and set about three feet above the ground. She hoisted herself up and threw a leg over either side of the beam, the tender flesh of her inner thigh slamming against the metal.
There she paused, looking down at the long strip of steel, trying to decide the best way to get across without falling. She maneuvered into a crawling position and considered trying to get across this way, but the beam was so narrow that she’d likely tip right off the side. No, she’d have to stand up. On wobbly ankles, she held her hands out to the side and stood. On the beam next to her, Samuel had pulled ahead, but she didn’t dare turn her head to see where the others were.
One foot in front of the other, Camille told herself. She just needed to get to the puzzle. She would figure out how to get another Game Changer. She eased forward, trying to get the feel of the beam beneath her shoes. Maire moved past her, then Ned.
She was halfway across her beam when she heard the senator’s heavy breathing on the beam next to her and then a cry, and a dull thud. The senator had fallen. Camille forced her eyes down and in front of her, stepping carefully until she was just a few feet from the end. From there, she crouched and leaped to the ground, the impact sending a shock of pain through her legs and a puff of powdery earth around her.
She paused in front of the next obstacle: the mud pit covered in razor wire. Ahead, she could see Ned, Samuel, and Maire struggling. On their bellies, they were already covered in the thick mud, barely inching forward. It was the warm-up suits, Camille decided, that were holding them back. The minute they crawled into the pit, the fabric became slogged down with mud, making it nearly impossible for them to move forward.
Thinking fast, Camille unzipped her jacket, pulled off her T-shirt, and stepped out of her warm-up pants. She considered tossing aside her shoes, but the soles of her feet were torn up and sore from the hedge maze, so she kept them on.
Once again, she was down to a tank top and shorts. Who knew if it would make a difference, but she’d have to try. She was the smallest of the group, but she was strong. She could do this. Camille threw herself to the ground and began to army-crawl, trying to stay clear of the razor wire that hung ominously above her head. The thick, wet mud immediately enveloped her. It filled her ears, clung to her hair and eyelashes, and her limbs felt like cement, but she continued to inch forward. Somehow, she was gaining on the others.
Camille snaked past one mud-caked competitor and then another. It was impossible to tell who was who. Black dirt clogged her nose and worked its way into her mouth, the gritty muck thick on her tongue. She was neck and neck with her final rival, who was so covered in the ooze that Camille had no idea who it was. She could win this.
With a surge of adrenaline, she dug in her feet and pulled herself forward, the mud squelching noisily around her. She was now in the lead, so close to the exit. She might just pull this off and be the first one out of the pit. That’s when she felt it, a viselike grip around her ankle.
The son of a bitch behind her was trying to stop her. Camille tried to wriggle free but the hand held tight, pulling her back.
“Hell no,” Camille muttered. With a mule kick of her free foot, she struck out and was greeted with the satisfactory crunch of bone. Barely noticing the bite of razor wire against her scalp, Camille pulled herself through the final few feet of mud and, with a victorious smile, climbed out of the sludge.
She heard the impact first, a stomach-churning smack, before she felt it. Pain exploded through her ribs, a stabbing pain so sharp that Camille’s breath lodged in her throat, and she fell to her knees. Gasping for breath, she looked down. Intermingled with the black mud smeared across her tank top was something else. She pressed her hand to her rib cage, vaguely cognizant of the sound of footfalls behind her, and groaned at the pain. Camille pulled her fingers from her side and stared down at her trembling hands, now covered in a sticky red substance. Blood. The realization clicked into place. Her hands were covered in blood. She had been shot.
SEVENTEEN
THE CONFIDANTE
Then
One week later, Dr. Tamerlane’s doorbell rang. Though it was six o’clock and Geraldine was long gone, Camille was in her office preparing for the next installment of Your Best Life. She opened the door to find Nan wearing the same oversize sunglasses and a baggy sweatshirt. Instead of the slouchy hat, she wore a trucker’s cap with John Deere embroidered across the front, the brim pulled low.
“Hello,” Camille said, inviting her in. “How have you been since we last met?” she asked, after Nan had taken a seat.
“Okay. Fine,” Nan responded. Again, Nan was perched on the edge of the seat cushion, her fingers gripping the chair’s arms, the toes of her Converse shoes pressed into the carpet, her muscles rigid, as if ready to bolt.
