8

The Announcement was set to begin in three minutes.

I flipped a few channels. The presidential seal filled each one. For the first time in history, Uncle Sam was preempting every station and network. If you wanted Game of Thrones, you were simply out of luck.

I tried Twitter, but couldn’t get a signal. Everyone in America must’ve been clogging the towers. Mom was pacing our kitchenette, wiping dishes that were already dry. Her hands shook. I worried she’d drop one and cut herself.

I rose and walked to her side. Gently took the rag away. She tensed, eyes squeezing shut as her chin dropped. “I’m fine . . . Everything is . . .” She shook her head, as if clearing it. “It’s just not fair to you. To young people. You don’t deserve to have your lives snuffed out before you can even—”

“Why don’t we sit?” I guided Mom to her rocking chair, then dropped onto the couch beside it. Her pessimism rattled me, but I was determined not to show it. “Let’s wait and see what NASA has to say first, okay? Who knows? Maybe the Anvil is made out of toilet paper.”

My mother snorted wetly, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. She got a faraway look. “Did you know, when the preschool tested you as a toddler, your IQ was through the roof? Highest number they’d seen in years, the lady said. I don’t remember what it was, but it was very good.” Then her frown returned. A beat later she surged forward, grabbing my hand.

“I want you to know something. And I want you to remember it. Always.”

“Okay.” I swallowed. “What is it?”

“Everything I’ve done. All the . . . hard . . . all the . . . hateful choices I’ve had to make.” Mom paused, as if searching for an inner strength that had clearly fled. “I did what I thought was best,” she finished, releasing my hand. “Always that.”

She looked away. I released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

“It’s okay, Mom.” Though I wished she wasn’t doing this now. “I know what—”

“No!” Her eyes closed. “You do not. But there was no other way. I believe that, at least.”

I stared, baffled. But at that moment a voice blared from the TV.

“Please stand by for the president of the United States.”

The Announcement was beginning. All other thoughts flew from my head.

Am I about to be told the exact moment of my death?

The seal disappeared, replaced by a live shot of the Oval Office. The commander in chief was sitting behind her desk, a grave expression on her face. Without preamble, she said, “I’ve just been informed that NASA, seconds ago, completed its final calculations regarding the path of Asteroid 152660-GR4, more commonly known as the Anvil. Neither I nor anyone on my staff has yet heard their conclusions. Therefore, we go live to NASA headquarters in Houston.”

I sat forward on the couch.

A lonely podium on a simple black stage, in what could have been any auditorium in the country. A breathless man in a white lab coat practically sprinted toward the microphone.

Adrenaline flooded my system. This was it. The moment.

The gangly scientist seemed barely able to speak. “It’s going to miss!” he finally wheezed, then shouted full-throat into the mike. “The Anvil will bypass Earth at a range of thirteen thousand, eight hundred, and twenty-seven miles!”

Pandemonium. The auditorium erupted in thunderous cheers. Flashes strobed. People were hugging and screaming with joy. The feed cut briefly to a network studio, where the lead anchor was shaking uncontrollably in his seat, gasping in relief.

My mother slid from her chair to the floor.

I dropped to my knees beside her and grabbed her hand. “Mom? Mom?!”

“Praise God!” she mumbled, rolling to her back to stare at the ceiling. “This wasn’t it. It’s not time yet. I was so sure . . . so convinced . . .”

I pulled her upright, my heart nearly beating out of my chest. “It’s going to miss, Mommy! We’re okay! Everything is okay!”

She tensed so abruptly, I released her in surprise. Sadness crept back into her eyes, but this time Mom tried to cover it. She patted my hand. “That’s right, Melinda J., that’s right. God is good. Everything is going to be okay.” But the raw honesty was gone. I was disappointed by her clumsy attempt at placating me.

The president reappeared onscreen, smiling broadly, but I couldn’t hear her words. Outside, explosions began echoing up and down the valley. I ran to the window. Fireworks were lighting up the night sky, punctuated by sharp pops and booms that could only be gunshots. I heard exultant screams and shouts. Running feet and raucous laughter. Fire Lake had been given a death-row pardon, and its people were celebrating. Hard.

