A Game of Fox & Squirrels

by Jenn Reese

  That’s what would happen to everything if she failed. Aunt Vicky and Hannah would replace her parents. Lucas would replace BriAnn. Trees and chickens would replace restaurants and shops and the endless bustle of things happening on her street in Los Angeles.

  The new version of Caitlin would replace the old Caitlin, too, but … maybe that wasn’t a bad thing, necessarily. Even with her arm in a cast, this Caitlin seemed more herself, somehow. Old Caitlin was always trying to be the best at everything, always trying to protect Sam, always making everyone happy.

  But the real Caitlin didn’t always want to help with the dishes.

  Sam kind of liked the real Caitlin. Back home, that sort of defiance would not have gone over well.

  We have to get her to the hospital.

  Sam shook the voice out of her head. She got out of bed and dressed with all the speed and excitement of a girl being forced to walk the plank on a pirate ship. Aunt Vicky wanted to talk with her, and she knew exactly why.

  The sky seemed on board with her impending doom. Gray clouds milled about, grumbling and threatening rain. Hopefully they’d be gone by nightfall, in time for the moon to come out. But even if they didn’t, there would be magic tonight. Powerful magic. Sam could feel it.

  She arrived in the kitchen at the same time Armen burst through the front door. His shirt was only partly tucked in, and strands of his hair had not been caught by his normally meticulous ponytail. Aunt Vicky handed him a cup of coffee and directed Sam to a seat at the table, where a stack of pancakes waited next to full glasses of milk and orange juice.

  Aunt Vicky had made Sam breakfast.

  Did she not know about Pirate Princess? But she had to! Her aunt went to bed last night, and she must have noticed that her favorite rabbit was missing.

  And yet, there were pancakes. With melty butter and syrup. As if Sam deserved to eat. Sam sat and poked the pancakes with a finger. Still warm.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Armen said. “Miranda Ruiz called. Three of her chickens are…” He seemed to notice Sam for the first time and slowed down. Seemed to choose his words more carefully. “They’re missing. Two are…” He hesitated again. “Permanently missing. One is just gone.”

  “Oh, poor Miranda! She loves her Rhode Island Reds,” Aunt Vicky said. “What happened? Did she leave the gate open? I’ll bring her something later. Maybe some extra eggs, unless you think…?”

  “No, that’s a good idea,” Armen said. “She’ll probably be grief-baking for a week.”

  Sam stared at the table, thinking furiously. It had to be a coincidence. Missing chickens the morning after Ashander had told her to steal a chicken. Maybe chickens went missing all the time in Oregon. Maybe this had nothing to do with him.

  Caitlin strolled into the room. “Lucas is outside my window going on about paw prints and wild animals.” She nodded to Armen. “He wants you to come see.”

  Armen raised an eyebrow at Aunt Vicky. She dropped her dish towel, and the two of them headed for the door. Sam followed, a ball of dread growing in her gut.

  They hurried to the side of the house and found Lucas squatting in the tall grass.

  “Dad, look!” he said, motioning to a spot on the ground.

  They huddled around and stared at two large paw prints, captured perfectly in the mud just under Caitlin’s open window.

  Caitlin shouldered into the group next to Sam. “Is that a cat? Was it trying to get inside?”

  “No, it wasn’t a cat,” Lucas said. “No tiny claw marks above the pads.”

  “A dog, then. Or a wolf,” Aunt Vicky said. “They’re too big to be from a fox.”

  “They are too big, and yet look at the position of the toes.” Armen scratched his chin. “Those are definitely fox prints.”

  Sam hugged her arms. Ashander had been here. Outside Caitlin’s window. Probably while she was sleeping.

  Aunt Vicky stood up and scanned the chicken yard. Six black-and-white hens bobbed and clucked, including Lady Louise. “The chickens seem fine. Lady Louise kept them safe,” she said. “But should we be worried about attacks? If there is some rogue fox on the loose…”

  “Foxes don’t attack people,” Armen scoffed.

  Foxes don’t normally recite riddles, either, Sam thought.

  She wanted to tell them. The words were sitting on her tongue. But the moment she did, it would all be over. The tests, the Golden Acorn, the way home. Everything. And then Ashander might get really angry.

