: Chapter 19

If Macon’s way of doing things for that guy works, then everyone will believe it’s right.

Knowledge, skill, talent, hard work—they help, but how much of the outcome just ends up being the luck of the draw? A fifty-fifty shot? That man could sober up, find inner peace, grow stronger …

He could also hurt himself. Macon is constantly playing the odds. Do any of the people here know how brittle that game is?

No.

They trust him.

They put all their security into one man because he’s the reason they eat when they lose their jobs and stay in their houses when medical care takes all their paycheck.

I crane my neck under the shower spray, my hair pinned on top of my head as I let the hot water spill down my back and legs. What do I know about anything, right? I didn’t grow up here, with these challenges. There’s a reason he doesn’t look at me or talk to me.

The shower curtain slides open, and I pop my head up, seeing Trace step into the shower with me, naked.

I go wide-eyed. “Get out!”

He pulls the curtain closed again, holding his arms out around me to feel the water.

“Trace,” I grit through my teeth. “Get out!”

“I got a date,” he grumbles.

“Right now!”

He pushes me aside and leans back under the water, wetting his hair. “I won’t be long.”

I cock an eyebrow, moving as far away from him as I can. My eyes fall to his flaccid dick. “You never are.”

“Ouch.”

His nonchalance as he closes his eyes and smooths back his hair under the water makes me feel … I don’t know.

Like we’re four, best friends, and our moms are bathing us together.

He starts shampooing his hair, and I grab my loofah, lathering it with soap. I hurriedly wash my arms, the back of my neck, my stomach, and my breasts, and I look up to see him watching that part. He grins, and I drop my eyes again to see he’s hardening.

I turn away.

“You can look,” he teases. “I know I’m bigger than Army. Iron, too.”

Whatever.

“I am, aren’t I?” he coos.

Ugh.

I face the other way, placing my foot on the edge of the tub and soaping my leg before doing the same with the other one. We switch places, and I rinse, taking the showerhead and washing off my back. He reaches around me to rinse off his hands.

And he stays there, at my back. “I love you, you know?” he says.

I go still.

“You were really good to me.” He takes the showerhead and rinses my spine and the backs of my arms. “I loved how your face would light up and you smiled all the time, and I really needed someone to smile at me. I acted like it was nothing, but you’re irreplaceable.”

My heart warms, my chin trembling a little.

“I’m glad it’s him,” he sighs, planting a peck on my temple. “Army is good. He’s not stupid enough to let you go.”

I hang the loofah from a hook, and he replaces the shower-head.

I smile to myself, joking, “Well, he knew I’d be a good waitress. I bet you’re glad he had the bright idea to offer me a job. Now you get to see me every day.”

He chuckles, sliding open the shower curtain again.

I turn off the water.

“That was Macon, actually,” he says.

I pause, and he steps out, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around his waist.

“What?” I whisper.

He nods. “Yeah, he was the one who sent Army after you that night. He told him to bring you back.”

He tosses me a towel, and I catch it, but I’m staring at the floor. Why didn’t Army tell me that?

“And I am so glad he always does what our big brother tells him to do.”

I faintly hear him laugh, and then he’s gone.

Lost in thought, I leave the bathroom in my towel, get in my pajamas, and take the pins out of my hair, letting the locks fall down my back.

I stand at the window, watching Macon outside in the darkness as he moves through the ruins of the old wing.

There are a dozen reasons why he could’ve wanted me here. None of them have to be because he likes me. The one thing I do know is that he’s a mystery to everyone, especially to the people who know him.

I follow him from Liv’s window to the one in Army’s room as he wanders, the moonlight making the overgrown weeds and palms look blue around him.

I haven’t seen him since the compressor earlier today.

He stands under a rafter, on an old section of flooring made of broken clay that reveals patches of wood and cement underneath. Still and quiet, he stares off like he does all the time.

But then I notice how he cocks his head.

