When Devils Sing(86)
Neera studied Sam, realizing her splint was gone, but her scrapes and cuts lingered. Even in the starlight, she saw healed scar tissue all over her freckled skin. Tiny little marks from a lifetime spent bleeding. “Will your brother be okay?”
Sam’s gaze turned hard. “Ben’s safe for now, but I don’t know how long it’s gonna last.” She sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. “I saved his life, but it’s not enough to protect him forever.”
Neera thought of Ajay—how the timing had been all wrong. How, if it had happened three years later, she could’ve saved him. The crow cawed again, circling overhead. “You played the hand you were dealt. There’s nothing shameful in that.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Sam said, glancing at Neera. “When you said we could save Dawson last night, what’d you mean by that exactly?”
Neera ran her fingers through her hair, the sticky humidity tangling it into a knotted mess. “Well, where do I begin?” She filled Sam in on the trio’s various theories and clues about Dawson, finishing with Isaiah and Reid’s plan to investigate Casey Leblanc’s boat that night.
“Wait, Reid’s actually helpin’ you and Isaiah?” Sam’s tone turned acidic. “Never thought I’d see the day when he grew a pair.”
“Y’all have history?” Neera asked self-consciously.
“Not in the way you’re thinkin’—he’s not my type,” Sam said coyly. “He and Dawson became close this past year. It’s hard not to blame him a little for what’s happened. But I’m at fault, too.” She sat in silence for a long moment. “I think I know somethin’ that could help.” She checked the time on her phone. “Ask them if we can all meet up tonight once they’re done.”
Neera nodded, typing a quick text to Isaiah.
Miles away, along the flat horizon, lightning struck.
“Looks like the storm’s rolling back in,” Sam said. “We should go before it gets us.”
When the girls returned to the four-wheeler, Neera found the crow sitting on the handles. It watched them with its heavy black gaze before taking flight, disappearing, once more, into the cover of night.
CHAPTER 35ISAIAH
48 HOURS
That Friday night, Isaiah roamed the edge of a labyrinth of white-cloth tables, where the flickering outdoor lamps gave way to dark. With his camera in hand, he evaded small talk with ease, choosing instead to make the person in front of him the star, if only for a moment. The guests at the Clearwater event found the camera a novelty, obliging the opportunity to be photographed by him.
He hated wasting the film, but he relished the chance to observe, rather than participate. Because on that night, participation meant shuffling at the heel of Laurence Johnson as he made his rounds around the stiff, red-tie party, and Isaiah would rather do anything else.
So instead, there he was, photographing women wearing modest black dresses holding champagne flutes, and men in Italian suits who clasped shoulders, shook hands, clinked glasses. It was a distinctly different event than the Cicada’s Song from the previous night. This one felt bigger, weightier, as powerful political and economic denizens of the Southeast gathered like flies.
Someone cleared their throat behind him. He turned, finding Reid Langley emerging from the shadows like an impeccably tailored wraith. “Jesus, Langley. Don’t scare me like that.”
“My bad.” Reid moved to stand beside him, grabbing a drink from the passing server’s tray. He sipped delicately as his eyes roamed the party. “How was the boat ride? Anything unusual?”
Isaiah and his father had ridden with Leblanc and his wife on the ride over. He shook his head. “Nothing that I could see.”
“That just means he’s good at covering his tracks,” Reid said pointedly. “You ready?”
It was a simple enough question on the surface, but Isaiah understood its double meaning. “Almost, just need the key.”
“Right, right.” Reid shifted on his feet, eyes turning toward the manicured grass. He seemed to wear his discomfort on his sleeve, doing very little to appear confident.
“Answer this for me,” Isaiah said. Across the lawn, past the tables and schmoozing Southern socialites, he watched his father. He stood beside Russ Langley, in conversation with a man who looked a lot like the governor. “How involved do you think my father is with whatever’s going on here?”
“Honestly?” Reid followed his gaze. He downed his glass of champagne, then rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. Wincing slightly, he said, “I have no idea. But I do know he’s been rising in the ranks around here for years.”
Since he was a teenager, Isaiah thought. Since he’d attended the coveted Clearwater Academy. Was that where it all began for his father, leading him to this party, this very night, with this elite group of guests deciding the fate of everyday Georgians?
The handshakes on the Langley estate that night meant laws would be passed, bills would be drafted, amendments would be made in favor of those with summer homes and offshore bank accounts.
Isaiah grabbed a glass of champagne from the nearby server’s tray. Like Reid, he downed the glass in a swift motion. He inhaled sharply, then said, “It’s time.”
Reid’s head swiveled, his gaze finding Casey Leblanc across the lawn. He was sitting beside his wife, absently nursing a drink, his eyes drooping as if he were falling asleep at the table. “Let’s do this.”