Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
But Trace calls out, “They’re already here.”
“What?”
“Mars is making dinner,” Army tells me, “and Paisleigh is doing her homework in the garage.”
“Bateman just gave the kids to you?” I blurt out.
“We’re persuasive,” Dallas mumbles.
Yeah, right. I should probably call the poor guy and make sure he hasn’t called the police to report the kids being kidnapped.
I head downstairs, but then halt as Army’s words finally hit me. Mars is making dinner?
I peek into the kitchen, seeing my twelve-year-old brother rolling balls of ground beef between his hands as a pot steams on the stove. I get weepy. Aw. Spaghetti and meatballs. I taught him to make that.
All I say is “Hey” as I walk to the door to the garage. Twelve-year-olds are tricky. If I hover, try to help, or gush about how much I love him, he’ll stop and never cook again.
“Hey,” he says back.
I walk into the garage, seeing Paisleigh sitting on a stool at the worktable. Her legs dangle as she swings her feet in her pink Chucks. “Hey.” I smooth her ponytail as I look to see what she’s working on. “Good day?”
She nods. “Trace got us from home. Mars went in the truck with the others, but I got to go on Trace’s motorcycle!”
I freeze, thankful she’s busy coloring instead of seeing my snarl. “I’ll be talking to him about that.”
I look around. The garage door is up, the hood of a car that looks like it’s from the eighties is propped open with tools discarded nearby. “Why are you in here by yourself?” I ask her.
She changes out her crayon for an orange one. “The mean one was here, but he left.”
The mean one. Macon?
“He was mean to you?”
“No. He gave me ice cream.” She starts coloring the title of her Rosa Parks Day worksheet. “But he was mean to the people who came over.”
I peer outside, but I don’t see any unfamiliar cars or trucks. “What did they say to him?” I ask her.
“I dunno. He left with them.”
“In a car?”
“No.” She points diagonally, in the direction of the firehouse. “Over there.”
I walk around her. “Stay here.”
I should stay out of it. If Macon wanted help, he would’ve asked for it. His brothers are home.
It wouldn’t have been Milo, would it? Or Jerome Watson?
Walking across the street, I try the door of the firehouse, but it’s locked, and I don’t see any lights on inside. It’s just a volunteer station. No staff. I’m sure all the Jaegers are on call when needed.
“Ah!” some cries in the distance.
I dart my head around the corner of the building, seeing the forest of trees and the long planks of wet wood creating a path over the shallow water and moss. There are houses through it—where Aracely lives—but I’ve never been in there.
The insects buzz, filling my ears as I start along the narrow, low bridge toward the cries. The cypresses and oaks rise high, casting the swamp in a perpetual twilight, and I keep my eyes open for alligators.
Despite all of the creatures designed to kill you in here, I move slower than I probably should. Why did I never come in here before? It’s green and dark, and it smells like nothing does on my side of the tracks. Like a library with no roof.
I step off the bridge, onto the moss-covered ground that only gets mossy when the land hasn’t been covered in water long enough for something to grow. The little floods will come, though.
I approach a small collection of houses, seeing stilts underneath them to keep them dry during heavy rains. The sound of dishes crashing comes from the purple one.
There are also two white houses, a green one, and a yellow one, but I start up the steps of the one with all the noise.
I stop short of knocking on the door, though. It’s a Bay house. Bay business.
“Macon, please!” a woman screams. “Please, don’t!”
What the hell? I pry open the screen door.
I peek inside, placing one foot over the threshold, and spots cover my vision as I adjust to the low light.
A woman I’ve seen around but haven’t talked to yet stands in the middle of the living room sobbing, her eyes staring in the direction of the hallway to the loft, at something I can’t see. A baby, less than a year old, cries in the swing, and to my right sits the kitchen. Aracely and Summer move around, one searching the cabinets, and the other doing the dishes.
I meet Aracely’s eyes. “Just leave,” she tells me. “We don’t need help.”
“Macon!” the woman screams, but for some reason she doesn’t go down the hall toward him. “He can’t help it! Please!”
Her cries make my stomach curdle. What the hell is going on? Summer slams the cabinets closed. “There’s nothing here.” Aracely reaches down and picks up another little boy hidden behind the counter, maybe three years old.