When Devils Sing(60)
“Nope.” Sam shook her head. “I don’t want nothin’ else from you.”
Jack laughed, rising from the ground. He dusted dirt off the back of his worn blue jeans. “It’s not polite to lie to the devil, Red.”
“I’m not a liar.”
Jack drew closer. “How’s that wrist of yours? Must be mighty hard to wait tables with one good hand.”
“It’s fine,” Sam lied. “I’m fine.”
“Tell me this,” Jack said, placing one hand on the rope swing and his other around her splinted wrist. “When your daddy did this to you—were you scared? Or were you angry?”
When her daddy had fractured her wrist a few weeks prior, it wasn’t due to something she’d done. Ben had spilled his spaghetti on the floor by accident. Their daddy had been fine that whole evening, nice even, but the moment the plate hit the floor, it flipped a switch inside of him.
He’d always been that way. Sam knew it was coming, like lightning before earth-shattering thunder.
She hid Ben away in her room, desperate to placate their daddy, but she was no match for his wrath. Not even her locked and barricaded bedroom door could keep him out.
Sam had done everything she could. But by the end of the night, both she and her brother were bloodied and beaten. And Sam had already turned eighteen. Wiley was no longer legally obligated to offer her a roof over her head. Her standing up for Ben was the final straw. She was tossed outside without a second thought.
“Neither. I wanted to make him feel the way he made Ben and me feel,” Sam said, her voice low. “I wanted him to suffer.”
Jack nodded eagerly. “What if you could? What if I told you that you could scare your daddy? That you could kill him if you wanted to?”
Sam yanked her wrist away from Jack’s grip. “That’s too far.”
Jack looked contemplative. “Is it? What happens when Ben goes home from the hospital? When he angers your daddy again and you’re not there to protect him?” Jack paused, letting the question linger between them. “I can only save a life once.”
Sam looked away into the still summer night. The cicadas had quieted down, finally resting until they returned at sunrise. “What’re you offerin’?”
“Whatever you want, Red.” Jack smiled. “You do something for me, and I’ll do something for you. No strings attached.”
“No souls involved?”
“No souls,” Jack assured her. “Like I said, this would be a mutually beneficial relationship.”
Sam stared down at her wrist. It ached in a way the rest of her body didn’t. She climbed out of the tire swing. “I need to think about it.”
“All right,” Jack said, taking a step back. “While you think on my offer, I’d like to give you somethin’.”
“What’s that?”
Jack gestured to her wrist. “Before you go to sleep tonight, place a lock of hair on your windowsill. Remove the splint. Fall asleep with your window open. Your wrist will be healed by morning, if you want it.”
Sam narrowed her green eyes. “What’s the cost?”
Jack pretended to look hurt. “You never had a gift before?”
“The devil isn’t known for being generous,” Sam said, starting down the dirt path toward home. “Even I know that.”
* * *
ONCE SAM RETURNED to the trailer, a dog howled in the distance, low and mournful. Tiptoeing inside, she disappeared into her room. Sam locked her bedroom door and pushed the small nightstand that had come with the room in front of it. The nightstand was old, and creaked as she moved it, but was heavy enough to serve as a decent barricade for the door. She wondered if she’d barricade her bedroom door for the rest of her life.
Old habits, as they say.
Her head spun and her body hurt all over. Her fractured wrist throbbed. She considered Jack’s gift, supposing it wouldn’t hurt to at least try. Reaching into her backpack, she dug around for an old pair of scissors. They were dull and rusted, but they did the trick, as she cut a lock of hair from around her face. She placed the hair on the windowsill, then pushed open the window by a few inches.
Sounds of wildlife trickled in. The neighbor’s dog continued to howl at nothing. Katydids chirped. The wind blew softly through the pines. They were the familiar sounds of a Georgia summer night that hummed with life.
Sam unbuckled the splint around her wrist, wincing at the pain and the smell. She was grateful for not having to wear plaster, but the pain of removal still ached. Once the splint was off, she closed her eyes, but sleep didn’t immediately come. Instead, recurring, dreadful images flashed behind her eyelids.
Dawson’s hurt, angry face the last time they spoke. Ben crumpled and bloodied in the back seat of her car. Her daddy’s fist barreling toward her.
Squeezing her eyes tighter, Sam forced herself to imagine she was on a beach, sitting cozy in a cushioned chair, overlooking the ocean with her brother. They would play cards together or a board game. Ben would paint with the watercolors he liked so much, not afraid of making a mess in fear of their daddy. They could laugh loudly and freely. Stay up as late as they wanted and sleep in as long as they wished.
It was Sam’s ritual every night to envision that dream. The fantasy kept her grounded—focused on what she needed to do. Her only goal was to support herself and Ben. To make enough money and adopt him—to spirit him away from their parents and from Carrion altogether. Sam had to get them out, and she was willing to do anything to make that a reality.