Paint It All Red (Mindf*ck #5)(33)

“What happens if that tactic doesn’t work?” I ask more to myself than her, dread creeping up my spine.

There has to be a reason they’re focusing on evacuating the town.

My eyes hone in on the monitor with the most activity. The deputies are scattered, all of them looking angry and desperate to keep people in the town. One even punches a civilian, but two men grab the deputy and sling him into a car.

He backs off when one pulls a gun on him, and the civilians help the fallen man back to his feet before backing away into a car.

“They’ve bound them together to stand up to the sheriff and his men,” I surmise.

“No one will fight for the town, and after the show they put on with the broadcast, no one wants to be there when the sheriff goes down either,” she says, but then sucks in a breath.

She turns to face me, her eyes wide. “I think I know where Lana is.”

“Where?”

She gestures to the screens. “Who’s missing?”





Chapter 13


Don’t impose on others what you yourself do not desire.

—Confucius



LANA



The door slings open, and I watch through the wooden slats of the closet door as the sheriff stomps in, angrily slamming the door behind him. He grabs an empty glass off the table by his recliner and slings it across the room. It shatters against the wall as he roars like a beast enraged.

For a few long minutes, his head hangs, his chest heaves, and he grips the sides of the chair for support. He always puts up a good front, but he’s as mortal as the rest of us.

My smile kicks up as he predictably goes to the bar in the living room, opening the door and pulling out a bottle of whiskey. His hands are shaking when he pours a glass and drinks it down quickly.

Any time the pressure mounts, the sheriff has to have a drink. But he can’t let his deputies see him carry a bible and a glass of whiskey. He can sentence innocent people to a gruesome death, but being so weak as to need a drink is simply unforgivable. Not to mention shameful.

I’d roll my eyes, but I’m busy watching as he takes his gun off, putting it by the door.

Finally.



“You’ll pay for this,” the sheriff hisses, glaring at my brother and me as we get carried out of the courtroom.

“He was with us!” I shout again, staring frantically at the jury as they continue to wrangle me out. “They’re hiding the truth! They’re suppressing evidence! This is just a fucking witch hunt, and my father is being framed!”

“Just make them show you our statements!” my brother bellows as they finally haul us all the way out.

As soon as the doors seal shut, they reopen, and the sheriff stalks out.

Cuffs are being put on our wrists, but they can’t lock us away for long. It’s on film. We’re in contempt of court and nothing else.

“Put them in a cell until this damn thing is over. I won’t deal with them again until I have to,” the sheriff barks. Then those cold eyes turn to us. “You’re making a deal with the devil by betraying the souls of the innocent. Your father is guilty. And I’ll make sure he hangs for his sins.”

He starts to walk back inside as we start demanding to be turned loose.

The sheriff turns just as we reach the corner, and he eyes me.

“I’d hoped you see the devil you loved through clearer eyes, but I guess you never did and never will.”



I wait patiently, silently stalking him with just my eyes as he finishes off another glass. His eyes dart toward something near the couch, and his head tilts as he studies something I can’t see from this angle.

He looks away from whatever it is that no longer holds his interest, and carries his glass around the corner to the kitchen, which is near his master bedroom. Pushing the door open silently, I step out, putting my knife in its sheath on my hip.

As I near the couch, my eyes dart down, curious at what held his attention. And I close my eyes as I refrain from blowing out a frustrated breath. My flashlight is there. I put it down earlier when I was looking for any hidden weapons, and forgot to pick it back up.

Rookie mistake.

Opening my eyes back up, I clutch the handle of my knife and walk into the kitchen. But I screech to a halt when my gaze is suddenly locked on the end of a barrel.

“Boo,” the sheriff says, drawing my eyes to his as I slowly raise my hands, feigning compliance.

He looks over the pistol to stare down at me, the barrel just inches from my face.

“Any reason why the fed’s girlfriend is slinking around my house?” he drawls lazily, hiding that welling frustration he showed just moments ago when he didn’t know I was watching.

“Probably because she’s not just a fed’s girlfriend,” I quip, smiling bitterly at him.

He cocks his head, watching me.

“And who exactly are you?”

I smirk as I take a step forward, pressing that barrel right up against my temple with my hands still raised. His eyes widen fractionally, but he masks all other signs of surprise.

“I’m the girl you sent your son to kill. I’d hoped you see the devil you loved through clearer eyes, but I guess you never did and never will.”

Confusion only lights his eyes for the barest of moments before recognition slides over his face.