Give us a chance, Haven.
Yes. Yes.
The man next to him—the young cop with the buzz cut—elbowed Travis and leaned in, speaking in a hurried manner. Travis froze, frowning, glancing down at the papers in his hand for several seconds, squinting, holding it away slightly, and then blinking in what looked like confusion, before his head shot up and he met my eyes. The young cop was staring at me too and even from the distance, I saw his throat move in a swallow.
Travis stared in shock as I bit my lip, shy, happy, and hoping to God he understood why I’d come. Vulnerability made me feel breakable, shaky, and yet that hope continued to flutter inside.
I’m going to stay.
I saw him take in a quickened breath, his expression morphing into . . . horror.
My heart dipped and distractedly I took the papers that had made it to us, handing one to Easton as well.
Why was Travis looking at me like that? A buzz started in the back of my head. Was he not glad I was here? A tremor took up inside me, those excited nerves taking a sudden nosedive.
“Oh God,” I heard Easton say, his voice choked.
I glanced at him to see he’d started to read the flyer we’d been handed and, confused, looked down at my own, everything inside me going frigid as I saw what it said, my heart plunging lower and lower as I read.
The newly formed community relations committee, along with the Pelion Police Department, will be putting out this monthly bulletin in an effort to protect the safety, well-being, and happiness of our fellow citizens. It has come to our attention that a seasonal employee of The Calliope Golf and Tennis Club has hurt and disrespected our very own chief of police. For that reason, Easton and Haven Torres are listed on this edition of PELION’S MOST UNWANTED. Encourage these individuals to move on from our close-knit community as quickly as possible. When one citizen is hurt by an outsider, all citizens are hurt. Pelion is a family-friendly town, and the community relations committee vets all residents, both permanent and temporary.
And there were pictures of us below the caption, photos I recognized as ones Easton had posted on social media, only blown-up and made into close-ups of our faces.
A small strangled sound came from my throat as I felt eyes turning toward us.
These individuals.
I kept reading. I couldn’t stop. I was glued to my spot, unable to lift my head, my eyes refusing to stop taking in line after line after line of Easton’s exploits and my own enabling of his behavior. All the destruction left in our wake. Arrests, divorce filings, public altercations.
“How did they . . . how did they . . .” I choked.
“My social media,” Easton said, and his voice sounded flat, devoid of emotion. “I’ve posted from every community we’ve stopped in since the day we left LA.”
I felt numb, confused, sick with distress, my mind reeling with how much work had gone into compiling a list like this. I felt all the eyes on me. Judging.
Most unwanted.
Most unwanted.
Most unwanted.
Some of the information was mostly accurate, and some was wildly off-base. Not that it mattered. Whoever had done this, had put in a lot of time and much effort contacting local townships from California to Maine.
Why?
I was focused on revenge.
Revenge?
Yes. What’s wrong with exacting revenge when a wrong is done to you?
The Pelion Police Department, along with the newly formed community relations committee . . .
He’d done this. Travis had done this. I felt hot, woozy. Whispers picked up, people murmuring. I heard my name, the person’s tone full of scorn.
“Well, they don’t seem like people we’d want here permanently,” someone said.
“It seems kind of mean,” someone else answered. “But I agree,” they amended softly.
“Can you imagine the trouble they’d cause?” someone else asked. “It seems like they’ve already started.”
“What trash.”
I dared a glance at Easton to see his gaze focused in the direction of the firehouse captain, whose head was bent as he read over the paper outlining all Easton’s sins. My brother’s gaze lowered. I’d seen that expression before. He’d worn it as he’d sat on the sidewalk, two fingers pressed to our mother’s wrist, her track marks glaringly red in the light from the raging fire.
This was killing him. I was watching his soul slowly die. Again.
My gaze flew to Travis’s stunned face and he seemed to suddenly remember how to move, dropping the remaining flyers and moving toward me.
Run.
Only I didn’t seem to be able to.
I stood, trying desperately to sink into the floor as Travis approached. “Haven,” he said, his voice a mere whisper as though he was having trouble breathing. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“No, evidently not,” I said, and my voice sounded dull and lifeless even to my own ears. I held the flyer up, my hand trembling. “Did you do this?”