Like he sees something in the darkness.

I follow his gaze, but I see nothing from here. He takes a step, and then another, slow and soft, and then … in one quick whirl, Army rushes up with a stick or a branch and sweeps it across the ground. A snake jumps two feet from where Macon stands, and I suck in a breath, hearing Army yell, even through the glass.

“Jesus Christ, man!” he bellows at his brother. “What the fuck?” Macon stands there.

“Macon?” Army shakes his shoulder. “You okay? What are you doing?”

Army’s worried expression searches his brother’s face, and I can see how hard he’s breathing. I don’t think

Macon’s pulse has changed.

I swallow hard. I can’t move.

He cares more about their lives than he ever did his own.

The guys think I went to work. I wait in Liv’s room until I see all the trucks make their way down the road, in the direction of St. Carmen, and then wait at the door with my hand on the knob.

I listen for him.

Something slams downstairs, and I feel the garage door vibrate through the house. Another door closes. Maybe the kitchen door. He probably needed a drink.

Then, there’s no more noise. I wait another minute or so, confident Macon’s in the garage, beginning his day’s work.

Slipping out of Liv’s room, I head over to his bedroom. I don’t know why I tiptoe. Stopping short, I pluck a few clean, folded towels out of the hallway closet. If he catches me, I’ll just tell him I was stocking his bathroom.

Stepping into his room, I quickly close the door behind me. And I look around, feeling immediately stupid.

Am I really afraid he’s going to do something to himself? I could be way off. His brothers don’t seem worried enough to intervene, and they’ve known him a lot longer.

But his mother suffered from depression, and it can be hereditary.

If I’m right, what then? He won’t accept help.

I look around, knowing the signs won’t be obvious. There won’t be a pile of crumbled-up drafts of a suicide note, but I am looking for signs that he’s drinking and hiding it. Empty liquor bottles. Pills. Drugs.

My throat tightens. Or objects to cause himself harm. I’ve never seen deadly weapons in the house, though.

I look in his bathroom first, seeing clothes on the floor and a pile of towels. I inspect them for blood, and then I check his sink and shower, looking for anything that raises alarm.

Heading into his bedroom, I find unmarked boxes on the top shelf of his closet. I reach up to look inside one, finding it full of pictures. I smile a little, immediately recognizing the Jaegers long before I knew them. A very young Army, his arm around Macon, who’s dressed in camouflage pants and a T-shirt, his hair so short.

More pics of the family, but I force myself to put the lid back on and stack it back on the shelf. I’m only invading his privacy for his safety.

I open his dresser drawers, feeling around just enough for anything hidden, and then look under the bed and pillows. I whip open the drawer of his bedside table, spotting some money, a watch, and a …

My heart pumps hard, seeing it and knowing what it is without even pulling the drawer all the way out. I reach in and take the handgun by the grip, holding it up.

My hand shakes, looking down at it and curling my finger around the trigger but not pressing. I don’t even know how to check for bullets, much less take them out. I swallow hard.

This is the Bay. I guess I should’ve known they’d have weapons. It’s not uncalled for and no reason to worry. Especially given how many people Macon pisses off. I would probably think it odd if he didn’t have one. Careless, even.

And also, he was in the Marines. He was trained how to use it. I don’t think they’re allowed to keep their service weapons, but it’s entirely possible he’s had his own for years.

But the mess in the room …

I look around at all the clothes, the shit piled on his dresser.

Macon’s not like this.

Keeping the gun in my hand, I close the drawer and turn to walk out, but I see the rafter in the corner of the room, posted between the two walls. A small, thin groove dents the wood, the color stain worn away to reveal the natural tone underneath. That’s where the rope was. From his mom.

I flex my jaw. My God, why does he sleep in here? I run from the room, scanning the hallway as I dash into Liv’s room and stash the weapon in the back of her closet.

But I pause, my hand still wrapped around the grip. What if the gun really is for self-defense? Should I be hiding it? What if he needs it?

