Page 161 of Five Brothers

“I dunno. He left with them.”

“In a car?”

“No.” She points diagonally, in the direction of the firehouse. “Over there.”

I walk around her. “Stay here.”

I should stay out of it. If Macon wanted help, he would’ve asked for it. His brothers are home.

It wouldn’t have been Milo, would it? Or Jerome Watson?

Walking across the street, I try the door of the firehouse, but it’s locked, and I don’t see any lights on inside. It’s just a volunteer station. No staff. I’m sure all the Jaegers are on call when needed.

“Ah!” some cries in the distance.

I dart my head around the corner of the building, seeing the forest of trees and the long planks of wet wood creating a path over the shallow water and moss. There are houses through it—where Aracely lives—but I’ve never been in there.

The insects buzz, filling my ears as I start along the narrow, low bridge toward the cries. The cypresses and oaks rise high, casting the swamp in a perpetual twilight, and I keep my eyes open for alligators.

Despite all of the creatures designed to kill you in here, I move slower than I probably should. Why did I never come in here before? It’s green and dark, and it smells like nothing does on my side of the tracks. Like a library with no roof.

I step off the bridge, onto the moss-covered ground that only gets mossy when the land hasn’t been covered in water long enough for something to grow. The little floods will come, though.

I approach a small collection of houses, seeing stilts underneaththem to keep them dry during heavy rains. The sound of dishes crashing comes from the purple one.

There are also two white houses, a green one, and a yellow one, but I start up the steps of the one with all the noise.

I stop short of knocking on the door, though. It’s a Bay house. Bay business.

“Macon, please!” a woman screams. “Please, don’t!”

What the hell? I pry open the screen door.

I peek inside, placing one foot over the threshold, and spots cover my vision as I adjust to the low light.

A woman I’ve seen around but haven’t talked to yet stands in the middle of the living room sobbing, her eyes staring in the direction of the hallway to the loft, at something I can’t see. A baby, less than a year old, cries in the swing, and to my right sits the kitchen. Aracely and Summer move around, one searching the cabinets, and the other doing the dishes.

I meet Aracely’s eyes. “Just leave,” she tells me. “We don’t need help.”

“Macon!” the woman screams, but for some reason she doesn’t go down the hall toward him. “He can’t help it! Please!”

Her cries make my stomach curdle. What the hell is going on? Summer slams the cabinets closed. “There’s nothing here.” Aracely reaches down and picks up another little boy hidden behind the counter, maybe three years old.

“He told you to buy food!” Aracely scolds the woman.

A thud and a muffled cry carry from somewhere in the back of the house, and the woman looks terrified. What is Macon doing?

I reach into the apron at my waist, taking out the baggie of cut-up grapes I prepared for Paisleigh for after school. I don’t want Aracely to think I’m inserting myself, so I just set it on the counter in case she wants it.

“Please,” the woman whimpers.

Someone chokes out a cough over and over again in one of the back rooms.

“You know him!” she yells. “He just needs help.”

I glance at Aracely, concern etching her brow, but something else, too.

Worry.

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