  Armen stood up and rubbed his eyes. “We’re probably overreacting. I’m very sorry for Miranda, but chickens get out of their coops all the time.”

  “And maybe this one just has big paws,” Lucas said, poking at one of the prints.

  And even bigger claws, Sam thought with a shudder.

  Overhead, the skies were darkening, the clouds now an angry swirl.

  “It’s going to rain,” Aunt Vicky said. “Let’s get back inside.”

  Armen helped Lucas up. The four of them headed for the kitchen as the first drops of rain plunked to the earth.

  Sam hesitated. Something looked wrong with the mailbox. She’d put her letter to BriAnn in there last night and lifted the flag on the side to let the mail carrier know there was a pickup.

  The little flag was now missing.

  She took a few steps closer. Had the mailbox always been tilted like the Leaning Tower of Pisa? No, yesterday it had been ramrod straight, perfectly perpendicular to the ground. She was sure of it.

  The lid was still closed, so she tugged it open. The first drops of rain dashed themselves on her forehead.

  Her letter to BriAnn was still inside. At least, pieces of it were. Someone or something had ripped it in half. She pulled out one of the scraps and recognized her drawing of a palm tree, her lies to BriAnn. A reddish-brown chicken feather clung to the back.

  But none of Aunt Vicky’s chickens were brown.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  SAM SHOVED THE shredded remains of BriAnn’s letter into her pocket and headed for the house. She did not look at the chickens, and especially not at Lady Louise.

  Ashander’s meaning was clear. Her quest wasn’t just about going home anymore. Now Aunt Vicky, Hannah, and even Caitlin were in actual danger.

  The trees, so high and mighty when she’d first arrived, now urged her forward with their rustling, wind-tossed limbs. Do what must be done, they said. The fox’s favor is worth winning.

  Inside the house, Armen and Lucas were settling into chairs at the table. Caitlin stacked wood in the fireplace, trying to coax a blaze. Aunt Vicky heated milk on the stove, an array of mismatched mugs waiting on the counter at her side.

  Sam sat in front of the cooling pile of uneaten pancakes. The butter had melted in a pool at the top. The scent of maple syrup tugged at her nose. Her mother’s pancakes never looked this good. Even so, she could only stomach a few bites.

  Aunt Vicky handed her a mug of hot chocolate. “Are you done eating, Sam? Can we talk?”

  Sam nodded, but she wanted to leap up from the table, run out the door, and keep running. She didn’t even care what direction.

  Instead, she followed her aunt down the hallway and into Sam’s room. Aunt Vicky sat on Sam’s bed, her own mug in her hands, and studied the room as if she were seeing it for the first time.

  “We can paint the walls, if you want,” Aunt Vicky said. She took a sip. “I don’t know what your favorite color is, but I’d like to find out. Is it blue?”

  Sam had been expecting any number of questions and accusations, but not this one.

  “Yes, blue,” she said nervously. She looked at the ring on her finger, the one she had taken from the bins. Its stone was the perfect shade.

  “Excellent choice,” Aunt Vicky said. She patted the bed next to her. “Sit?”

  Sam hesitated. Her heart had been a wild creature all morning, frantic and unruly. Now it was trying to leap entirely out of her chest.

  Even so, she did as she was told.

  “My
stuffed rabbit is missing,” Aunt Vicky said. “But I think you already know that.”

  Sam sat perfectly still.

  Her aunt took another sip of hot chocolate. “I don’t know why you took it, and right now, I don’t care.” She looked at Sam instead of her mug. “What I do care about is you, Sam. I care that you’re hurting. I care that you’re afraid. I care that you’re doing all these things alone.”

  Pressure was building up in Sam’s chest, and in her head, and behind her eyes. She could feel tears wanting to come, but did not let them. Tears were always dangerous.

  I’ll give you something to cry about.

  Sam stared at her small library of books, now stacked on the floor by the bed. The faded spine of The Hobbit stared back at her.

  She wanted to say, I want my parents. I want BriAnn. I want to go home.

  But that spell didn’t seem as powerful anymore.

