“Get her out.”

 

 

YOU

You aren’t surprised when they come for you. You don’t remember the hours following your conversation with Five, but you remember his words. You knew that it was only a matter of time before you were asked to pass judgment.

Of the nine seats at the table, four are filled at this midnight conference. Yours makes five.

“There is a threat.” Five has laid his knife on the table for you to see. “I believe the situation to be worthy of the Pythia’s counsel.”

There is a promise in his tone. He will slice and dice and cut and bleed you, then ask you whether your daughter and her friends should live or die.

“There is no threat.” You speak like one who knows the truth of things, like one who has seen that which mortal eyes may never see.

They pay you no heed.

Two is on the verge of losing his seat to the acolyte. This may be his last chance to hear you scream, to burn you, if Five and his knife prove less than convincing. Four believes himself a man of great discernment. You can already feel his fingers closing in around your neck.

It would be so easy to run and hide, deep inside your own head. To go away from this place—from the pain.

“The FBI is closing in.” The fifth member of this quorum is the one who has never laid a hand on you. The one you loathe. The one you fear. “In my judgment, their very presence in Gaither makes this group a threat.”

“They are not yours to judge.” Your voice is dangerous, low. This is the lie that you must sell. You are what they have made you. You are judge and jury, and without a fifth vote, they cannot put you through the rites.

It will happen. Tomorrow, the next day at the latest, but for now…

The door opens. You recognize the person who stands there, and you see now what you should have seen before.

There are nine seats at the table. You sentenced Seven to die. You knew his seat would not remain empty. You knew that the Master who trained him would return to the fold.

But you didn’t know…didn’t know…

“Shall we begin again?” Five picks up his knife, his smile spreading.

Six seats filled. Five votes, excluding yours.

 

 

The next morning, we still hadn’t heard from Lia. If Ree noticed we were one short as we slid into our booth at the Not-A-Diner, she didn’t comment on it. “What can I get you?”

“Just coffee.” Dean’s voice was barely audible. He hadn’t slept and wouldn’t until Lia was out of that place.

“Coffee,” Ree repeated, “and a side of bacon. Cassie?”

“Coffee.”

Ree didn’t even ask Sloane and Michael what they wanted. She gave us a look. “I heard your friend has fallen under Holland Darby’s spell.”

I wondered if she’d also heard—from her grandson—that we were with the FBI. You might not say anything if you had. You know how to keep a secret. You know when to keep your mouth closed.

“Lia’s coming back.” Dean’s voice was quiet, but his expression was hard.

Ree eyed Dean. “That’s what I thought when my daughter joined Darby’s flock. She split town, and I never heard from her again.”

“You weren’t surprised when your daughter left.” Michael was entering dangerous territory, pressing Ree on this, but I let him do it.

“Her daddy hightailed it out of Gaither when I was pregnant. Sarah was always more like him than me—full of big dreams and restless in her own skin, always looking for the promise of something more.”

“Holland Darby is big on promises,” Dean commented, assessing Ree. “You’re not.”

Ree pursed her lips. “We, every one of us, reap what we sow. I hope your friend makes it out, but don’t let her choices pull you down in the meantime. Life is full of drowning people, ready and willing to drown you, too.”

The door to the diner opened. With a harrumph at the person who stood there, Ree disappeared back into the kitchen. Beside me, Dean laid one hand over mine.

The person who’d just walked in was Kane Darby.

I knew, from the moment that his gaze landed on our table, that he hadn’t seen me the day before at the apothecary museum, but that he recognized me now.

“Gut-punched,” Michael told me under his breath, his eyes methodically scanning Kane’s face, his posture. “Like he can’t decide whether to smile or throw up.”

Staring at the man, I could suddenly remember riding on his shoulders when I was very small. If Michael had read my expression, he probably would have said that I looked gut-punched, too.

“If you need an icebreaker,” Sloane told me, pitching her voice in a whisper, “you should tell him that eighty percent of Americans believe that a weevil is similar to a weasel, when in reality, it’s a type of insect.”

“Thanks, Sloane.” I squeezed Dean’s hand once, then stood, crossing the room until Kane Darby and I were standing face to face.

“You look like your mother.” Kane’s voice was muted, like he thought I was a dream and if he spoke too loudly, he might wake up.

I shook my head. “She was beautiful, and I’m…” I searched for the right words. “I can fade into the background. She never learned how.”

I realized, as I said those words, that there was a part of me that had always believed that if my mother and I were more alike, if she’d been less of a performer, if she hadn’t been the center of attention just walking through a room, she might still be here.

“Women shouldn’t have to fade into the background to be safe.” Kane’s response told me that he could read me, nearly as well as I could read him.

“You heard what happened to my mom?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

“It’s a small town.”

I assessed him for a moment, then went straight for the jugular. “Why did my mother leave you? We were happy here. She was happy. And then we left, with no warning, in the middle of the night.” Until I’d said the words, I hadn’t realized that I had any memory of leaving Gaither, other than dancing with my mother on the side of the road.

Kane looked at me, really looked at me this time, instead of just seeing my mom in my features. “Lorelai had every right to leave, Cassie, and every right to take you with her.”