by Kyla Stone
“You could have hired someone.”
Eli let out a harsh laugh. “After eight years? Whatever for? If I was going to send an assassin after Easton, it would’ve been years ago.”
“Because you knew you were getting out.”
“If that was my goal, I would have done it myself.” The words came out before he could stop them, but it was the truth and Jackson knew it, too. He saw it in the man’s eyes. Jackson knew the violence that lived beneath Eli’s skin.
“Why would I waste a get-out-of-jail-free card just to kill someone?”
“Crazier things have happened. You hated Easton. You made no bones about that.”
“Easton hated me first. He claimed I murdered his daughter.”
Can you blame him? hung in the air, unspoken.
The irony wasn’t lost on Eli that Easton could have been the one to frame him. He wouldn’t put it past the grizzled old bugger to plant evidence, to lie, to intentionally destroy Eli’s life. But the geezer was dead.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, deputy.”
“Undersheriff.” Jackson didn’t drop his gaze. He took a step forward. Five feet between them. The closest they’d stood since Jackson had slapped the cuffs on him, the metal biting the skin of his wrists, fear a bitter taste in the back of his throat.
Jackson’s mouth tightened. “I have a dead body. I have two missing kids.”
It took a second for that to sink in. “Lily’s kids are missing?”
“Cody and Shiloh.”
“You think someone took them?”
Jackson turned the question back on him. “Why would someone take them?”
“To kill them off-site. To dispose of the bodies elsewhere.”
“What for?”
“If they were witnesses to the crime.”
Jackson didn’t speak.
Eli mulled it over. He frowned. “Or one of them is the killer. Amos had a hair-trigger temper. He’d gotten physical with Lily and Lena before. Remember that black eye Lena sported junior year? She said she walked into a door. She didn’t.”
Jackson’s expression hardened. “I will find the truth. I will hunt down whoever did this and bring them to justice. No matter who it is.”
“I hope you do.”
“We’ll be in touch.”
“Will we?”
“Damn it, Eli.” Jackson shook his head. For the first time, his implacable mask slipped. He ran a hand through his sandy hair until it stood on end. “You. Coming back here. Why? I don’t understand it.”
“This is my home.”
“But you…after you…” Jackson’s features contorted with anger and grief, with that bewildered hurt that had once skewered Eli to his soul.
It did nothing to him now.
His soul had died long ago.
Eli stepped back onto the porch. “It’s time for you to leave.”
Jackson turned on his heel and marched toward his patrol truck. Shadows wobbled as he made his way to the driver’s side door, then half-turned to glance back at the house, at Eli, as if he wanted to say something.
Eli didn’t care what Jackson had to say. Jackson was like a dog with a bone. He did not give up or give in. He would get in the way, interfere with Eli’s plans. Whether it was through this investigation of Easton or another way—he was a problem.
Eli went back into the dark and silent house and shut the door behind him. He threw the deadbolt, rested the rifle against the wall, then leaned against the door.
The adrenaline dump hit him. His legs went shaky as dizziness spun through him. He felt sick.
The hatred of the townspeople didn’t bother him. Not like Jackson did. The boy he’d loved like his own family. They had been brothers in everything but blood.
Eli tried to hate him but found he couldn’t. Anger, yes. Betrayal, certainly. But hatred, never.
Didn’t mean he wouldn’t do whatever he had to do to get vengeance, no matter who tried to stop him. If it meant going head-to-head with his former best friend, then so be it.
15
JACKSON CROSS
DAY TWO
Jackson moved to his dresser. It had been an exhausting day. Upstairs, he could hear his mother and father speaking in low tones, the creak of his sister’s wheelchair.
After his sister Astrid’s car accident left her disabled, Jackson had moved back home to help his mother care for her. His parents were getting older; he was single. It made sense at the time.
He lived in the finished basement with a kitchenette, two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a home gym.
