This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(85)

“No,” I say carefully. “We acknowledge the killer was one of ours.”

“So now you’re blaming some innocent person from Rockton?” the woman says. “Was that your plan? Bring us a body and say ‘There’s your killer’?”

“Or is it him?” The man turns to Wallace. “Are you forcing this old man to take the fall?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dalton says.

The woman steps right in front of him and spits up in his face.

I move between them fast. “We don’t know what’s happening here—”

“Harper told us who killed our people,” the woman said. “Your husband. She saw it, and she barely escaped with her life.”





47





We cannot even begin to speculate on what’s happened here, which doesn’t keep Dalton from demanding answers. But our captors are not talking.

We enter the village at gunpoint. The First Settlement is composed of about ten cabins, spread over a couple of acres. As people emerge from homes, the palpable weight of their rage pulses through the air.

If I had any idea what they thought we’d done, I’d have fought our captors. Allowing a dangerous Rockton resident to escape was one thing. We could have handled that, though. Made promises. Made apologies. Made concessions. Now . . . ?

I glance at Dalton. His face is taut, gaze straight ahead, jaw set as if he’s outraged, but the vein throbbing in his neck tells me he is afraid.

“In here.” One of our captors prods Dalton toward a dilapidated building.

When I see Harper, I try to catch her eye, not accusing but confused, concerned. I gesture that I would like to speak to her, but she’s pretending not to see me. She circles to a man behind us and says something. He shakes his head. She gestures my way and I think it’s at me, but then I realize she’s pointing at Storm. The man shakes his head and reaches to squeeze her thin shoulder, but she throws him off and stomps away.

Dalton’s captor prods him again.

“Yeah, no,” he says. “I’ll wait here for Edwin.”

“You aren’t talking to Edwin.” The man nods at me. “She is.”

“Fine, then I’ll sit my ass down right here and wait.”

The man points at the building. “You will wait there. She will wait at Edwin’s.”

Dalton opens his mouth, but I shake my head. He hesitates, and I know this makes him nervous—it makes me nervous, too—but we cannot give them any excuse for using those weapons to force us to obey.

Dalton stalks off toward the building, muttering the whole way. Our captors prod Wallace to follow Dalton. I let them take me to Edwin’s place. They open the door, and I walk in, as calmly as I can, as if this is an obvious misunderstanding that I know will be cleared up.

Edwin isn’t there.

I turn to ask where he is, but they’ve shut the door behind me.

I take a deep breath and sit on the floor. Storm lowers herself beside me, leaning in hard, panting with nervous tension. I pat her and tell her it will be okay, it will all be okay.

I hope it will be okay.

I’ve been there about ten minutes when I hear a noise in the next room. The door swings opens, and Harper stands there, an open window behind her, a knife in her hand.

“Put that down,” I say.

“I just came here to talk.”

“Good. Then you don’t need a knife.”

She shakes her head. I ask her one more time. Then I take it. She doesn’t see that coming. She tries to slash, but I already have her by the forearm. I squeeze just tight enough to hold her steady. Then I pluck the knife from her hand. When I release her, she swings at me. I grab her arm, pin it behind her back, march her to the open window and drop the knife through it.

When I let her go, she backs off, rubbing her wrist.

“That hurt,” she says, and there’s genuine shock in her voice.

“You attacked. I defended.”

She eyes me as if this calm response isn’t what she expects. “It was my knife. I was defending myself.”

“One shout will bring the guard to your aid. I only put your knife outside. I didn’t keep it.”

She’s still eyeing me. She says, again, “That hurt,” and there’s a tremor of outrage, as if I should be ashamed of myself hurting a kid. But like she said the other day, she is not a child, not out here.

“What’s going on?” I say.

I’m waiting for the look of worry, of guilt. The one that says they’ve made her blame us. Someone has forced her to make a false statement. Someone she respects. Someone she fears.

I’m waiting for her to apologize. To say she had no choice.

When she says, “I told the truth,” my heart sinks. But I am not surprised.

“The truth?” I say.

“Eric killed them. I was there.”

I could blame post-traumatic stress. Confusion. Even fear.

Instead, I say, “Why?”

“Why what?”

Now I’m the one eyeing her. Sizing her up. There’s no point in Harper coming here to talk.

“What do you want?” I say.

I follow her gaze to Storm. “No.”

“Yes.”