Page 243 of Five Brothers
What’s going on?
I hop in my car, the sky black, not a star visible. The thick air breezes through the open windows, but I let my hair fly in my face, too busy dialing the entire way over to the Bay.
Mars doesn’t answer. My mother doesn’t answer. I hesitate, tempted to call Army. I don’t want to face Macon.
But I call him anyway.
The phone just rings. No voicemail picks up.
I race toward the Bay, thunder rolling across the sky as I keep calling Mars and my mother over and over again.
Headlights flash, and I glance in my rearview mirror, seeing a car behind me. I slow, watching them drive up alongside and as soon as I recognize Army’s truck. I exhale, a little relieved.
He tips his chin at me, and I swerve to the side, slowing to a stop. He does the same, pulling over in front of me.
He hops out and heads back to me, leaning on my open window. “I was just on my way to retrieve you.”
“Where are Mars and Paisleigh?”
“I’ll take you.”
I narrow my eyes.
His gaze falls down my body, but in a way that feels condescending, not leering. “Follow me,” he says.
I open my mouth to speak, but I close it again. I just need to get to my brother and sister, and then I can figure out what the hell is going on.
I watch as he climbs back into the cab of his truck, no other figures visible inside, and I hesitate only a moment when he hits the gas.
I ride his tail, turn left, and then follow right, but instead of continuing to the Bay, he takes another left. He pulls into the marina, slowing over the speed bumps. I follow, my heart beating faster. Something isn’t right. They’re not here. Why would they be here?
He coasts into a spot, and I park next to him, shutting off the engine and exiting quickly.
He waits for me near the bed of his truck.
I look right and then left, hearing the boats rock on the water, the weight in the air heavy. “Army …”
“It’s okay,” he says. “The kids are fine.”
I follow him down the walkway and onto the dock, passing sport boats and yachts, and stopping at a deep-sea fishing boat. He steps onto the deck, holding out a hand to help me. I glance past him, not seeing anything inside the dark cabin.
I ignore his hand and hop on, walking past him and sliding open the door.
I stop.
Men crowd the living room, and I gaze around, recognizing most of them as they all turn their heads to look at me.
Jerome Watson. Garrett Ames. A lawyer named Stewart Cole. Trace. Dallas.
Macon stands in the center, wearing a dark suit with a navy blue shirt and a black tie. His arms are crossed over his chest.
“You keep the house,” he says.
But he’s not talking to me.
He’s talking to Garrett Ames.
“I keep the five years,” he continues. “Once that time is up, if the land is not appraised for at least three hundred percent above your initial offer, you get it. No argument.”