The cliff-side lake house offered spectacular views of the harbor and Grand Island. The lawn was manicured. Square hedgerows lined the paver driveway. The house itself was architect-designed to resemble a Lake Tahoe lodge, built of stone, cedar, and glass.
Inside, reclaimed rafter beams stretched across the twenty-foot-tall ceiling. Hunting trophies hung on the walls in the formal living room, dining room, and study: mounted deer, antelope, moose.
Once and only once, he’d brought Lily to the house. When she’d seen the giant ivory elephant tusks encased behind glass in his father’s library, she’d smirked and said, “I think he’s compensating for something.”
It was the only time he could recall a genuine laugh at his father’s expense. Mostly, he felt a mix of shame and obligation in his father’s imposing presence.
His eyes avoided the mirror. The dresser was smooth and dust-free. His wallet and badge sat on one side. The other side was empty but for a 4x6 framed photo.
Four teenagers faced the camera, grinning and hamming it up. Lily and Lena in the center, Jackson on one end, Eli on the other. They wore swimsuits. The turquoise water of the swimming hole glistened behind them, their lean tan bodies glowing in the sunlight.
Jackson with that self-conscious grin, his sandy hair tousled and sun-bleached, one arm slung across Lily’s shoulder, half-turned, his gaze slanted not at the camera but at her. Lily was his whole universe, his sun, moon, and stars. It was written across his smitten face.
Lena had snuggled in next to Eli’s muscled torso. His arm hugged her bare ribs, tickling her just as the photo was snapped.
Those two had been inseparable through high school. Destined for each other, though Amos Easton had not approved. Folks thought they’d make it, get married and have beautiful children with Eli’s soulful black eyes and Lena’s beaming smile.
The photo had been taken the summer after graduation, before Eli left for boot camp and Lena escaped to U of M, while Lily remained behind, waitressing. Jackson had stayed in the UP to attend Michigan Technology University in Houghton with plans to follow in his father’s footsteps and work in law enforcement.
It was a precious, glorious, perfect summer.
Until Eli had slept with Lily.
The spark that started the wildfire that burned their entire world to the ground.
Jackson tore his gaze from the photo. The bittersweet memories flooded him each time he looked at it. A knife sliding between his ribs. He couldn’t help himself.
His sister Astrid had asked why he didn’t throw the photo in the trash. Or burn it.
Jackson picked up the framed photo and stared at it. He’d tried. But for some reason, he never could do it. Things had been so normal, then. Bright and good and happy.
Or perhaps Eli had never been normal, and Jackson had been willfully blind.
Eli had a dark streak. Anyone close to him knew it. He was the first to hurl an insult. The first to throw himself into a bar fight. He cut school, drank too much, drove too fast, took too many risks. A propensity for violence, the forensic psychologists said afterward.
Consequences had always seemed to mean little to Eli. His mother had died young—she’d shot herself in the head when he was six. That was the ugly rumor.
Everyone had known it, but no one knew how to handle someone like Eli. What do you say to a hurting kid whose mom blew her own skull off?
He made it eas
y for everyone by pushing them away first. Until he’d befriended Jackson in the third grade. They’d attended the same small school since kindergarten, but their families never socialized in the same circles.
Jackson had been a shy, timid child. He was cursed with a stutter his father’s sharp disapproval and his mother’s anxious coddling couldn’t cure. The other kids shunned him; the teachers looked at him with pity. Only Eli didn’t care.
One day, three boys had encircled Jackson on the playground while the teacher was inside grading papers instead of monitoring her charges. They pushed him, taunting him, forcing him to say vulgar, forbidden words to bring out his fear, his nervousness, and his stutter. “Say p-p-panties, you moron.”
Eli came in like a whirlwind. He’d seized handfuls of mulch and hurled it in the boys’ faces, then without warning, he’d started punching, hitting, and kicking anybody within reach.
After that day, they had become fast friends. No one picked on Jackson or they answered to Eli. Eli was Jackson’s salvation. For Eli, Jackson was the antidote to what must have been a tremendous, unmitigated loneliness.
