When Devils Sing(22)
As Sam burrowed into the thin sheets of her lumpy bed, welcoming the relief of sleep, the night’s events returned to her. A memory of the precarious deal she’d made with Jack. A lie in exchange for Ben’s life? She trusted the relief of her brother’s survival about as much as she’d trusted one of her daddy’s good moods—fortune never hung around her long.
What exactly would the devil ask of her when it came time to collect? A lie could be a volatile thing, far-reaching in its consequences. Sam wondered if the anxiety, the uncertain fear of it, was all part of Jack’s game—a predator playing with its prey.
The earsplitting scream of cicadas swelled around her, pulsing to the rapid beat of her heart as she recalled the accident. The trailer’s AC unit sputtered to a stop outside her window. A gnat that wandered in from outside hovered beside her ear, just out of reach, and the cloying stink of cigarette smoke still lingered on her fingers like a mark of sin.
All at once, Sam made a promise to herself: No matter what it takes, this will be my last summer in this godforsaken town.
CHAPTER 7ISAIAH
Isaiah idled at the gates of Lake Clearwater, waiting to be let in.
“What’d you say your name was again?” the security guard asked Isaiah, eyeing his car. “I don’t see your license plate in the database.”
It was the third time the guard had asked. He was clearly new to the job. The last one normally let him in without a second glance, but this one was being deliberately obtuse.
Isaiah wanted to blame his obstinance on the cicadas, but he knew the guard could hear him clearly. Unlike in Carrion, the cicadas were merely an unobtrusive hum on this side of the water.
“Isaiah Johnson.” He sighed, watching as the guard held on tightly to his license. He hated what he was about to do, but time was not on his side that morning. “I’m the son of Judge Laurence Johnson and I’m running late.”
The guard’s eyes went wide, quickly handing Isaiah back his ID. “Oh—oh, I’m sorry, sir. Of course.” The guard fumbled for the button to open the gate. “Just be sure to get a new visitor pass decal before you leave today. Security’s tightening this summer for the festival.”
“Will do.” Isaiah reluctantly gave the man his signature country-club smile. He checked his watch for the third time. Ten minutes late to an internship he’d only just started was a bad look.
The gate opened before him, and Isaiah made sure to tip his head at the guard one last time as he passed through to the bridge that crossed the water. A physical border, one that marked the divide from the southern, public side of the lake to the northern, private side.
Dirty public beaches and faded boat docks gave way to a sprawling peninsula filled with elaborate, genteel mansions and services only the incredibly wealthy required. Golf courses, plastic surgery offices, a boutique gym and yoga studio, an organic food market, a landing strip for personal helicopters and jets. Sights that couldn’t be found anywhere else in Southwest Georgia, the most impoverished region in the state.
As Isaiah continued down the tree-shaded, winding road, he passed an expansive antebellum-era property, complete with ornately trimmed columns and an unnaturally green lawn. One of the many “community centers” on this side of the lake—a place for the Clearwater folks to gather for political fundraisers and the occasional wedding. This one occupied the remains of a former plantation. Because nothing conveyed love better than reciting your vows at the site of former slave quarters.
Isaiah pulled into the small parking lot of Clearwater & Co. Law Firm, one of two firms that sat upon Lake Clearwater. He parked between two gleaming cars that cost more than a year’s worth of Harvard tuition.
That’s how he measured things these days—the price of an elite education he wasn’t sure he even wanted.
Isaiah opened his car door with care. As he crossed the lot, he spotted a familiar Tesla a few spaces down.
“Seriously?” he groaned.
Inside, Isaiah was greeted by the distant laughter of wealthy white men, as well as the controlled chuckle of his father. He paused at the entryway mirror, smoothing the lines of his collared shirt. Now that he was inside—the cool of the AC in stark contrast to the dense, soupy heat of Georgia in summer—his clothes clung to him like a second skin.
He found his father and the two Clearwater & Co. attorneys seated around a glossy teak wood table in the reception area. Each held a glass of scotch, sipping and smiling. The attorneys, Rutledge and Leblanc, greeted Isaiah, raising their glasses in his direction as one. He had checked his watch enough times to know it was barely past noon.
“Ah, there’s my son,” his father said.
It was a strange, slightly unsettling surprise to see his father here in Lake Clearwater, unannounced and schmoozing. Laurence Johnson wasn’t a man who schmoozed. Usually, it went the other way around.
Isaiah greeted his father and the attorneys like it was just another day. Except, it wasn’t. Since the cicadas swept over Carrion that morning, the email from Dawson Sumter clung to Isaiah like a millstone. He had never wished more for a tip to be untrue. In fact, it was normally the opposite. For the podcast, he relished every possibility of a story. The potential of scandal and secrets to uncover was a special kind of thrill—one he’d indulged in while his parents’ marriage slowly fell apart over the past three years.