I hide it anyway, just for now. Just a day or two until I know he’s okay.

I put the towels back where I got them and head downstairs. I don’t bother getting dressed, still in my sleep shorts and T-shirt as I enter the kitchen.

Breathing in and out, I force my heart rate to slow down, and lift the window to my left. I draw in the fresh air. The curtains blow, and I push the images from my mind, and all the questions I can’t answer, or that he won’t answer if I ask. He sleeps in that room where she did it. He sees that rafter every day.

I open all the windows downstairs, letting in the warm breeze and the smell of the trees as I put on some music. “Take the World” plays on low volume. Moving around the house, I decide to pitch in on a few things, not really because I want to but because it’ll give me an excuse to be in the house.

Like throwing out the slimy green onions in the fridge.

But then I find expired milk, green sausage (that’s not green because it contains spinach), and three opened bottles of ketchup that should be bled into one. Before I know it, I’m tearing the whole refrigerator apart and cleaning it. Then I move on to the freezer and toss out the expired food in the pantry.

I arrange an extra disposal can for recycling, which they’ve just started to take part in. I’ll break that news to them tonight. Then I vacuum out all the spilled rice from the kitchen drawers and cabinets.

I find some candles and set them around, lighting them, because candle flames are pretty, and then I start an early dinner to simmer on the stove before I finish the dishes.

I’m not sure how much time passes, but I finally finish up by starting the dishwasher and hand-washing the pan from breakfast when the door to the garage swings open. Macon steps in, stopping when he sees me.

He stares, and my eyes drop momentarily to his sweaty chest and olive skin, and the way his jeans hang off his hips with no belt. He’s losing weight. I jerk my gaze back down to the pan in the sink.

“What are you doing?” he asks. “Why aren’t you at work?” There’s a bite to his tone, but not like when he’s talking to his brothers. More like he’s just unpleasantly surprised.

“I, um …” My vision fogs as my heartbeat picks up pace again. “I just wanted a quiet day.” I meet his eyes. “Aracely’s sister is filling in for me.”

He pinches his brows together, looking down at the dishes. “You’re cleaning.”

Now his tone sounds like he’s confused.

“Well, I can do it,” I joke. “When I want to.”

He gives me a look, and I swear, there’s almost a smile there. He’s in and out several times over the next couple of hours, getting something to drink, washing his hands, pulling his phone off the charger.

I clean the living room and get started on the floors, lifting the corner of the couch to roll up the area rug and take it outside.

I heave it up, but I’ll never get it on my shoulders. Dragging it across the floor, I stop short when I realize someone is pulling it. Looking back, I see Macon lift up one end and put it on top of his right shoulder, and I do the same with my end. “Thanks.”

We take it outside, hanging it on the fence to air out, and I go back in to sweep and mop.

He goes upstairs, and I start sweating the moment he goes into his room. He’s going to notice his gun missing.

I think every muscle in my body is tensed for ten whole minutes as I wait for my head to roll from his wrath.

But when he comes back down, his hair is wet from the shower, and he’s wearing clean jeans, not even making eye contact with me.

I exhale.

I empty the dust pan into the garbage, and he walks to the stove, lifting the lid of the pot.

He inspects it for a moment, finally asking, “What are you cooking?”

Well, if he can’t tell, that’s not a good sign.

“I found it in a box of recipes.” I set the dustpan down and grab the notecard, showing it to him. “Ropa vieja.” I try again, properly. “Ropa … vieja?”

He eyes the card, a look passing behind his eyes, and then lifts the spoon.

“Pork?” he asks, studying the ingredients.

I nod.

“My mother used beef.”

“Oh.” I read the card again as he takes a taste. “It said any meat was fine.”

“It is.”

I watch him replace the spoon and lid, telling him, “It probably needs more salt. I’ve noticed I have blander taste buds than everyone else on this side of the tracks.”

