Bitter Falls (Stillhouse Lake, #4)

by Rachel Caine

Father Tom waited at the edge of the lake. He wore a white shirt and white trousers, and his pale hair glowed the same shade. Old hair, old face, young dark eyes that seemed to know all the secrets of the universe. The eyes of a saint, the Assembly liked to say. Father Tom was fucking batshit crazy.

Yeah, let me go, you crazy fucks. Let me go and I run straight to the cops and I put your busted asses in jail so fast even God won’t know where to find you. That was the person he used to be talking, the strong young man who’d fought and yelled and believed he could do anything. Survive anything.

So cold. He felt himself settle on the bottom among the white bones. As his lungs ached and pulsed, he suddenly remembered being a child. Waking from a nightmare. The last thing in his mind, the very last, was his mother whispering, Hush, baby. You’re safe now.

Counseling has done all of us some good. I started the kids in individual therapy for a few months, then together, while Sam and I met with another counselor as a couple. Now we do it as a family once every other week, and I dare to think things are . . . better.

I’ve known monsters. I’ve faced them down, including Melvin. I kill monsters. You’d think they’d keep that in mind.

Why in the world would a man with Greg Kingston’s hefty bank balance and social standing be staying in a no-stars motel in a shady part of Knoxville when he also has a room booked in the very upscale Tennessean Hotel?

I’m watching a child being sold, and it takes every ounce of control I have to sit and wait for the police instead of beating two men senseless and taking that child someplace safe.

I get the message. Sam’s the adult here. I’m the hysterical female. I want to slug the cop right in the mouth. Don’t, of course. I just grit my teeth. I’m surprised I have teeth left at this point.

We’ve struggled to get back to a sweet, warm balance of trust. It’s never been easy. Sam’s the brother of one of Melvin’s victims. That shadow will always fall over us. So, too, will the difficult fact that he helped form the Lost Angels, one of the most vocal groups that hounds us.

The thought of one of my kids disappearing, never to be seen again . . . it keeps me awake at night. I know how much darkness there is out there.

“Sometimes we’re just there to mark the boxes and cash the check. It’s part of the job, Gwen. Like it or not.”

They run it like they’re training us for the military.

I’m already falling into nightmare. I’m sitting in a brightly lit classroom with twenty other kids, but I feel like I’m alone in the dark with a monster. I can hear it coming. Him coming. I see Mom and Sam and Lanny dead just like in the dream.

My dad’s voice saying he’ll always come for me. Is this how it happens? Is he sending somebody after me again?

My father’s voice whispers in my ear. I’ll always come for you, kid. You’re mine.

I freaked out in front of an entire class. I busted up two of my classmates and yeah, they were jerks, they’d pushed me around before, but I didn’t even know who they were when I lashed out. They were just there.

The nurse on duty at the desk looks up at me. I can tell from her expression that she knows just who I am: the serial killer’s ex, the stain on the good name of the town. Pursed lips, raised eyebrows, cool judgmental stare.

At first I’m appalled, physically flinching with revulsion that they would do that to kids. Then I get angry, so angry it eats into my bones and sets my marrow on fire. I was uncomfortable enough with the active shooter events without the mental trauma he’s describing. It’s bad enough they have to be drilled in how to react to danger, but I understand that, given the world around them. But terrifying them deliberately? Some very misguided jackass probably thought it would toughen them up.

They’re just kids, traumatized kids trying not to live their lives in terror.

first impulse is to attack. I’m not very much different from my son in the way I’ve fractured inside under the stress. But I’ve got more experience. I can stop myself.

Women are always, somehow, to blame for the acts of men; that’s more true now than it ever has been.

“I’m not you. I’m not Lanny. I can’t be that brave.”

“It’s just hard, Mom. For some of them it’s just a game. But I know it’s not. I know what can happen. And it’s hard not to feel . . . trapped.”

I’ve still got a few friends and allies here, but that doesn’t help my kids trying to navigate the already treacherous waters of small-town school social life.

School’s an armed camp, and I was always an outnumbered enemy soldier. Girls don’t fight the same ways—normally—so it’s more snark and bitchy cuts and exclusion than straight-up fights.

