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Nan smiled wearily. “Thank you, Dr. Tamerlane,” she said. “I do feel better. I have no one else I can tell and it’s such a relief to talk about it. But sometimes I think the only option I have is to deal with it on my own.”
“But that’s why I’m here. So you don’t have to puzzle through this alone,” Camille said.
Suddenly there was a loud crash and the sound of breaking glass. Nan screamed and covered her head with her hands while Camille shielded her face. Then there was only silence. Camille lowered her hands to see a large, jagged hole in the window and a brick on the floor surrounded by shards of broken glass just a few feet away from where Nan was sitting.
“Are you okay?” Camille asked, leaping to her feet. “Were you hit?”
“No, no. I’m fine,” Nan said, though she was trembling. “Who would do that? Was it the man standing outside?”
Camille didn’t know what to say. Was it Doug Weatherly? It was out of character for him. Doug was more about intimidation through more subtle means: following his wife, and standing quietly by, glowering. He was also a man of considerable means, who appreciated the finer things in life and wouldn’t deign to dirty his suit with a filthy old brick.
“I’m not sure,” Camille admitted, “but I promise it won’t happen again. Come on, I’ll make sure you get outside safely. Would you like me to call you an Uber?”
“No, that’s okay. I’m fine, really,” Nan said. “I’m parked down the street.”
Camille walked Nan to the exit, opened the door, and scanned the street for any sign of Doug. There was no one. It had started to rain and the drops hit the hot pavement in steamy splotches.
“It’s getting dark,” Camille said. “I can’t let you walk to your car by yourself. Let me go with you.”
“No,” Nan said sharply, then added more softly, “I said I’m fine.” She stepped outside, then turned. “Oh, I almost forgot,” Nan said, reaching into her pocket. She pressed an envelope into Camille’s hands. “Thanks again.”
Camille stood in the doorway and watched as Nan moved down the street and out of sight. Camille peered into the envelope. Inside were seven crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. It would be a miracle if Nan decided to come back. “Dammit,” Camille muttered. She needed her clients to feel safe or her practice would be ruined. She moved to go back inside, nearly tripping on something on the top step. A bouquet of flowers. Her stomach dropped. Travis Wingo. Camille bent over and picked up the bundle of delicate white petals surrounding a black center eye. She pulled out the small card tucked within the fern-like foliage. On it was written one word. Forsaken.
EIGHTEEN
THE BEST FRIEND
On the obstacle course, Maire had fallen into fourth place. How had that happened? She had let the earlier conversation with Samuel distract her and she needed to put him out of her mind and act like they were nothing but competitors.
She felt like she had swallowed more mud than she was wearing. As she crawled through the pit, she thought of Dani, the difficulty she often had with breathing. It humbled her, made her angry. No child should have to suffer in that way. It made her move faster.
She wanted another clue. The family tree she won the day before made no sense, no matter how long she studied the parchment. And she wanted another Game Changer. The more she could find and the more challenges she could win early on, the more power she had. She would have currency to barter. Right now, all she had was a tattered family tree with pieces missing and a sketchy pill. She thought of Camille’s odd statement about how none of them had an eight-year-old son. What was that all about?
She was falling farther behind Camille and Samuel. Think of the kids, she told herself. They needed to keep their home, to stay together. Ten million dollars was an obscene amount of money. Maire would keep working. Or maybe she wouldn’t. Managing Dani’s health care was a full-time job. She wouldn’t use the money for lavish vacations or fancy cars. She would only use what she needed to buy their house outright, to pay Dani’s medical bills, to pay for the kids’ education. She didn’t care about the rest.
The image of her children’s hopeful faces pushed Maire forward.
Maire reached the end of the mud pit just as the competitor in front of her staggered to his feet. It was Ned Bennett, recognizable by his orange warm-up outfit that peeked through the black dirt. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and tilted his head back. His face was covered in blood mixed with slimy mud.
“She kicked me in the face,” Ned gasped, spitting a wad of blood to the ground.
She had to be the psychiatrist, Camille. Maire didn’t stop to see if he needed help. She could catch Camille and she could definitely beat her in the target shooting competition. She had grown up on a farm after all. But just ahead of her was Camille, on her knees. Her body was shaking so hard, it was vibrating.
“I think I’ve been shot,” Camille cried, as Maire ran past.
It took a second for Camille’s words to register with Maire, but when they did, she stopped short and turned. Maire didn’t see any blood, but Camille was covered from head to toe with mud, so it was hard to tell. Should she stop and help her or was it just a trick? Behind Camille, Ned was closing in on them and the senator wasn’t far behind.
It had to be a trick. Camille was just trying to slow her down. But still, Maire hesitated. Was she really the kind of person who would leave someone with grave injuries behind? No, the real question was—was she still that kind of person?
It didn’t matter. This was just a game. No one was getting shot. Maire shook her head, disgusted with herself, and was just about to turn and run toward the next obstacle when a loud bang filled the air and the senator dropped. Maire screamed. Someone was shooting at them. She threw herself to the ground and covered her head with her arms but quickly realized her mistake. She was completely exposed and needed to run for cover.
Maire staggered to her feet and dared a glance up at the guard tower. There he was—a man holding a shotgun aimed directly at her. There was nowhere for her to go, nowhere to hide. Maire was frozen in place, her legs refusing to move. The ground erupted in front of her and thick, red blood splatted against her legs.
Had she been shot? She felt no pain, was still on her feet. Maire bent down and tentatively touched her shin. The liquid was too thick to be blood. She brought her fingers to her nose. Paint. They were being shot with paint balls meant to scare and slow them down. Relief and irritation flooded through her as Camille dashed past. She had figured it out too.
Maire turned and ran toward the next obstacle, still expecting to be pelted in the back with a paint bullet. In front of her was a huge sandbox the size of a tennis court. She needed to find the pink bag filled with puzzle pieces. The key was to dig up your own bag without revealing the locations of the other bags. Camille didn’t seem concerned about that though. She was digging wildly, throwing sand over her shoulder in search of her yellow bag. Samuel was on his knees, looking around the sandbox and trying to decide where to dig next, his chest heaving heavily.
Maire chose the opposite side of the box to begin her hunt. She bent over, sank her hands into the soft sand, and then plowed forward as if pushing a wheelbarrow, trying to cover as much ground as possible in the shortest amount of time. Almost immediately, her fingers struck something. She dropped to her knees and yanked. Out came a kelly green backpack. Samuel’s. She covered the bag with sand the best she could but didn’t want to waste time. She continued searching for the pink bag.
