North Country(18)

Dillon’s expression hardens. “None of you have any idea who Logan is or what he’s capable of anymore.” He climbs back into his car, pausing long enough to demand, “Keep him away from my daughter, or you and I are going to have a huge problem,” before slamming his door. He pulls away, his tires kicking up loose stones.

“That went well.” I drag my tired body to the porch where the stench of Isla’s equipment greets me.





Duke wakes me with one of his half-assed, I-heard-something-but-I’m-not-feeling-threatened-enough-to-get-up-and-investigate barks.

I pull myself up from my sprawl on the couch. The glass of chardonnay I poured before dozing off—my third—sits abandoned on the coffee table. The television gave up on me, shutting off after lengthy inactivity. I can’t remember what I was watching before I fell asleep in my poor attempt to chaperone Isla and her friends at the bonfire out back, but the clock reads just after midnight.

“Logan!”

My ears perk up at the distant sound of a female voice. Did I hear correctly? Is someone calling—

“Looooogan!”

“Oh, shit.” I drag myself up off the couch. Shoving my feet into my rubber boots and grabbing my quilted jacket and flashlight, I charge out the back door, expecting to find a circle of teenagers sitting around the crackling firepit. Only two forms are there, though, slouched within the Muskoka chairs, scrolling through their phones.

“Hi … uh … Mrs. McAllister.” Cody holds up a can. “It’s Coke. I’m driving.”

Marcus tries to hide his can of beer behind his thigh, which I appreciate. I know he’s drinking, and he knows that I know he’s drinking, but we keep up appearances. I’m not naive enough to believe my teenager and her friends aren’t getting their hands on alcohol, but I’d rather it be here, where they’re safe.

These two are the least of my worries. “Where are they?”

“Uh …” Cody falters, his gaze veering toward the Landrys’ just as Isla’s best friend Holly’s voice rings out.

“Logan, come on! We know you’re in there! Come hang with us!”

“You have got to be kidding me,” I snarl. Off I go, marching across the narrow field between our properties, my rage growing with each step. All I need now is for Dillon to find out about this. I’ll never hear the end of it.

I’m halfway between our properties when the sound of breaking glass cuts through the quiet night, followed by gasps and “Oh my God” and “Hurry, run!”

“Don’t you dare move!” I shine my flashlight on their faces as I close the distance.

The three girls freeze like deer caught in headlights.

“What do you think you’re doing out here?” I whisper-shout, acutely aware of the music blaring from the apartment above the garage .

They exchange glances, searching for an excuse in their alcohol-soaked brains.

I would bet a hundred bucks that Holly instigated this entire spectacle. She’s unfettered, facing no consequences at home, with a mother who claims she doesn’t want to crush her spirit with too much discipline and a father too busy making money to parent.

“We were just, uh …” Isla falters, stumbling over her lie.

Whatever bullshit answer she was about to feed me dies as heavy footfalls pound down the stairs inside the garage.

My pulse speeds up unexpectedly as decades of waiting for this moment collide with reality.

This is happening tonight.

Right now.

I swallow hard. “Well, now you’ve done it. You girls wanted to meet him so badly …”

A floodlight ignites overhead and then the barn-style door flies open.





Chapter 7





Logan




Password must be eight characters in length including a lowercase letter, an uppercase letter, a number, and a special character.

“What the fuck.” I scowl at the red error line on the computer screen. I had an email address. I’ve long since forgotten it, but I’m positive it wasn’t this hard to set up.

When I went inside, we were using modems that dialed into the internet through our phone lines. That’s the last time I ever used the internet. The prison library had computers but no access to the outside world, so all I know about the way things have changed is from my mother’s letters, the revolving door of inmates serving time, and cable TV.

It’s going to take me more than an evening to catch up.

Orange flames cast a soothing glow as the woodstove pumps out heat. I didn’t need to jam in those two extra logs, but I was so excited about starting a fire that I wasn’t thinking straight. Now I’m down to my boxers, with beads of sweat rolling down my neck. Hell, I could be buck naked if I wanted. It’s an oven in here.

I tap at the keyboard with my two index fingers, retyping the password I came up with but adding an exclamation mark to the end this time.

Finally, it works. After four attempts, I have an email address that I will forget by tomorrow.

Grabbing a pen, I jot the information into my notebook, and with an odd sense of accomplishment, I check off one box on the to-do list my mother spent weeks making for me. One checkmark on pages’ worth of tasks required to rejoin society.