The Cross family had not approved. They were well bred. Their ancestors had gained their wealth in copper and iron and timber for four generations. Where that wealth had disappeared to was never mentioned. Regardless, they did not fraternize with the lesser citizens of Alger County.
According to Jackson’s mother, Eli had been a dirty Indian and came from a dirty Indian family and like all Indians, he would never amount to anything.
Jackson glanced at the photo again. He tried to recall who had taken the picture. James Sawyer, maybe. Or possibly Astrid.
He dragged his eyes upward and met his own gaze. The face in the mirror was a stranger. He looked haggard. His eyes were shadowed.
There was another reason he kept the photo.
As a reminder. As penance.
Ever since he could remember, he’d wanted to be an officer of the law. Put away the bad guys. Be the hero. Good and bad. Black and white. There was no gray. Until there was.
He had not been able to let go of Lily’s death. There wasn’t enough evidence in the case. The perpetrator was going to get away. And that, he could not abide. And when he’d seen the opportunity to make it right—he’d taken it.
So help him, but he had.
That choice hadn’t brought him the peace that he’d craved. A thousand times, he’d prayed to God to absolve him. But God was silent.
A thousand times, he’d told himself he’d done the right thing. That he’d fixed an elemental wrong in the universe.
That one immoral deed could correct a much greater evil.
He still believed that, didn’t he?
Didn’t he?
16
LENA EASTON
DAY THREE
Lena lugged the last crate of supplies from the elevator of her third-story apartment and stacked it in the storage compartment of the Honda Pilot next to her go-bag. The back of the SUV and the cargo carrier were filled with supplies.
She’d nicknamed the 2002 Honda Pilot the Tan Turd, since it was old, ugly, and literally falling apart. Two weeks ago, the bumper had fallen off on her way to work. She’d rescued it and taped it into place with duct tape.
At least the Pilot was All-Wheel Drive. It had its advantages—it blended in. it didn’t grab attention or stand out. That was a useful trait.
“Almost done,” she huffed to the dog. “Not that you care one bit, you big oaf.”
Bear napped in the Honda’s backseat, tongue lolling, his big furry body taking up the entire row. A few of his toys had been tossed into the footwell, his food and water in the back. She’d left the rear passenger door open until it was time to go.
“Hey, Ms. Easton.”
Lena stiffened at the sound of footsteps. She slid the crate of canned goods deeper into the back behind her duffle bag, then turned, attempting to shield her supplies with her body.
Three men strolled across the parking lot of the Westshore apartment complex. They were more boys than men, in their early twenties, with acne and spotty facial hair.
She recognized two of them. The tallest one, Trevor Leonard, had dropped out of college during the pandemic and never went back. He lived with his parents.
“Going on a trip?” Trevor asked. His expression was petulant; he looked perpetually bored.
“Something like that.”
“Where you going?” his friend asked. He was shorter, heavyset, with a wisp of a goatee and skittish eyes. He kept looking down at his phone and scowling.
Lena searched her brain for his name. Tyrell Jones. He and Trevor smoked weed in the stairwells and slouched around the grounds like a pair of mangy dogs.
Her gaze slid to the third figure, who hung back. He was older, in his late twenties. Close-cut brown hair, square jaw dusted with a five o’clock shadow at ten in the morning.
She’d seen him before. Lounging at a corner of the complex. Watching the women. Hovering over a girl as he corralled her into a stairwell and up to his apartment.
Last year, rumors had swirled about a sexual assault charge. She recalled the police cruisers, the red and blue wash of lights across her bedroom window. The girl had dropped the charges and moved out less than a week later.
“Ah man, I still can’t get service,” Javier whined in a high-pitched voice. He held his phone high in the air as if searching for a signal. “Not again. What the hell, man. This sucks, Josh.”
Josh watched her. “You got service, Ms. Easton?”
