Violet Grenade

by Victoria Scott

  It’s Carnations.

  And Tulips.

  And Daisies.

  It’s Madam Karina’s hard work, and Eric’s scandalous involvement, and Mr. Hodge’s philandering. It’s my mother’s vindictive dealings, and her seductive tongue. Staring into the fire, watching as girls race past me and into the night, their screams filling my head, I remember the things I’ve done. The men I’ve helped kill because my mother deemed them unworthy.

  Behind Wilson, a door cracks open. He tries to close it, but he’s too weak. I glimpse the men behind that door. Men who cheated, men who lied, men who called women filthy names, but who didn’t deserve to die.

  I killed them all? I ask.

  No, Wilson says. Mother did.

  I nod slowly, accepting for the first time that I was a child. That I was manipulated into performing these horrors, the same way Madam Karina manipulated me here. But the difference is that, this time, I knew better. I saw it for myself in the end. I chose to let Wilson out.

  And I chose to come forward and finish this thing.

  I’m choosing to remember.

  Wilson stumbles inside my mind, his body too heavy to stand. My own legs buckle, too. Strong arms wrap around me and guide me out the door. When I glance back, my vision blurring, I see Poppet lighting the guesthouses on fire, expelling her own demons with a flaming board she stole from the main house. She touches the board to the houses, all four corners, and screams for the girls inside to get out. They race into the night, wide-eyed and half-dressed.

  Lola is nowhere to be seen.

  Angie guides me toward the car Wilson spray-painted, the engine purring with a promise of safety and renewal, and places me in the back seat. Cain is beside me, and soon, Poppet is climbing in the front passenger seat.

  Turning to look out the tinted window, I see Mr. Hodge dragging Madam Karina from the burning house. She tried to have him killed, and yet he saved her. The way he bends over her broken body, calling her name, smoothing her hair back—it’s almost romantic. Let them have each other.

  Angie is about to drop down into the car when I catch sight of Eric. He has the gun, the gun I figured was smoldering inside the fire. He points it directly at Angie.

  Cain yells her name, and Angie straightens. I don’t know why she does it. She should have jumped inside and stepped on the gas, but now Eric has a clear shot, and he’s going to kill her. Then he’s going to kill us all.

  Angie utters a single word.

  Just one.

  It’s enough.

  Angie’s Doberman appears from the smoke like a hound from the mouth of hell. He’s on Eric in a heartbeat. The gun fires at the sky, and my heart explodes inside my chest. As Wilson takes himself to bed, covers his frail body with warm blankets, I’m reunited with fear. The fear of losing another person I care about. I scream for Angie to get inside the car.

  But Angie stays put.

  She watches as her dog tears into the man, snapping jaws and bloodied muzzle. She could pull him off at any moment. It might take only a sharp word to stop the dog’s attack. But she doesn’t do a thing. She only stands by, overseeing the officer’s death. The same man who chose each and every girl who worked this home and hand-delivered them to Madam Karina.

  When Eric’s fingers stop twitching, Angie pats the side of her leg. The dog trots over, chest damp with blood. With the dog by her side, Angie takes three quick steps toward Mr. Hodge and Madam Karina. The madam’s eyes are closed, her checkered dress blackened by smoke and debris, but Mr. Hodge is fully conscious. He scoots backward and drags his lover after him, away from the woman whose dog just killed a man.

  Angie points a thick arm at Mr. Hodge and says something. Then she looks at the few girls still crowded around the roaring house, engulfed in flames, and says something to them, too. Satisfied, Angie turns toward our idling vehicle and gets inside. The dog jumps over her and lies across Poppet’s lap, dampening her clothes with blood. I wonder how Kali survived being poisoned, but then I think of how much Angie loves those dogs. If anyone could’ve saved one of them, it’s her. As Poppet hugs the animal, my heart aches for Angie and the dog that didn’t make it.