“Get away from there!” my mother admonished, regaining her composure. “Damn fools firing their rifles into the air! Liquored up to boot. People are going to get hurt tonight, mark my words.”

I stepped back from the glass. News coverage had switched to live shots of major cities. People were pouring into the streets, dancing, as if everyone had won a championship at once. I checked my phone again, but still couldn’t get a signal.

I was surprised to discover that I didn’t share the euphoria. Couldn’t connect to the wild celebrations. Why not? Did I want an asteroid to kill the planet?

“I’m going outside. Need some air.”

Mom’s head whipped to face me. “Not a step into town, though. People will be off their rockers tonight.”

Nodding, I stepped out into the cool evening. Barely made it three steps.

Blood rushed to my head. The ground tilted. I staggered, dropped into a lawn chair beside our fire pit. Dark thoughts were choking me. Paralyzing me.

The planet wasn’t going to explode after all. My life would continue as before.

And in two years, it would happen again.

A hand rose to cover my face. Ran its length. The weight of the world resettled onto my shoulders. The madness would continue, and I didn’t even know what was real.

My eyes popped open.

Proof.

There had to be something. Here. At my house. Some tiny piece of confirmation that the black-suited man existed—if only for my own sanity.

I rose, reconstructing the event in my mind. He would’ve assumed I was inside when he arrived. It’d been early, on a weekend. But did he check to make sure? How would he do that?

I began circling the trailer, looking for the slightest indication someone else had done the same. I rounded one corner, then another, reaching the outside of my grimy bedroom window.

My breath caught.

There. In the mud.

I dropped to my knees to be sure.

A single boot print. Low-heeled, with a waffle tread.

Images flickered in my mind. Me, sprawled on my bedroom carpet. A smoking hole in the door. The searing brightness of my fluorescent lights. The black-suited man, standing over me, his boot inches from my face.

Shiny. Black. Low heel. Waffle tread.

This was evidence. Undeniable, concrete fact.

A shallow boot print wouldn’t convince Mom. Or Lowell. Not Sheriff Watson and the Fire Lake PD, all of whom knew about my two previous “adventures” as a little girl. It wouldn’t persuade a single solitary soul that I’d recently been murdered.

But it was enough for me.

Hot tears streaked down my cheeks, falling like raindrops from my chin.

I’m not crazy. The black-suited man exists.

He wore heeled boots, left footprints, and had prowled the perimeter of my trailer before shooting me to death. I stumbled back to the chair and collapsed into it.

The murders were not delusions.

But . . . then . . . what were they? How did I die and come back to life?

Why that clearing? How did I get there? Where was I during the time in between?

I’d spent a lifetime avoiding these questions, part of me secretly convinced I really was insane. It was the only answer that truly made sense.

No more. My experiences were real. Mud doesn’t lie.

So what the hell am I supposed to do now?

Pine straw crunched. I flew from my seat as something large pushed through the hedges behind me. “Easy there, Rousey.” Laughter played on Tack’s lips as he brushed leaves from his long-sleeved Black Keys T-shirt. “Since when did you learn how to box?”

I glanced down. Discovered my hands were curled into fists. I released them, wiping my eyes, face reddening in embarrassment.

Tack misunderstood. “Hey, hey!” He swooped over and gave me a hug. “It’s cool! We’re okay. The Anvil was just a huge boogeyman after all, like you said.”

I nodded, shivering. Automatic gunfire sounded in the distance, followed by several loud booms. The front door to my trailer flew open and Mom’s head poked out. Tack released me and dropped into a lawn chair.

Mom pursed her lips. “Those idiots in the liberty camp are gonna shoot each other full of holes tonight. Can’t say I’ll miss them.” She nodded to my friend. “Evening, Tack. Looks like I’ll be seeing more of you around.”

“Yes, ma’am. My asteroid deflector sure did the trick.”

Mom chuckled. “I’ll let the neighbors know who to thank. You two stay close.”

“Actually,” Tack said, popping to his feet, “we were thinking of heading up to Tip-Top Grove. It’s like a dozen Fourth of Julys down by the lake, and I want to see the show. From a safe distance,” he added hastily.