“Nope.”
“You didn’t even check.”
She stared back at him, unblinking. “I did two minutes ago.”
Somewhere across the parking lot, a small dog yipped. Vehicles drove past on the road in front of the apartment complex. Staticky TVs blared from open windows. A few streets over, someone honked their horn.
Everything seemed so normal, everyone going about their regular business. It was eerie. It was easy to think you were overreacting, that things would be the same tomorrow as they’d always been.
“I’m quite busy.”
Josh didn’t retreat.
She was almost ready to go; these hooligans were the last thing she needed. Lena had spent last night tossing and turning. Part of her had wanted to leave immediately, to drive through the night and get that much closer to her destination by dawn.
But she knew herself, knew her limitations. Rest was a crucial aspect to health, especially for a diabetic. She’d learned that lesson the hard way.
Besides, preparation now would pay off later.
Last night, she’d been productive. Other than her go-bag that she kept in the Pilot, she wasn’t prepared to leave on a moment’s notice. It had never been part of the plan.
She’d packed toiletries and clothing in a duffle bag, then spent the rest of the evening organizing her supplies to load up in the morning. The water worked, so she filled ten one-gallon jugs she’d kept on hand for hurricane-related emergencies.
Her budget was small, but over the years she’d managed to collect some useful items. The mini-fridge that would keep her insulin cold on a road trip was the most critical.
This morning, she’d headed to the bank, where she withdrew her limit from the ATM and then hit the doors the second Chase opened. The teller insisted on a one-thousand-dollar limit per customer due to the ongoing system issues.
Lena took the cash and ran before they closed their doors for good.
Her next stop was the gas station, which was cash-only. She topped off the tank, filled her four jerrycans with fuel, and purchased an up-to-date Road Atlas. If satellites were damaged, GPS wouldn’t work.
Finally, she visited several pharmacies. She stocked up on batteries, bleach, alcohol swabs, antibiotic ointment, Advil, and bandages. For her diabetes, she grabbed extra glucose meters and test strips, then added boxes of 100-pack syringes and glucose tablets.
There was a quantity limit of four vials of insulin at
each pharmacy, so she hopped from Walgreens to CVS to Walmart. Every pharmacy she visited was running low. People crowded the aisles, more than usual.
Every three months she had to get an infusion set, reservoir, and new sensors for her pump through her prescription. She could never order more, and even with insurance, it cost several hundred dollars. Luckily, she’d refilled her prescription on Friday.
In total, she hit eight pharmacies and procured thirty-two unopened vials of insulin, both long-acting and short-acting. They expired in two years. She had twenty-four months-worth plus or minus, in addition to her current prescription for her pump.
She wrote checks where she could and used cash where they wouldn’t accept checks. By the time she’d finished, her bank account was well overdrawn.
Now, nearly everything was packed and ready. She just needed to get rid of these guys.
“Where you going in such a hurry?” Josh asked again. He outweighed her by a good hundred pounds and towered over her fit five-foot, five-inch frame.
“Just a weekend getaway,” she said, cautious.
“Where.” It wasn’t a question.
Lena raised her chin. If he was attempting to intimidate her, it wouldn’t work. “Savannah,” she said without missing a beat. “The Westin hotel. Meeting up with a friend from college to visit Cumberland Island to see the wild horses.”
“Lots of craziness going on right now.” He circled the SUV, his hands loose at his sides, examining the vehicle, taking in the crates, the jerry-cans, the jugs of water, the box of batteries, and the solar charger.
He snatched the nearest cardboard box and yanked it to the edge of the storage compartment. He lifted the flaps and started rummaging inside. The box held her medic bag, which contained trauma dressings, burn gel, splints, cervical collar, gauze, and other supplies.
Irritation scraped her nerves raw. “What are you doing?”
“Just looking. Don’t get your panties in a wad.”
Behind him, Trevor and Javier exchanged uneasy glances.