Bitter Falls (Stillhouse Lake)(5)

He’s already shaking his head. “Mom. No. If you do anything it’ll be worse.”

I take a deep breath. “So what do you want me to do?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Just like . . .” He doesn’t finish that. His voice trails off, but I know what he meant to say. Just like always. It must seem that way. Even though he knows how much of my life I devote to protecting them. It hurts, but I endure that. “I’ll be okay.”

“I can make you an extra appointment at the counselor if you—”

He puts his socks on, then his shoes. Calm, methodical motions, like it’s important he gets it right. “Sure.” His voice is bland now. Disturbingly empty. “Whatever.”

The dreaded whatever. It’s a steel door slamming in my face. I’m used to getting it from my daughter, not Connor. But he’s growing up, becoming his own person. I’m no longer his shelter.

Now I’m in his way. That hurts.

I have to take a breath against the cold that stabs through me. “Who is it?” I ask him.

He doesn’t pause in tying his shoelaces. “Why? What are you going to do, beat them up?”

“Maybe,” I say. “Because it kills me to see you hurting, baby. It really does.” I hear the very real tremble in my voice at the end.

So does he. He looks up quickly. I can’t read what’s on his face and he turns his head again so fast it’s a blur.

“It was easier when we moved,” he says. “When we didn’t have to just take it.”

“I know. Do you want to move? I thought you liked being in one place.”

“I did. I mean, I like the idea. It’s just—” He sits back with a sigh but doesn’t look at me. “I’m going over to Reggie’s house after school, remember?” He says it as if we’ve already agreed on that. We haven’t. But I just nod and let it go. My son needs to feel like he’s got something to look forward to.

“Call me when you get there?” I make it a question, not an order. He looks relieved.

“Sure, Mom.” He stands up. “I guess I should eat pancakes.”

“Good call.”

I want to hold him but I can see he doesn’t want that. My heart aches for him. I’m so afraid that the whole world is coming to hurt him, but I can’t stop the whole world. I know I can’t.

Maybe that’s the worst part.

By the time Connor’s at the breakfast table, my daughter shuffles in, dark hair lank around her face. She’s dressed in a fuzzy red bathrobe with cartoon Draculas all over it. She yawns so widely I can check her tonsils. “Crap,” she says. “School again?”

“Again,” I agree. “Eggs?”

“Sure,” she says. “Coffee?”

“Elixir of life with plenty of cream and sugar, coming up.”

We eat like a family. It’s precious to me even if it isn’t to the half-asleep kids; I have to hustle Lanny off when she wants to dawdle. If I’m not riding herd, both of them will miss the bus, and Sam’s got to be on his way.

I share a sweet kiss with Sam at the door. I read the regret in his eyes. We missed our short window of privacy today.

Tonight, I hope. If nothing comes up.

“Sam?” I call after him. He turns back on the way to his truck. “Be careful.”

“So many rules,” he says, and flashes me a grin. Dawn’s breaking behind the trees and it bathes everything in a benevolent, soft light. It glints off the glass of our car and truck windows, and for a second I think I’m imagining things, because the bright red spot on Sam’s chest seems so out of place.

I feel my heart start to hammer before I work out what it is. By then the laser dot is moving.

“Sam!” The alarm in my voice is clear, but I can tell he doesn’t know what I’m warning him about. I’m about to yell get down when the side window of his truck goes milky white as the safety glass crazes. There’s a hole in the center the size of a quarter.

The boom of a shot echoes out over the hills behind the house.

Adrenaline hits me hard, and I start out the door before I check myself. Sam’s not hurt, but he’s an open target. He’s ducked, but he’s clearly looking for the origin of the shot. I yell, “Get in here!”

He dashes for the door. The shot has come from behind the house, and above. Someone’s in the tree line up there. Someone wanted me to see that he had a bead on Sam, and could have put a round through Sam’s chest as easily as through that window.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam says. He sounds remarkably calm, though his face has gone pale. “I didn’t see him.”

I drag him back from the doorway. Slam the door shut. Throw the locks. Engage the alarm with lightning-fast stabs of my trembling fingers. The kids have bolted out of their bedrooms and stand frozen, faces stark with worry. “Back from the windows,” I tell them, and point to the kitchen. “Get in the safe room and stay down!”

“Mom, was that a shot?” Lanny asks.

“Get Connor in the safe room now!” She grabs her brother and drags him that direction. I frantically look Sam up and down for any wounds. It hits people that way sometimes, that in the rush of adrenaline they don’t feel the shot. But he’s not bleeding.