Page 169 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

Now we simply have to balance the scales. Like we did with Lorenzo…something no one in this godforsaken town was willing to do. Not to someone like him.

In Cinderhart, the rich get away with everything. Our motto is “We Light the Fire”.

What a load of bullshit.

It should be, “We Shelter the Guilty.”

“I mean, you say that,” I murmur, leaning in even closer. “But what’s Silas going to do?”

“We’ll find out soon enough.” Knox laughs, and it’s not a pleasant sound.

Chapter 32

Silas

I watch as Nim climbs into Romi’s car a few yards away. I was wondering who that purple monstrosity belonged to. It’s a far sight better than the Maserati or that godawful metallic gold Aston Martin in the Academy’s parking lot. Whenever I see those cars, I just want to slash their tires.

Totally irrational, of course. But I’ve never been comfortable with such crass displays of wealth.

At least there’s a good engine in Romi’s car. Not that she cares about that. Just like how Knox couldn’t give a shit if his X7 had six cylinders or eight.

Jesus, why am I thinking about cars? Nim Winters just strolled out of the Cinderhart Sheriff’s department, and I’m thinking about horsepower?

I follow them out of Cinderhart Square, keeping as many cars between us as I can. Problem is rush hour in this place consists of a total of seven cars at the intersections. And that’s themainintersection.I was ready to tail them all the way to Bug Ash Pass, but when they turn down a side road and park outside Whole Latte Love, I drive straight past and double back. I can get whatI need by the time they’ve finished a cup of coffee, so even if they stay for lunch, I won’t lose them.

True enough, when I return to the coffee shop a few minutes later, Romi’s plum Audi is still parked outside. I park a block away beneath the boughs of a massive oak tree, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel as I wait.

Knox never said what I should do to her, but that I should punish her was definitely implied. She broke her promise, after all. So what’s the definition of an unspeakable thing, anyway? If you grew up in a household as conservative as mine, that covers anything that invokes pleasure. Especially if you’re an unmarried man.

Nim and Romi emerge forty minutes later, Nim holding a takeaway box. She happens to glance up the street toward Knox’s BMW.

She looks tired, like she’s given up.

Perfect.

Romi pulls into the street, and they head for Bug Ash Pass. With the cabriolet’s top down, both girls’ hair whip in the breeze as we wind our way through the pass. I don’t bother looking at the view—I’ve seen it more times than I can count—but Nim hangs over the side of the door staring out at Scarstone Lake like she’s considering drowning herself in it.

Which makes me uneasy when Romi pulls over at the lake’s lookout point, near the public restroom and bus stop. They don’t get out of the car though, and by that time I’m already in sight.

The road ahead and behind is clear, and probably will be for several minutes. A haze has moved over the sun, the temperature dropping. If anyone had been planning to come to the lake this afternoon, they’d have taken one look at the weather channel and decided against it.

Scarstone Lake is pretty, but people mainly come here to sunbathe.

I have a second to decide what to do, and I’m more than a little surprised when I slam the steering wheel to the right and park Knox’s black X7 right behind Romi’s Audi, blocking her in.

Both girls spin in their seats to stare at me, but Nim reacts faster than I’d thought possible. She takes one look at the car, at the way I’m parked, and jumps over the side of the car door and bolts.

Fuck, why me? Knox or Mason could have tackled her in a second. I’m no fucking athlete. I swam competitively a few years ago, but I find sports tiresome. Watching football is as low as I care to stoop.

I get out and walk around to Romi’s door. Nim puffs up some dust as she hurries down the embankment, briefly disappearing from view. When I turn to Romi, she looks like she’s frozen to her car seat.

“Get out.”

“N-No,” she stammers, her eyes filling her face.

“Get thefuckout,” I growl, grabbing her windswept hair and dragging her over the door before her fumbling hand can latch onto the handle. I turn, spot Nim heading for the lake, put my fingers to my mouth, and whistle.

Knox taught me how to do that. It’s an excellent way to get stray bitches to heel.

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