  “Change is hard, I know,” Aunt Vicky said. “When I was your age, I used to pray for it. I used to beg every god I could think of—even the big one—for some sort of escape. I was so tired of trying to win love from people who awarded it like a prize. But I didn’t know how to change. I didn’t see any way out, and I didn’t have anyone I could trust.”

  Sam thought of the bins of stuffed animals. Of the Queen of Squirrels. Of Pirate Princess.

  Aunt Vicky started to say something. Stopped. Started again. “I want you to know that I love you, and that you can trust me. You don’t have to do anything to earn these things. If you mess up, I will still love you. If you lie to me, you can still trust me. You are worthy of love, Sam. Just as you are.”

  The words swirled around Sam like a hurricane, a great storm of empty promises. He’ll never do it again. He loves you. He didn’t mean to hurt Caitlin. This was the last time.

  The last time.

  The last time.

  Words were everywhere. They cost nothing to say. They changed nothing. Even if Sam wanted to believe them, how could she?

  A branch slammed into the window. Sam was standing by the bed in a second, her heart racing, her legs ready to bolt.

  Aunt Vicky was up just as fast, her breathing as shallow as Sam’s.

  “It’s just the storm,” Aunt Vicky said. “The window isn’t even cracked. Everything is okay.”

  Through the glass, Sam saw a shimmer of red and purple on the edge of the forest. Not very far at all from the house.

  “Everything is fine,” Aunt Vicky said.

  But Sam knew the truth. Everything was not fine.

  Armen appeared in the doorway. “You okay? We heard a crash.”

  “A branch,” Aunt Vicky said. “Scared the living daylights out of us.” She put a hand over her heart and pressed, as if she could slow its beating. Sam caught herself about to do the same thing.

  Did Aunt Vicky have rabbit heart, too?

  Caitlin popped her head in. “What a storm, right? Maybe we’ll get thunder and lightning later! We never had anything like this in LA. I can’t wait till I get to go running in the rain.”

  The way Caitlin grinned. The way she stood on the balls of her feet, almost bouncing in the doorway. She had never looked this happy, or this strong.

  Caitlin being carried to the car in her father’s arms.

  Caitlin asleep in her hospital bed, so small under the white sheets.

  Sam shuddered. When Sam found the Golden Acorn and they went back home … which Caitlin would go with her?

  Armen volunteered to make the next batch of hot chocolate, and Caitlin offered to help him. The two of them headed back to the kitchen, leaving Sam with Aunt Vicky.

  “We can talk again later,” Aunt Vicky said. She looked as if she was going to touch Sam’s arm but dropped her hand at the last minute and wiped her palms on the sides of her shorts instead. “Come to the kitchen. Your hot chocolate is cold, and we can get you a warm-up.” She smiled, and Sam followed her back out to the others.

  Caitlin grabbed the milk from the fridge, and Armen fiddled with the burners on the stovetop. Aunt Vicky sat down at her computer, glanced at the screen, and a rapid-fire click-clack of keys filled the room.

  Lucas sat on the sofa, knitting. Sam quietly sat down next to him but could not stop looking over his shoulder, out the windows, toward the woods. The trees shook in the gusty wind, their branches flailing. They could not settle down. The clouds roiled above, churning in dark swirls and blotting out every last bit of sun.

  Sam’s brain felt like the trees looked: agitated. Restless. In constant motion.

  Something blurred by the window, and Sam swore she saw Cedar’s bright-yellow tunic.

  “You okay?” Lucas asked. He was knitting something green and amorphous. “It looks like you’re somewhere else.”

  “I kind of am,” Sam said.

  “Cool,” Lucas said, and his knitting needles moved faster.

  The storm gathered power as the afternoon wore on, whistling and howling against the windows and bending the trees almost in half. Sam stared out the window, hoping the squirrels were okay and wishing more than anything that tonight was not the full moon.

  Armen and Lucas left early in the afternoon, worried about their walk home. Hannah’s car didn’t roll into the driveway until after dinner. The sky was already dark when she burst through the front door, every bit of her dripping with rain.

  “Sorry I’m late! The traffic was ridiculous.” She slapped the mail down on the kitchen table, where Sam was finishing her spaghetti, and let Aunt Vicky help her with her coat.