  Angie breathes hard for several seconds, and then turns to Cain and me in the back seat. “No one will ever hurt you guys again,” she says with finality. Angie looks at Poppet next and nods. Then, slowly, she puts the car into reverse and backs out the gate.

  Gravel crunches under our tires as I gaze at the house.

  Eric is dead, and Madam Karina hasn’t opened her eyes in a long time, but it’s the girls I watch. They hold one another and look around for someone to rescue them. I hate them for what they put me through. But as angry as I was then, now I pity them. A part of me hopes they, too, find a path leading to a better life.

  Cain wraps his arm around my shoulders, and I lean into him. For the next several minutes, we drive in silence. When we near the train, Cain tells Angie to stop. It takes all three of them—Poppet, Angie, and Cain—to talk me out of driving straight to the Pox County jailhouse. But in the end, they make me see sense. We have to get out of town. We have to expose what happened here, and send the authorities—those who can actually be trusted—to release the girls being held and talk the others into getting the help they need to start again.

  Angie takes the longest to jump onto the train, even taking into account my injured arm. But with Cain’s help, she manages. Cain is last to leap on, one arm around the dog. The Doberman licks Angie’s face, leaving slobber on her cheek.

  When she calls me over, I don’t hesitate. I scoot under her waiting arm, and Poppet leans back on my knees. Cain sits beside me, one hand rubbing my back. After we catch our breath, he leans close, his mouth brushing my ear.

  “Are you…you again?” he asks, simply.

  I nod against his lips. “You?”

  “Here,” he replies. “Don’t leave like that again, okay? Stay with me. You promised.”

  Cain presses his lips to my cheek, and I smile against his touch, my eyes closing. I don’t know where we’ll land, but I hang on to the dream that we’ll end up in Kansas, Cain on the field and Poppet and I in the stands. Angie will grunt that she’s happy at home making chili and cornbread, and it’ll be waiting for us when we return. And dammit, be careful walking back, because the sidewalks are slick with ice and she’s got enough to do without one of us spraining an ankle.

  The train chugs down the track, thunk-thunking over the rails and ties, and Angie begins to hum. Kali lies down at our feet and closes her eyes, and Poppet says, “One day, we’ll forget any of this ever happened. It’ll be all fuzzy, like a dream.”

  “Yeah,” I mumble. “We’re just getting started.”

  It’s the last thing I say before the world slips away.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Good-bye

  The room is bare, the floorboards cool beneath my feet. Wilson lies in a twin bed, a crisp white sheet pulled tight across his chest. His eyes are closed. A shadow dances over his body, making it difficult to get a firm grasp on his features. It’s like trying to recall someone from your past in detail, but all you can manage is a blurred image. Blackness stretches across his cheeks and nose and eyes—a mask I can’t see behind. But it’s his face. That much I recognize.

  There’s a wooden chair beside the bed and a little light coming through a window. Dust coats the floor, leaving imprints of my feet as I cross the distance and sit. Wilson opens one eye and smiles, but I can tell he’s doing it for me alone. Sweat coats his forehead, and his frame is shrunken. He’s not the bull I imagined him as, but there’s strength in his steady gaze yet.

  His other eye opens and he says, “It’s you.”

  “It’s me.”

  I take his hand. His fingers are thin and cold, but they wrap around my own and fill me with peace.

  “I could stay with you, you know,” Wilson suggests. “I could go to Kansas, too. Just in case.”

  I shake my head and squeeze his hand tighter
. “I have to do this on my own.”

  He turns his face away. “You don’t need me anymore.”

  Tears prick my eyes. “I’ll always need you, Wilson,” I whisper. “But I need to face my memories and the things I’ve done. I need to let people in.” I clear my throat. “It’s time I talk about what happened after my father left.”

  “Will you remember me?” he asks, turning back.

  My heart aches at the hopefulness in his voice. “I could never forget you.” I laugh softly. “You know, there was a time when I couldn’t even think your name.”