“It’s not bad,” he mumbles, turning to the fridge. “If they want more salt, they can add it themselves.”

He grabs a soda and sets it on the counter, turning to me. I jump when he takes my face in his hands, and I watch him with wide eyes as he comes in close. But then he turns my face side to side, and I realize he’s checking my bruises. “If this ever happens again, I’m going to make an assumption about who was responsible and deal with it, you understand?”

So, if I don’t tell him, he’ll guess. I don’t want them risking anything for my sake.

I pull away and grab a plate, doling out rice and stew, handing it to Macon.

But he shakes his head. “I’m not hungry.”

He grabs his soda, moving for the garage door, and I sit down with the plate, grabbing a fork out of the basket to eat by myself.

The next thing I know, he slams the door and walks to the stove, making himself a plate.

I smile to myself. He sits at the head of the table, and I look down from the foot, watching him as he eats.

He takes up the whole room. The whole house. I’ve seen him angry. I’ve seen him quiet. I’ve never seen him happy. Or in love. Or scared.

Where does he hide it?

He bleeds apathy. Dispassion. Indifference. Control. Nothing else gets out. No wonder he’s sick.

“What?”

I shift in my seat, realizing I’m still staring. He doesn’t look at me as he chews, but he knows I’m watching him.

I stick my finger in my dish and lick it, tasting the gravy. “I remember hearing about you as a kid,” I start to tell him. “A man over here hit his wife, and you forced his hand into the spinning wheel of a motorcycle. Is that true?”

He doesn’t reply. Or look at me.

The house sounds peaceful for once. Quiet.

I breathe slowly. “You and Army sold drugs in order to pay the bills after your parents died?” I repeat another story I heard.

Still, nothing.

“You keep the alligators well fed?”

His mouth twitches, and I see it. The smile as he stares at his food, taking another bite.

A shot of pride hits me.

I continue. “In the tall grass field just before the bay, overlooking Del Mia Island, you allow duels,” I press on with another rumor.

He shakes his head, amused.

I dip my fork in and out of my dish. “There’s treasure concealed in some of the graves at Santa Maria Cemetery.”

Still no comment.

“You cut yourself and make people drink your blood to prove their loyalty,” I tell him.

His chest shakes. I think it’s a laugh, but not a sound escapes. He takes another bite.

“You have a harem of wives?” I question.

He cocks a brow, and I can feel the eye roll even though he doesn’t let it out.

“And every girl,” I tell him, “on her eighteenth birthday, has to be submitted to you for first refusal.”

“Jesus fucking Christ …” he whispers to himself.

“And they also say you secretly own parts of St. Carmen.” Finally, he looks at me. “Like real estate?”

“Like people. Some of the children are yours, they say. You have a plan to breed us out.”

He can’t stop himself. He laughs, bowing his head, still holding his fork. Then he looks at me, disbelieving. “What the fuck?” He scoops up another bite. “I sound like the devil.”

I’m glad he’s smiling. I’m sure he was aware of some of what people say about him, and he was probably never offended by it. Macon knows people are stupid. He always knows that when you make yourself rarely accessible, they’ll make up stories about you. That worked in his favor. An air of mystery feeds fear, and fear is power.

I fill my fork. “No matter what I heard, I never thought you were a monster,” I say. “It’s nice for Clay to have a father willing to pay whatever it takes to protect her, but I was always fascinated with Liv, having you willing to do anything to feed her. Without even meeting you, I knew you’d bleed for her.”

He looks at me, and a nerve shoots from my heart down to my stomach.

“And I only ever believed the first three things,” I tell him, smiling.

He grabs the salt and douses his dish with it. “Just keep your ass out of the cemetery, okay?”

I laugh, seeing his half smile and light eyes. Lighter than I’ve ever seen them.

And I know then and there that I won’t give this family up until I know that someone is loving him. Until he’s in her arms.