The Girl and Her Ren (The Ribbon Duet 2)

Tears spilled down her cheeks as the notebooks fell from her hands, and she threw herself into my arms. “Seven hundred and fifty dollars.”

And the farmhouse vanished.

And all that mattered was holding Della as we trembled together.

Because I finally had answers to whom I was.

I was Ren Shaw.

And my mother had sold me for a measly seven hundred and fifty dollars.

* * * * *

I suppose I had something to be thankful for.

For the past six hours, the Mclary farmhouse had become a hive of activity with cops buzzing and machinery humming and dogs sniffing.

I was no longer the suspect of a kidnapping investigation. I was the kid who should never have survived and, instead of side glances whenever I touched Della, I received thumbs-up for taking her away from this morgue.

Because it was a morgue.

In the past few hours, the cops who’d brought reinforcements from every county they could, who’d strung up police tape, and blocked off every way onto the property, had already found four tiny skeletons.

One beneath the veranda just tossed like one would a mouldy potato.

Three in the offal pit, boy bones with sheep bones and pig.

And one behind the house that had at least been partially buried with fingers sprouting through the grass like a new species of weed.

No one noticed us anymore.

No one commanded us to leave or get back.

We were invisible as I led Della out of the farmhouse and toward the fields I’d toiled in for two years.

Funny, how two years had felt like an eternity back then but were nothing in the scheme of a life. Odd, how two years had scared me so spectacularly, leaving gorge marks in my soul and unfilled holes in my psyche.

We didn’t speak as we walked hand in hand, ducking past digging cops, keeping a wide berth of dogs as they galloped from one side of the yard to the other, barking warnings that there were yet more bodies below the earth.

We bypassed two police who studied discarded building materials on the ground. One kicked a partial fallen wall with his foot, making it break into dust. “Shit, that’s asbestos.” Talking into a crackling walkie-talkie, he said, “Get a contractor here who’s qualified in contaminated removal.”

Spotting us, he pointed away, indicating to give the crumbling wall a wide berth. “Hazardous substance. Stay back.”

We didn’t speak, just merely drifted away, letting the farm guide us where it wanted to.

I didn’t know where we were going.

I didn’t care.

I just had to walk; otherwise, I’d explode with the tumbling, tearing feelings inside me.

I felt guilty.

So fucking guilty that I’d run and not tried to help the others.

I’d been selfish and afraid, and I should’ve done something.

But I hadn’t.

And now, the hundreds of missing children files would be stamped deceased and their families notified. Whether it was parents who’d sold their kids, or an evil uncle or aunt, someone would have missed the lives that the Mclary’s had bought, abused, and ultimately snuffed out.

At least, I hoped someone would because it was too sad to think otherwise.

Della’s hand twitched hot and tight in mine. We didn’t just hold hands; we held ourselves together as we traversed the fields and somehow, some reason, my feet turned toward the barn that had been my bedroom for so long.

Where fleas had made me itch and hessian sacks made scratchy blankets. Where nightmares had tormented me just as surely as life had.

“Ren…” Della said. “I don’t think—”

I squeezed her fingers and marched onward, keeping my face blank as a cop to our left shouted with dismay that he’d found another body.

How many did the ground contain? Was this still a farm or a cemetery?

The first touch of shadow from the large creaking barn was a physical scratch on my skin, making me prickle with goosebumps. The soaring ceilings and musty scent of hay cloying with memories.

I hated this place.

I hated it as fiercely as I’d hated Mclary.

I wanted to burn it to the goddamn ground, but I swallowed my pyro tendencies and weaved my way through stables, past pallets that had been beds, and into the metal crush where Mclary had drenched his stock.

And there…

Shit.

My jaw clenched, and a wave of bile scalded my throat.

Della cried out, planting herself in front of me and shaking her head. “Don’t, Ren. Let’s go.”

“No.” Pushing past her, I walked heavily until I reached the rack with Mclary’s tools. The rack where I’d stolen a knife and let some other poor kid take the blame. The rack that most likely held the tool used to cut off my finger. The rack where a long metal brand waited for its next victim.

For once, my hand didn’t shake as I pulled the heavy rod with its oval Mc97 stamp off the wall and hefted its weight.

Today, it was dull, cold metal that could do no damage.