Page 3 of Otto: The Hawthornes

“Rookie.”

“Shut up.”

“Look lively, boys,” Rum murmured to the bikes ahead of us.

I grimaced as they carefully rode around potholes the size of kiddie pools, slowing to a crawl.

“Eyes sharp,” Rumi said a little louder, leaning forward to look around.

We were surrounded by old growth, the trees so tall that you couldn’t even see the tops, and it made me feel a little claustrophobic. They didn’t feel like they were closing in on us, but the brush was so dense at the base that anything could’ve been hiding in the trees and we wouldn’t see it until it was too late.

“Aren’t you glad we brought my truck?” Rumi asked as we ran over a particularly nasty hole in the road. “Your baby never woulda made it.”

“Good point,” I muttered, my eyes darting from tree to tree. It was the middle of the day, but everything was so shaded it could’ve been dusk.

“There she is.” Rumi jerked his chin toward the windshield and I looked forward to see an old as fuck cabin at the end of the road. The gravel, or what was left of it, went all the way to the front steps.

“Where the fuck would they hide anything?” I asked dubiously. The cabin was tiny, it couldn’t be more than one room. If they had stored the truck full of stolen guns here, they had to have filled the cabin all the way to the roof.

“Oh ye of little faith,” Rumi said, carefully pulling to the side so he could back up and park facing the exit. “You’d be surprised how crafty thieves can be.”

I followed him out of the truck and stood by my door as Uncle Will turned his SUV around and parked on the other side of the tiny clearing.

“Whistle if you see anything,” my dad said to me quietly as we all met at the bikes.

Rumi tossed me his keys and I stuffed them in my pocket.

I’d just turned toward the road, my eyes sweeping over the blackberry bushes and trees when the hair stood up on the back of my neck. I didn’t even question the feeling, just dropped to one knee as all hell broke loose behind me.

“Drop it,” my uncle Will ordered.

“What the fuck?” my dad hissed.

“Whoa.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Who the heck areyou?” a familiar woman’s voice shot back.

I jerked in surprise as I turned, the shotgun in my hand forgotten.

She was standing there, her hair in a scraggly ponytail, wearing a dress that looked like it came fromLittle House on the Prairieand holding a pistol older than my gramps in both hands.

“Esther?” I croaked, staring. Memory after memory flashed vividly through my mind.Fuck.

Her wide eyes met mine and her hands—not altogether steady to begin with—began to shake alarmingly, considering the fact that the gun she was holding now pointed at my chest.

“Otto? What are you doing here?” she asked in confusion.

“Honey, you wanna drop that?” my dad interrupted, taking a step toward her.

“Whoa,” Micky barked as her gun swung toward our dad.

“A little help here?” Rumi bellowed at me.

“Esther,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm even though I was freaking the fuck out. “Could you stop pointin’ that at my dad, sugar?”

“Your dad?” she said faintly. She shook her head as if to clear it and lowered her arms.

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