Killman Creek (Stillhouse Lake #2)(8)

But he’s my dad.

Connor and I don’t talk about this—not ever—but I know he feels this, too . . . the way it pulls and rips inside to try to match up these two very different things. I think about that colorful old rug again, a piece of home inside a monster’s den. I can’t decide if that was him trying to still be Dad, or if the monster was all there ever was, and Dad was a mask he wore to mock us.

Maybe it’s both. Or neither. It’s exhausting, and I put the music back on and try to drown it all out.

I sleep for a while. When I wake up, we’re close. Sam turns the car off the main freeway and onto smaller state highways, and we glide through a dozen small towns before the turnoff comes for Norton, and Stillhouse Lake. I watch that buckshot-riddled old sign glide by with a pain deep in my stomach. I want to jump out of the car and run down that road, run straight for home and throw myself into my bed and pull the covers over my head.

We avoid heading into Norton proper and instead take a side road off into the deeper woods. It’s mostly mud and ruts, and bumpy; even Connor finds it too hard to read with all the jolts, and he slides a bookmark in place with a stubborn sigh of frustration. We go maybe half a mile and then loop around a broad turn to come up to a small, old, neatly maintained cabin surrounded by high iron fencing.

Javier Esparza is sitting on the porch. He’s at least a dozen years older than I am, if not more; he’s dressed in a khaki-green T-shirt and dark jeans, and he looks more like a soldier than people in uniform. As he stands up, I see that he’s got a shotgun in easy reach. He’s also wearing a semiautomatic handgun in a holster on his belt—more obvious than the way my mom wears hers, in a shoulder rig currently concealed under her leather jacket. He’s also got a big killer of a dog—a rottweiler—lying panting at his feet.

As Mr. Esparza stands up, so does the dog, all muscle and attention focused right on us.

Mom gets out of the car first, and I see Mr. Esparza relax slightly. He looks down at the dog and says something in Spanish, and the dog sinks back down. Peaceful, but still watching. “Hey, Gwen,” he says to my mother, coming forward to open the gate. “Any trouble?”

“Nothing,” she says.

“Nobody following?”

“Nope,” says Sam as he exits the driver’s side of the car. “Not behind or ahead. And no drones.”

I shoot a raised-eyebrow look at my brother across the trunk of the car as we’re getting out and mouth, Drones? I say, “Are we living in a stupid spy movie now?”

“Nope,” Connor says without even a trace of a smile. “It’s a horror movie.”

I swallow my smart-ass comeback and go to the trunk to grab my bag. Connor takes his. The open trunk lid is momentarily hiding us from the adults, so I say quickly, “Are you okay? For real?”

My brother freezes for a second, like a visual stutter, then looks over at me. His eyes are clear. He doesn’t look upset. He doesn’t look anything, really. “No,” he says. “And you’re not, either, so stop trying to be in charge.”

“I am in charge,” I tell him loftily, but he’s hit me for sure with that one. I ignore him, because that’s the best thing I can do right now, and walk over to stand next to Mom. I’m watching the dog, who’s watching me. They can smell fear. I’ve had a bone-hurting dread of big, loud, angry dogs since one lunged at me when I was four.

I decide to stare him down.

Connor, stepping up, pokes me in the back. Hard. I wince and glare over my shoulder, and he says, “Dogs don’t like that. Stop glaring at him.”

“What are you now, the Dog Whisperer?”

“Settle, you two,” our mom says, and I throw an elbow back—silently—to make sure Connor knows to leave me alone. He dodges with the born ease of an annoying little brother. “Javier, thanks for doing this. I can’t begin to tell you what it means to me. I only have three people in the world I’d trust with my kids right now, and you and Kez are on that list.”

I still can’t get over that she calls him Javier, just like that. Standing this close to him (even though that isn’t particularly close), I can’t imagine that. But I silently say it to myself to try it out. Javier. Sam’s old enough to be my dad, and he’s, well, Sam. Mr. Esparza is . . . different. He’s cool. He’s the kind of guy I know I ought to have a crush on, and maybe I did for half a second early on . . . but I don’t anymore. That’s easier since we’re going to be living with him.

I don’t like being off balance, so I do what comes naturally to me. I glower at Javier Esparza, as if I can’t believe I’m being afflicted with him, let my hair hide half my face, and groan like my bag carries a million pounds of bricks. “Do we get bedrooms? Or do we have to sleep in the barn with the chickens or whatever?” When I’m feeling uncomfortable, I attack. It makes people step off and gives me time to find my way. I don’t wait this time. I just charge straight for the porch, and I’m two steps into that when I remember the dog.

The dog who comes up from the wood floor like he’s spring-loaded and fixes those big, scary eyes on me. I feel rather than hear his very low growl. I stop myself, suddenly very aware that I’m exposed. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Mr. Esparza hasn’t moved, but now he slowly extends a hand to the dog, and the rumbling stops. The rottweiler licks his chops and sits, polite and panting again. I don’t buy it, not for a second. “Maybe let me introduce you to Boot. Hey, Boot. Play nice.”