Page 123 of Westin

I pull off the state route to a gravel lane. The road leading to Carter’s Farm is clear of snow, and I push my foot down a little harder.

“I didn’t do it,” I say.

“Sovereign?”

I shrug.

Deacon grins, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “And you both got their women. Not suspicious.”

“You know about Keira?” I ask.

“Yeah, everyone knows he fucks her,” Deacon says, stretching his legs out. “That story spread up and around like wildfire. All the church ladies had their panties all knotted up over that shit.”

I wasn’t aware Sovereign Mountain had made it into the town’s gossip column. We pull up on the road that overlooks Carter Farms. I get out, and he does the same, circling the truck.

“You don’t go to church, Ryder,” I say.

He cocks his head. “Maybe I do.”

“Do you get hit by lightning every time you walk in?”

He laughs, taking a cigarette from his pocket. “Surprisingly, no.”

“What? You going because you’re pussy whipped for a some church girl?” I say, not meaning it seriously.

His jaw works again. He drags his cigarette but doesn’t answer. I put mine in my lip and circle the truck to take the rifle out of the back. I pull the hard cover over the truck’s bed, bracing the weapon on top.

“You shooting somebody?” Deacon asks.

I settle my eye up to the scope, but my hat bumps into it, so I take it off, setting it aside.

“Checking for cameras,” I say.

We’re both silent. Carter Farms is quiet, the snow tamped down by footprints. Through the scope, I scour the sides of the barn and the edges of the house. It takes a second, but I find it: a security camera pointing at the house. It looks brand new.

I shift an inch to the side, take a quick breath, and squeeze the trigger. It kicks into my shoulder, and the camera explodes through the lens.

“Fuckin’ hell, gunslinger,” Deacon says. “I need to hire you next time I need a motherfucker gone. It’s unsettling what you can do.”

That word is a punch to the gut, but I brush it off and lift my head.

“I’m not for hire,” I say.

“You ever need work, though, call me.”

I put my eye to the scope and keep looking. Just as I’m about to lift my head, I see a sliver of another camera. David must have put those in after Diane left, probably realizing how easy it was for someone to just walk in. I shift everything an inch over.

The camera is barely traceable, even with the scope.

I inhale and let it seep out. I think I feel the sun on the back of my neck. Cicadas trill. My father’s eyes are narrowed, his arms crossed. He’s watching me, telling me that men don’t miss.

My heart knows where the bullet needs to go.

I squeeze. The camera shatters.

“Jesus,” Deacon mutters.

I comb over the house and barn, but there’s nothing else. Deacon stubs out his cigarette and stands in the open truck door, waiting as I pack up the gun and scope. He puts his hat on.

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