You could argue that what Marjorie just said to Wally’s seedling wasn’t entirely truthful. A seedling can’t choose how she dies, just the length of time it will take. She can live for as long as she can scream; the minute she falls silent, the cement mixer starts disgorging its thick, wet contents into the pit all around her. If she marshals enough strength to start screaming again, they shut the mixer off, buying her a little more time for her to reflect on how she’s abused her voice throughout the years. But in the end, the seedlings realize there’s no point, that they’re just delaying the inevitable. In the end, they all die in breathless silence, which is exactly what they deserve.

“Is there food?” Wally asks.

“Casserole needs another few minutes. Show me what you brought.”

She’s excited to see Wally’s gifts. Wally, her sweetheart, remembered how much she hates watercolors, and he ribbed Jonah plenty about bringing her one. But their teasing seemed as innocent and playful as a game of hide-and-seek. The bond between them is as strong as ever, despite their having been apart a year. She has herself to thank for this, she’s sure.

“Watch the pit,” Marjorie says to Jonah before she and Wally step out the barn’s back door.

Just then the phone rings.

“That’ll be Cyrus,” she says. “You boys stay put and mind the seedling.”

They agree with quick nods, and then she’s striding toward the house.

The phone’s still ringing by the time she enters the kitchen. Good thing the call drew her back. Another few minutes and the casseroles would burn.

“Hello?” she answers.

“Good evening, ma’am.”

At the sound of Cyrus’s voice—his straining for calm, slightly phlegmy voice—all the muscles in Marjorie’s upper back instantly tense with enough strength to send little flames of pain up into her neck. Something’s wrong. So wrong she’s pretty damn sure he’s not about to give their official thumbs-up code by asking for the mythical Sheryl Peterson.

“Hello . . .” Marjorie repeats because it’s the only thing she can think of to say.

“Is Patricia Whitney there?”

Marjorie feels as if a dart’s been fired at the center of her chest, and for a second or two, she’s convinced cardiac arrest is on its way. The name Patricia Whitney is part of no code they’ve agreed to, good or bad. But she is the name of one of the most violent seedlings they ever captured. She was Jonah’s girl from a few years back, snatched outside Albuquerque. A real fighter, and the only seedling to ever slip her confines and require a bit of chasing before they managed to get her into the silencing pit. She’s also long dead, and Cyrus can only be going off book now because something on his end has gone very, very wrong. Catastrophically wrong, the kind of wrong for which they’ve got no agreed-upon code.

Her hand trembling, Marjorie goes to hang up the phone when the voice of a woman she doesn’t recognize says, “Hang up on me and Cyrus dies. Slowly.”

38

Charlotte was sure her captive would warn his beloved Mother no matter what he promised, so why not use that to her advantage? It would ensure he called the right person. Then Charlotte would have a chance to butt in and speak to the supposed architect of this nightmare.

When she first pulled the phone away from Mattingly’s ear, their captive tried to get off a few warning shouts, but just then Luke shoved the barrel of his Glock into the man’s open mouth. Too late, Mattingly went to close his lips, ending up kissing the gun before he opened his mouth wide to avoid the taste of the gun’s metal.

His mouth’s still wide, teeth bared, but he’s gone silent. So has the woman on the other end of the phone, save for her strained breathing.

Charlotte speaks fast, delivering words she rehearsed in her head a thousand times during the last hour of the drive. The worst outcome in this moment will be if the woman hangs up before Charlotte can make an impact. “I’m not the cops and I’m not the FBI. I’m not any kind of law enforcement. You probably won’t be able to understand what I am and what I’m capable of, so try to understand this instead. What I want is very simple. You’re going to release the two women you’re holding captive into my care, and then I’ll let you have your boy Cyrus back.”

“I don’t know who this is and I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you seem very disturbed. I have to go now.”

“You go and I will be at your ranch in five minutes and I will rescue those women from those pits myself and anyone who gets in my way will die.”

A total lie, given she still doesn’t know where the ranch is, but the woman on the other end doesn’t know that. But the detail about the pits has silenced her, probably has her frantically wondering what other facts her beloved Cyrus has revealed.

“I’m tempted to call you crazy, but that’s a very strong word and I’m a kind person.”

“Well, I’m not. Crazy is what Cyrus will be after I break every bone in his body and leave him to scream himself to death under a great big Texas sky. Kind of like what you’re about to do with those women, right? Now, are you going to be a real mother to this boy or not? Let’s figure this out; then we can call it a night and go our separate ways.”

Not for one minute is this lunatic going to agree to a hostage trade. But Charlotte’s after something very different.

“I see,” the woman finally says.

Not a denial. Maybe Charlotte’s getting somewhere.

“Do you?” Charlotte asks gently.

“You think I’m capable of terrible things, I guess,” the woman says softly.

“Your son says so.”

There’s brittle silence in response, and that’s good. That’s what Charlotte was hoping for.

“You want to know how I got your boy, ma’am?”

“I’m growing concerned for your mental well-being, so if it helps you to talk to me . . .”

Yeah, right. Charlotte laughs under her breath. She’s not about to reveal the digital mechanics of the Red Tier and how a man like Cyrus ends up on it. But in this instance, a neat summary should suffice.

“Every few months your boy buys the kinds of chemicals you need to help a human body decompose down to nothing in about no time flat, and he’s got no other use for them. Now if everything he’s said about this little family game of yours is true, you don’t need him to get rid of anybody. You bury your victims under a bunch of concrete. So if he’s buying this stuff on his own, that means he’s doing a little killing on the side. And to hear him tell it, the whole point of your sick little game is to help him purge all those instincts under your supervision. Because you’re his ‘mother.’ And so it’s your job to make sure he only kills once a year. And the way you want him to. Well, news flash. Your little game ain’t workin’, Momma.”

Silence from the other end.

“Thanks for letting me get that off my chest,” Charlotte says. “I feel saner now. Do you?”

There’s no telling exactly what the silence on the other end means. But the woman hasn’t hung up; that’s the important thing. Has this revelation loosened the thread between her and Mattingly as much as Charlotte hopes it did? The next few seconds will tell.