Tack shot me a wink. Whatever. I had to admit, watching the shenanigans taking place around the valley would be more interesting than sitting here beside a cold fire pit. I could use a distraction.

Mom gave me a stern look. “You two stay this side of Quarry Road. Folks in town will be blowing off steam for God-knows-how-long. There’ll be trouble, I’m sure of it. Tomorrow’s gonna be an asylum at work.”

“Don’t worry.” I started after Tack, who was already skipping down the row like a six-year-old. Mom flashed the rueful smile she reserved just for him before disappearing back inside.

“Yo, Doofus! Slow your roll. Why do you want to visit Tip-Top?”

Tack waited on the common that divided our trailer park. “I was telling the truth, actually. Crazy stuff might be jumping off in the village, and I want a good view of the mayhem. Who knows? Maybe someone will accidentally blast Ethan before he can kill us.”

With a sharp shock, I remembered the crime we’d committed that afternoon.

Jesus. What had I been thinking?

Exiting the gate, we took a rough trail to the base of Miner’s Peak, a towering stone monolith that conveniently blocked our neighborhood from view. If it hadn’t existed naturally, Fire Lake’s citizens would probably have had it built. Tip-Top Grove was a glade of evergreens crowning its rocky point, a ten-minute, mostly vertical hike from the trailer park. From there you could see downtown, the lake, pretty much everywhere in the valley. I was puffing hard by the time we reached the summit.

The Grove is a popular hookup destination, but we found it blessedly empty. I was about to sit down when Tack slapped the trunk of the one giant oak. “Let’s go old-school.” He stared up into its tangle of thick limbs. “How high do you think we can climb?”

“Seriously?” Then I thought, Why not? I’m not too cool to climb a tree. I reached out and rubbed the gnarly bark. Childhood memories flooded back. “As high as it goes, of course.”

Tack grinned and hoisted himself into the lower branches. He lowered a hand to pull me up, but I slapped it aside disdainfully. “Keep moving.”

“Ho ho!” Tack chortled. “Sorry, Katniss! Forgot you were a hard-core survivalist.”

“Damn right.” Drawing level with Tack, I selected an alternate route and shot past him. “I bet we can still reach the Ski Lift.”

Twenty feet up, a group of intersecting branches formed a comfortable basket. I hadn’t thought of it in years. We settled in. The valley spread out below us like a picture book.

A smile split my face. I had to hand it to Tack—this was a good idea.

Moments later, fireworks exploded in rapid succession, blooming like molten flowers before sizzling into the lake. A round of pops carried across the water. “The libertarians are expressing their right to bear arms,” Tack noted drily, pointing to a cluster of lights just visible on the far side, “even though it’s a crime to fire live rounds so close.”

“That whole camp is illegal.” The unsettling bangs and snaps continued for a few minutes before petering out. “Mom says Sheriff Watson doesn’t have the guts to clear out the squatters.”

“The Plank is quiet, at least.” Tack was peering in the opposite direction, at the narrow suspension bridge spanning Gullet Chasm. Fog filled the ravine below it, obscuring the bottom and giving the crossing a ghostly feel.

“Hard to believe that’s the only way in or out,” I said, eyeing the delicate lattice of metal cables. “What happens if the bridge fails?”

“It did, once.” Tack propped his feet on a knotty branch, visibly pleased to know something I didn’t. “In the sixties. My granddad said it was a huge mess. About half as many people lived up here, but they were trapped in the valley for something like two months. The National Guard had to airlift supplies.”

My eyebrows rose. “How’d they finally rebuild it?”

“With metal and concrete. Duh.”

I laughed, settling back against the trunk. I was glad to be there with him. This little trip had rescued me from a miserable night of anger and paranoia. I could always count on Tack to make me feel better.

So why not tell him everything?

The impulse was so powerful, I inadvertently relaxed my grip, wobbling a moment before steadying myself.

Why not tell Tack? I needed to trust someone, didn’t I?

But will he believe?

