by Chelsea Cain
“You’re bleeding,” Henry said. “Sit still.”
“Where is she?” Archie said. His legs were jelly. The soles of his shoes slid in the mud. He could see people all around him then. Uniforms. FBI windbreakers. Flak jackets. Radios crackled. His vision wavered and he let Henry move his hand from his holster and lower him back safely to the ground. Archie’s teeth hurt. He could taste his own blood in his mouth where he’d bitten his tongue.
“We’ll find her,” Henry said.
She was gone.
Colin had not taught himself how to make the bomb he’d strapped to the reverend; he’d learned how to make that bomb from Gretchen. And now she had made one herself.
Archie pushed himself to his feet. “I’m okay,” he said to Henry. He held himself upright by keeping a hand on the tree trunk and he scanned the meadows, the stream, the farm.
There was one bridge from the island to the mainland, and it had been secured immediately. But there was water on all sides, and a boat could get someone far fast.
A helicopter took off from behind the barn and started a search pattern overhead, flattening the long grass and sending more leaves spiraling off the trees. Archie’s knees buckled again and Henry helped him back to the ground.
“They won’t find her,” Archie heard himself mumble.
Henry wiped a clot of mud off Archie’s cheek. “An ambulance will be here in ten minutes,” he said.
“I don’t need an ambulance,” Archie said. The leaves in the air were dizzying. They whirled around like confetti. Archie watched one float, gliding gently side to side until it hung in the air next to him, and then he caught it in his dirty hand. “I’m fine,” he said.
He heard a dog bark, and looked up. Then he shook his head and laughed.
“What’s wrong with you?” Henry asked.
“She left me the dog,” Archie said.
A red-haired patrol cop named Whatley jogged up with the corgi on a leash.
“We found her in the backseat of your car, sir,” Whatley said to Archie. “The windows were cracked,” he said. “And we found this.” He held a folded note out to Archie.
Archie opened the note. It was handwritten in Gretchen’s perfect script.
Darling—something to remember me by.
Archie showed the note to Henry. Claire came up next to Henry while he was reading it and slipped her arm through his. It was a tender casual gesture, but for them it was a brazen display of public affection. Archie couldn’t help but smile. “Congratulations,” he said.
“Really?” she said. “Right now?”
The corgi barked again. Archie held his hand up and Whatley laid the end of the leash across his palm. The dog walked over and stretched along the length of Archie’s thigh and laid her head on his knee. Her fur was splattered with mud, too, and one of her ears had blood in it. She whined and Archie stroked her head. Archie could feel the sun on his face. The leaves that had rained down from the trees had blanketed everything with a layer of gleaming green.
“We’re better off without her,” he said.
ALSO BY CHELSEA CAIN
The Night Season
Evil at Heart
Sweetheart
Heartsick
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My mother, Mary Cain, gave me a great gift when I was a kid. She didn’t raise an eyebrow when I announced that I was writing a book. I wrote a lot of “novels” in my room growing up. And I probably would have given up if she had ever pointed out the obvious fact that I was a child and needed to get a clue and take up sports. These days it is my writing group who humors me: Chuck Palahniuk, Lidia Yuknavitch, Monica Drake, Cheryl Strayed, Mary Wysong-Haeri, Suzy Vitello, Diana Jordan, and Erin Leonard. Yes, we still meet every week. My editor, Kelley Ragland, always makes my books better. And my husband, Marc Mohan, is always the first person to read a manuscript from start to finish. I think, Marc, I am finally learning the difference between steel and steal. Our daughter, Eliza Fantastic, is already writing books of her own, although “author” is several slots below “restaurant owner” on her aspiration list. Eliza, this is the book I was working on up in the attic the summer before first grade. Thanks also to my agent, Joy Harris, and her excellent crew at the Joy Harris Literary Agency, and to everyone at St. Martin’s Minotaur, with special thanks to Andrew Martin, George Witte, Sally Richardson, Matthew Shear, Matt Baldacci, Matt Martz, Hector DeJean, and Nancy Trypuc. Also, Ryan O’Neill, consider this your acknowledgment redux. Sorry I left off one of your “L’s” in the last book. Last, thanks to all the people who read the acknowledgments. You know who you are.
First published 2012 by Pan Books
This electronic edition published 2012 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
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Basingstoke and Oxford
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www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-0-230-76726-3 EPUB
Copyright © Verite Inc. 2012
The right of Chelsea Cain to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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