Bitter Falls (Stillhouse Lake #4)(91)

She nods. She was so afraid I’d leave her behind, and that hurts and heals at the same time. I know I’m taking her somewhere dangerous, but Lanny, of all people, understands how necessary this is.

Javier says, “Gwen? Once we’re doing this, you follow my orders. That’s how it’s got to be.”

I nod, though it goes against everything in my nature.

Sometimes I have to let those I love lead the way too.





24

CONNOR

It starts with the girl who tried to get me to go off with her before. Aria.

It’s getting dark after dinner is served by the army of silent women. Aria’s one of them. She keeps her gaze down most of the time, but she glances at me plenty. I . . . don’t mind. She keeps coming by to refill our glasses. The men at the table ignore her completely, like she doesn’t even exist. But I see her. And she sees me.

She needs to leave with us, I think. She doesn’t belong here. There are younger girls here than Aria, too; there’s a wispy blonde girl with really blue eyes who looks scared to death, who cowers when anyone comes near her. Another dark-haired kid, maybe nine at most, who just looks sad and lost. They’re not like Aria. Aria seems to know what she’s doing.

The last time she leans over my shoulder to pour more water into my glass, she whispers, “Meet me at midnight at the falls.” She’s gone before I’m even sure I heard right. Or heard it at all. She walks away with her heavy pitcher and doesn’t look back, and the meal finishes and I have to listen to Father Tom praying for nearly an hour before we’re released. When all the heads are bowed, I do it, too, but I don’t close my eyes. I’m sure they’re all into whatever he’s droning on about, so I slowly move my hand and put it over the fork I left next to my empty plate. I’d like to have a knife, but they didn’t give me one. I slowly slide the fork up my sleeve and work it around so the tines are stuck in the cotton right at the band of the long sleeves. It’s the only thing I like about these clothes Father Tom’s made me put on: I can hide stuff under the shirt, and the plain black jacket.

When the prayer’s over, everyone stands. I start to, but the men on either side of me put their hands on my shoulders and keep me seated. My heart starts racing. I look at one of them and say, “What?” He doesn’t answer. He just smiles.

Then Father Tom walks over and says, “Put it back, Connor.” He sounds calm and patient, but firm. I think about bluffing, but I know that voice. It’s what my mom sounds like when she knows exactly what I’m up to.

They knew I’d try it. They were ready.

I silently reach into my sleeve and take the fork out. I put it back where it was. The men let me go.

“I like your spirit,” Father Tom says. “But you need to understand that when you do these things, there’s a price. Not for you. For the man who calls himself your father.”

I lunge to my feet. I don’t even think before I do it. My fists are clenched. “Don’t hurt him!” It just kind of bursts out of me.

The men on either side of me laugh, like they think I’m funny. Stupid. Weak. I shove the chair back so hard it tips over, and the laughter stops. “Pick that up and put it back,” Father Tom says. “You’re not a child. Don’t throw tantrums.”

The sick thing is that there’s something about the way he says it that makes me want to obey. Want to please him.

I kick the chair and send it spinning down the wood floor instead. Another man down the row who’s standing there stops it with a booted foot and looks at Father Tom. Then he sets it upright.

“That’s disrespectful,” Father Tom says. “Go get it, Connor. Put it back where it belongs. Now. Or you’ll make me do something very unpleasant.”

He’s using Sam, and I hate it, I hate it. He hasn’t said what he’d do, but it doesn’t matter, it would be bad. And I can’t get Sam hurt because I’m pissed off and scared.

I go get the chair. I bring it back to the table. I slide it in place, and then I look at Father Tom.

He smiles and pats me on the shoulder. “Good boy,” he says, like I’m a pet. “You look fine in those clothes. Much better than those modern rags.” He means my old blue jeans, the ones that had holes in them. The ones they’ve made me put on are stiff and new and cheap, and I hate them. The black jacket itches. The shirt feels thin and homemade. The only thing they let me keep were my Nike shoes.

I want to tell him his clothes suck. I stay quiet.

Father Tom follows as the men walk me back to the Quarters, a long bunkhouse where the men sleep. Long rows of identical cots, with old surplus army trunks at the foot of each bed for clothes and whatever personal items they’re allowed to have. They’ve assigned me a bunk, and these stupid clothes to put on; my regular ones got taken away when they made me change. They said it was to wash them.

I don’t think that was true.

“Our routine doesn’t vary,” Father Tom tells me as he walks me to my bunk. “You have thirty minutes for private prayer and contemplation; you may read your Bible if you wish. Then bed.”

“I want to see Sam,” I tell him.

“Sam’s fine,” he says. “He won’t get any food tomorrow because of your disobedience. Disobey again, and he won’t get water. Three times, and I’ll have to assign a much worse punishment. Are we understood? I like that you are strong, Connor. But you need to know how best to use it.”