  “It’s wild, isn’t it?” Hannah said. “I haven’t seen a storm like this in years. They’re expecting flash floods in the area.”

  Aunt Vicky hugged her, even though she was still wet. “I’m so glad you got home safe.”

  “It’s all good, Vic, all good,” Hannah said. “I sure could use some coffee, though. And is there any food left? I could eat a mountain.”

  “I’m on it,” Aunt Vicky replied, and sped to the stove.

  Sam ate the last bite of her garlic toast and looked at the pile of mail Hannah had dropped near her plate. The corner of one envelope peeked out from the stack. Sam sucked in her breath.

  1172 S. Ken—

  That was her home address. 1172 S. Kennington Avenue.

  Sam barely moved as Hannah toweled off her hair. As Aunt Vicky put the kettle on the stove. As Caitlin bopped to her music on the sofa.

  Slowly, quietly, Sam slid the letter from the stack and read the familiar perfect script:

  To Samantha and Caitlin Littlefield c/o Victoria Littlefield

  Her parents had written a letter.

  An actual letter.

  To Sam and Caitlin.

  With a finger, Sam traced her own name and tried not to cry. They hadn’t forgotten. They hadn’t given up. They wanted Sam and Caitlin back, were desperate to reunite the family, just like Sam was. Just like Ashander promised.

  We’re sorry. It won’t happen again. Everything’s going to be okay.

  Everything was going to be okay. How had she ever doubted? She slipped her finger under the flap of the envelope and ripped it open.

  “Sam, what is that?” Aunt Vicky asked.

  Too late, Sam realized her mistake. She should have stolen the letter to read later in the privacy of her room. But she’d been so eager to see what her parents said that she’d forgotten where she was.

  “Sam, please,” Aunt Vicky said, walking to the table and holding out her hand. “I need you to give that to me.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  SAM SHOOK HER head and clutched the letter to her chest, not caring that she creased it. “It’s addressed to me and Caitlin,” Sam said. “It’s our letter.”

  “They aren’t allowed to send it to you,” Aunt Vicky said. “We have to give the letter to your caseworkers. They’ll read it first and decide if they can give it to you.”

  “But it’s my letter,” Sam said.

  Where was Caitlin? Caitlin needed to step in and be Sam’s v
oice. She needed to fight for them. She always fought for them.

  Caitlin sat on the sofa, her earbuds in her hand. She wasn’t smiling. “Give Aunt Vicky the letter, Sam.”

  Sam shook her head again, stunned. Betrayed. “Don’t you want to read it? Don’t you want to know?”

  “I don’t,” Caitlin said. She cradled her cast. “I don’t ever want to know.”

  “We can fix it. He’s sorry. He’ll never do it again.” Sam held out the letter, so sure of the words it would contain. Words she had heard so many times.

  Caitlin’s eyes grew small and hot, like the embers in the fireplace. She stood up and lifted her broken arm. “This isn’t like the other stuff.”

  The other stuff. Sam knew what Caitlin meant. The punches. The squeezes. The pinches.

  All the things that hurt but never left a mark.

  “It was a mistake,” Sam said, her gaze bouncing between Hannah and Aunt Vicky and Caitlin, desperate for at least one of them to agree with her. “An accident.”

  Her mother had said that in the hospital. To the nurses, the doctors, the police. It was only an accident.

  “Stop it, Sam,” Caitlin said. “You don’t know what I had to do to get us out of there.”

  Caitlin’s body in her father’s arms. Her mother’s voice. What did you do, Grant?

  “It’s okay, baby,” Aunt Vicky said, and this time she was talking to Caitlin, not to Sam, and she was using a soft voice. A velvet voice. No one ever talked to Caitlin like that. Caitlin was the strong child. The perfect child. The brave child. No one was supposed to feel sorry for her, not ever. Caitlin didn’t let them.

  Sam looked to Hannah. Hannah, who usually did most of the talking, but who had somehow fallen silent, her fingers on her lips as if to keep her words inside.

  Caitlin stood stiffly by the sofa, and now she was talking to all of them, not just to Sam. “I didn’t want them to make excuses this time. I thought…” She paused, frustrated, as she tried to find her words. “I thought, if he did something really bad … they’d know. They’d finally know.”