Vee’s one of the few people I can trade top-this trauma stories with, and she wins.

Because as wrong as this is, Vee Crockett makes me feel . . . safe. And I know that’s very wrong; Vee isn’t a safe person. But maybe it’s just feeling, well, wanted again.

That’s troubling, but I can see why he’d think so. The big media blitzes almost exclusively happen for missing children, teen girls, and adult women. White and pretty, preferably. It’s rare to see the major networks covering a missing young woman of color as a priority.

It hits me then. She’s living in her son’s old apartment. He’s been gone for three years, and she’s paying the rent and . . . waiting.

I’m honestly grateful that I’m just a regular person to her. And more than a little sad it doesn’t happen more often.

I take the gaming chair as she settles on the couch. It’s an odd feeling, as if Remy’s still sitting in it with me. There’s a comfortable, worn-in feel to the back and seat. I can picture him here—no, wait, I’ve actually seen him here in this chair. Pictures on his social media, with his long legs stretched out to rest on that coffee table. That game controller in his hand.

I discover sex toys in a box up on the shelf. It’s a relatively small collection, nothing too radical. Fluffy handcuffs, yawn. A couple of vibrators his ladies might like.

“You’re that killer’s wife.” “Not anymore,” I say. “I divorced him. And then I killed him in self-defense.” I close the door and turn to face her. “I’m also trying to help you.”

Hearing the word gone, I instinctively know that some part of her has accepted the likely truth: her son is dead, beyond even a mother’s desperate reach.

opened up a wall of our house and revealed all of Melvin’s evil, horrible secrets. The sight of that poor dead woman—Sam’s sister—will haunt me forever.

I don’t shut it down too hard. He isn’t harassing her because she’s gay; he’d have razzed her if it were a hot boy too.

I don’t know what’s going on here. They seem so incredibly down-home genuine, but that’s not who the Belldenes are, and I know that. They’re hardened criminals.

“Bad press,” I say, and they nod. “You think I’m bringing you bad press?” I have to hold in a wild laugh. “The drug dealers don’t approve of me?”

There’s some vague legend of a Native American princess committing suicide by jumping off it onto rocks, the stupid bullshit that white people say to make themselves all romantic about the original residents they killed off in the first place.

Bon’s technically a senior, but he got held back a couple of grades. He’s really an adult, which makes it borderline weird for him to be out here.

I look around for Vee again but I still don’t see her. I’m disappointed that she ditched me, but on some level, I guess I’m also not surprised.

She starts dancing. She puts her arms around me and pulls me close, and I hear boys whooping and clapping behind us. I don’t like it. I’m not here to put more deposits in their spank banks.

before I can even start to number off why this is a terrible idea, we’re kissing, and oh my God. I forget about why I shouldn’t be here and that Vee is a bad idea walking, because this kiss is the best I’ve ever had, and I just want more.

I have to stay alive on my own. Nobody’s coming to help.

My voice is quavering, voice unsteady, on the verge of tears. My tough-girl persona has melted away, and I feel like I’m a little kid again. I remember being twelve and showing off for Connor; I’d gotten Mom’s gun out of the lockbox and unloaded it and reloaded it, and the expression on her face when she found us was just like this. Angry, terrified, disappointed, so worried. It hurts. I just want to curl up in a ball and cry myself sick.

I remember that I probably can’t open it by myself. But I’m not the one in trouble here. My daughter looks tough, but I see the scared little girl inside, and it hurts.

I know this isn’t good. We didn’t need another reason to be at war with the Belldenes, but here it is. My daughter’s the only witness to what seems to be a crime that Olly Belldene is involved in, and that makes me very, very worried.

internet enables and organizes hate very effectively; it lets people believe they’re righteous warriors for justice when in reality they’re just clicking keys.

They’re coming for Sam. That horrifies me, because he thinks he’s ready for it. He’s seen what happened to me, to my kids . . . but observing isn’t the same as experiencing, and he’s about to get drowned in a storm of shit.

I feel an instinct come alive. “What girl?” I don’t want to lead him. I want to follow.