Bitter Falls (Stillhouse Lake #4)(24)

“And it wasn’t our idea anyway,” his wife chimes in. “That was our boy Jesse’s bright notion. He ain’t got no damn sense. We just told him to send y’all a warning.”

“Warning for what?”

They exchange a long look. “I knew city people were dumb, but this fills up the whole bucket,” Jasper says, and articulates the next two words very precisely. “To leave. We’d like you to get the hell out of our county, pretty please. Our state, if you can manage. We want y’all gone.”

“Not personal,” Lilah puts in crisply. “But you stir things up like mud in a pond, and worse, you brought all those reporter people poking around. People just love to see themselves on TV and in the papers, so they say things they shouldn’t. Your family moves on somewhere else, things will settle.”

“Bad press,” I say, and they nod. “You think I’m bringing you bad press?” I have to hold in a wild laugh. “The drug dealers don’t approve of me?”

“Now, that’s never been proved in a court of law,” Jasper says indignantly, “and ain’t right for you to go spreading falsehoods. But even if we did have a little supply for folks as need it, we’re just performing a service; we didn’t get all these folks addicted to fancy painkillers and then cut them off and leave them desperate. That was your rich doctors and pill companies. Besides, none of that holds a candle to what you did.”

“I didn’t do—”

“Child.” Lilah leans forward. “You were that man’s wife. Now, I’ve been married to this old man for pretty near my whole life, and there ain’t a thing he does I don’t know about. Whatever you made that jury believe, I know you knew. Maybe you didn’t help him kill any of those women, maybe you did, I’m not judging. But don’t try to sell me that load of pinfeathers.”

The absurdity grabs me by the throat, and it’s all I can do to hold back a bark of a laugh. These people—leaders of a criminal gang, the worst in this county, at the very least—think I’m too terrible to remain their neighbor. There’s absolutely no point in telling them I didn’t know about Melvin’s crimes. Lilah Belldene won’t have any sympathy or understanding for who I was: a sheltered young woman hemmed in by my own fear. Melvin had done a great job of keeping his secrets. And whatever I might have guessed, my own fear had taught me to ignore.

“Okay,” I tell them, and let a smile slide like oil over my lips. “Let’s explore that idea for a minute. What if I did know? I’d have to be very, very cold. You think you want to start a fight with me? You’re a mother, Lilah. How far would you go to protect your children?”

“All the way to hell,” she replies. “But we both know the best way to win a fight is not to have one. That’s why you should move on. That’s how you protect them kids. By getting out of our territory.”

“I’ll think about it,” I tell them. “Truth be told, Stillhouse Lake isn’t all that great a place. But make no mistake: If I move on, it’s because we want to move. Not because you ran us off.”

“Does that matter to you?” Jasper asks. “Comes down to the same thing.”

“It matters,” I say, and meet his gaze calmly. “You know it does.”

He nods. “So how long before you’re gone, Mrs. Proctor?”

“I don’t know. A few months. We have to find a place, and sell this one first—”

“That doesn’t work for us,” Lilah interrupts. “We need you gone by next month.”

I shake my head. “That’s not going to happen, Mrs. Belldene. We go on our schedule. If we decide to go.”

Jasper looks around at this haven we’ve so carefully rebuilt, decorated, made into a home. He slowly nods and takes a long drink of his coffee. He sets the cup down with a sigh. “Mighty good coffee, ma’am,” he says. “And I sure wish you had good sense to match. But you don’t, and I can’t help that. You’ll learn. When you do, remember: we tried being neighborly about this.”

Lilah nods. “Y’all enjoy that meatloaf, now. You want to give that dish back, you just bring it on out to our place. If not, we’ll come back for it.”

I understand what that means. One way or another, this is going to get ugly.

No sense in pretending to be social anymore.

I go into the kitchen, get out a garbage bag, and scrape the meatloaf into it. I run hot water and grab the soap and scrub her dish until it’s sparkling clean. I dry it on a hand towel and walk out to thrust it at her.

“You’re a rude bitch,” she says, and takes it. “But still, I thank you kindly. It’s my company dish.”

“You can go now. Both of you. Out.” I let them see it then: the ice and steel and fury that’s carried me through these past few years. The ache and fear and relentless need to protect my kids.

They blink.

“Well,” Lilah says, and raises her eyebrows. “You drop by anytime, Ms. Proctor. And you bring that man of yours too. One of our sons owes him a broken cheekbone and a couple of teeth from last year. He’ll be wanting his payback.”

“Time to go,” I tell her. “Now.”

She heads for the truck. Jasper follows, shooting me one last, flat look, and I shut the door and lock it behind them. I stay at the window, hand on the butt of my gun, until their truck starts and reverses back down the driveway in a flurry of gravel and dust.