  Wilson pulls himself up in bed. A grin parts his mouth. “You were terrified of me.”

  “I was terrified of remembering.”

  “But then you started to let me in,” he says, his eyes dancing. “You finally realized I only wanted to help.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I still think you should have eaten the orange sherbet at that ice cream shop.”

  “No, Cookies and Cream was the right choice.”

  Wilson shivers like what I said is repulsive.

  I pull the sheet higher over Wilson’s frame, fighting the emotion building in my chest. “I don’t want to leave.”

  “Then don’t,” he whispers.

  I cover my eyes, and a sob breaks in my throat. “You know I have to.”

  Wilson sighs and leans back on his pillow, releasing my hand. “I know, Domino. It’s just…who will protect you now? Cain? Angie?”

  “I don’t need anyone to protect me anymore.”

  “So…Cain?”

  I laugh through my tears. “Yeah, Cain.”

  Wilson nods, satisfied.

  I stand from the chair and stride toward the door, because if I don’t leave now, right now, then I’m afraid I never will. My hand is on the knob when Wilson’s voice reaches me.

  “Hey, Domino?”

  I stop.

  “You think maybe I’ll go on to someone else now? Instead of just…ending?”

  I turn partway, speaking over my shoulder. “I think anything is possible.” And then, because I’m losing my courage, I say one last thing to my friend. “Thank you, Wilson. For everything.”

  I walk out the door, and sunlight warms my face. I stare into that reviving light for several moments before my eyes open again. When they do, and I find myself half asleep on the train, I know Wilson is gone for good.

  But Cain is there, sleeping beside me. And Poppet is leaning against Angie, who is watching over us all. These people are my home now, and I will cherish them all my life.

  And what a life it will be.

  Acknowledgments

  Violet Grenade is a strange little book, and I’m indebted to many people for bringing its oddity to life.

  A giant thank-you to my editor, Heather Howland, for encouraging me to embrace my voice, and for asking if I could make scenes darker, and darker still. You absolutely got Domino, Cain, and Wilson, and this book is undeniably better because of you.

  To the entire team at Entangled Teen—thank you! To Liz Pelletier, who first welcomed me to Entangled Publishing, and to my production editor, Christine Chhun, and copy editor, Nancy Cantor, for your little love notes. To Melissa Montovani, my publicist, for her lightning-quick responses, and to the entire marketing and foreign rights teams who get my books into the right places—thank you!

  Thank you to Dr. Clark Steffens, a fantastic dentist who didn’t panic when I asked him what tooth would hurt the most if you, ya’ know, held someone down and extracted it. Thanks for lending your knowledge to an important scene.

  A special thank you to friends Angee Webb and Melissa Gouge—I remember pitching this book to you girls over lunch—and to Kay Honeyman, who pushed me to keep that last chapter. Thank you to Lindsay Cummings for inspiring me with your creativity, talent, and relentless work ethic. Love to my mom and sister, who have strange, twisty brains like me. And hugs to my dad, brother, and grandma for always asking what I’m working on.

  Always, always, thank you to my readers. If you loved this book, if it kept you up late at night and caused chills to rush down your arms, then you, too, have strange, twisty minds. I always imagined it’d take a special reader to truly love Violet Grenade. If you did, you’re my kind of people.

  Finally, thank you to my daughter, Luci, who just called me into her room to read a book about pumpkins four times. Four times? Really? You’re definitely my kid. And to my husband, Ryan, who always tries to write his own part in the acknowledgments and prompts me by asking, “Who else is as important to your writing as me?”

  Nobody, baby. Nobody. I love you.

  To every last person holding this book—a big, cuddly thank you from me!

  And from me.

  About the Author

  Victoria Scott is the critically acclaimed author of eight novels including Fire & Flood, Titans, and the Dante Walker trilogy. Her books are sold in thirteen countries, and she loves hearing from readers across the world. Victoria is a big city girl who appreciates fashion, interior design, and pink cotton candy.

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