Inexplicably, Noah Livingston’s face popped into my head. I pictured him sitting in the tree next to me, gazing out over the valley. Which was nuts, since we’d never done anything like this together. So why did I think of him now?

I realized Tack was watching me. “Something wrong?” he asked.

Tell him. Do it. You’ll feel so much better.

High beams scythed through the branches like a scalpel, nearly blinding me. I glanced down, blinking, as a line of xenon headlights appeared at the far end of the bridge.

“What the hell?” Tack rose up, craning for a better look. “You seeing this? There must be forty trucks crossing to our side!”

Tack was right. A tightly packed convoy was traversing the Plank and continuing toward downtown. Vans. Jeeps. SUVs and Humvees. All were an unobtrusive gray, manned by soldiers in uniforms.

“Who in the world . . .” Tack was leaning farther out than I liked, legs wrapped around a quivering limb as he snapped pics on his phone. I doubted he could get a decent shot from this distance. “See those big rigs?” He pointed to a pair of eighteen-wheel trucks rolling along in the center of the formation. “What’s that painted on their sides?”

Squinting, I could barely make it out in the darkness. “Looks like . . . black triangles. Maybe a starburst? I can’t see from here.”

Tack sat back and zoomed the images. “These jokers have to be military, but I’ve never seen that unit marking before. Which is kinda nuts, because I’m good with this stuff.”

I trusted him. Tack’s father had been Special Forces before being discharged for an incident in Afghanistan. We never talked about it, but, judging from the look on Mom’s face whenever the subject came up, it hadn’t been an honorable end to his service.

The motorcade snaked through town—never pausing, despite quite a few gawkers and drunken catcalls—exiting the opposite end and swinging onto Old Fort Run, a little-used dirt road that dead-ended on the eastern side of the valley.

“Oh, wow!” Tack glanced at me. “Only one thing over there.”

“Yep.” I watched the formation slip from the village lights. “Supposedly nothing.”

Like everyone else in Fire Lake, I’d heard rumors about the government land. An old internment camp. A defunct nuclear testing facility. Training grounds for Seal Team Six. Plenty of speculation. But the property had been abandoned since before I was born, with only a chain-link fence and a few warning signs. KEEP OUT.

We watched the convoy disappear into those woods. When it failed to emerge over the next few minutes, the answer was clear.

Tack slapped his leg. “Something’s up. That’s never happened before.”

“Maybe it has. It’s late. What if they always move around at night?”

Tack shook his head firmly. “I’d have heard. My dad wouldn’t have missed something like this, I’m sure of it.”

I held my tongue. Though an ace mechanic, Wendell Russo wasn’t considered “reliable” by most in town, unless you were Mr. Kappel at the liquor store. But despite the rough treatment he received at his father’s hands, Tack revered his old man.

“Let’s head home.” Tack was suddenly energized. “My phone isn’t getting a signal, and I want to Google that symbol. What do you think is back there, anyway? Looked like a lot of soldiers in those trucks. Where are they all going to sleep?”

Tack dropped to a lower branch, then stopped short, peering back up at me. “Wait, did you want to say something earlier?”

I took a breath. Shifted so he couldn’t see my face. “No. I’m good.”

•   •   •

An hour later, I was alone in my bedroom. Mom was already asleep.

When Tack had finally been able to connect, image searches had turned up nothing. Which he couldn’t believe. I could sense an obsession forming in his mind, but this time I was just as curious.

Something didn’t smell right.

The timing.

An unidentifiable military unit arriving in our sleepy valley on the same night the Anvil news went public? I don’t like coincidences, and that felt like a big one.

But to what end? The Anvil will miss, so why does it matter?

I slipped into an old tee and boy shorts. Drank a glass of water. Brushed my teeth and washed my face. Then I saw it. There, on my nightstand.

The little blue pills.

I’d taken one every day for the last six years.

I stared at the bottle. Then I walked to the bathroom and turned it upside down over the toilet. Flushed. I trashed the container and hopped into bed.

Dr. Lowell.

He’d fed me a story of delusions and disorders.

But I saw a footprint.

Weighing courses of action, I settled on a plan.

Dr. Lowell must keep records. About me. About my treatment.

I was going to find them.