“The Royale must end. Do you know how it makes our town look? Like a bunch of savages!” Spittle dotted my cheek. “You and your friends must think it’s all just a bunch of fun. You’re ruining our beautiful town with—”
“Couldn’t agree with you more, ma’am.”
Her rant died on her chapped lips. “Excuse me?”
“Look at me.” I flapped a hand. “I can’t even get home without being hit up for cheap mugs and entered into a wet T-shirt contest. Ruckus is a disgrace.”
“Yes, exactly.” Her frown lines smoothed out, brightening that angry face considerably. “Good to see there are some sensible young people left in this town. Be an example to your peers.”
I plucked the flyer from her hands. “I will, ma’am. Thank you.”
She sent me off with a pat on the back. Holding the pink paper was my hall pass through the protesters. I turned the corner, leaving State Street behind, and trashed it in the nearest bin.
His home was up ahead. I should arrive just as he turned into the driveway like I had the day before, and the day before that.
Constitution Blvd. wasn’t as loud or packed as State. That didn’t mean it was spared by Ruckus.
I passed neighbors hanging up signs warning trespassers they’d either be photographed and reported, or shot. I couldn’t say if it was like this every year. Like I told Paris and her friends, Gran didn’t let us anywhere near town when the calendar dropped us into Ruckus Royale. I did know in the hundred years since it started, no one’s been shot.
Do I know that? Those crazed letters pointed to a tradition as old as Ruckus itself. There wasn’t a town on this planet where everyone lived to old age and died peacefully in their sleep.
Bedlam had its share of missing people. We had domestic violence situations that ended tragically. Accidental deaths. Murders.
I dug into all of them going ten years back, looking for a connection to Ruckus Royale, or a name that continually popped up. I came up with nothing, but then, I wasn’t looking for the birds.
Creeping up to number fifty-eight, I ducked behind their sugar maple tree. The Johnsons weren’t back from work yet. They’d be home in five hours to arm themselves and shoot trespassers. That gave me time to watch his house, wait for him to make a move, and figure out how the hell I’m going to stop him.
A blue Volkswagen puttered down the boulevard. I crouched in the dirt, pulse picking up at the sight of the ordinary car, driven by an ordinary man, coming home from his ordinary tax-preparer job.
Everything and nothing about him screamed psychopath. Now that I knew who the kookaburra was and why nothing was as it seemed, there was only one person who could’ve stopped him laughing. As surely as my grandmother was right about the dangers of Ruckus, I was certain he was the man who sent me the letters. That was a nice feeling—being certain. Because I was certain of nothing else.
He killed the engine in front of number sixty-nine. A slim, tall man climbed out of the car. Attractive man if you went for the long, swoopy-haired, boy-band thing. He wasn’t much older than me. Possibly two or three years. Old enough to be out of school. Young enough to count every year sitting in a prison cell.
Scott Cavendish pulled out his briefcase, popped it open, and grabbed an apple. Leaning against the hood, he turned his face to the sun, tearing off a bite.
“Are you going to hide behind that tree all day?” he called. “Again?”
I froze.
Cavendish tossed his apple from palm to palm. “You can if you want, but my neighbors are itching to see a Ruckuser in handcuffs. I bet they’re calling to report a suspicious person sniffing around the Johnsons’ house right now.”
My nails dug into the bark, driving splinters through my nail bed. Cavendish knew I was here. He knew the whole time.
“Come on.” The soft purr made my hairs stand on end. “You’ve been waiting a long time for this chat. Don’t get shy now.”
I wasn’t ducked behind a tree. I was bare. Exposed. Pinned through the hands and feet, lying naked under a microscope. He’s seen everything. Maybe even the moment I figured it out.
“Come.”
Rising up, I stepped out from the maple and crossed the street.
Cavendish watched me come, smile widening with every step. I stopped just out of arm’s reach, lifting my chin to meet his gaze. Time had made me a liar. The look in Cairo’s eyes. I’ve seen it twice.
“Nice bra,” Scott said. His grin dimpled his smooth cheek. “Did you wear it for me?”
I fisted my jeans, though I longed to clap my hands over my wet shirt. He wanted to unsettle me. A goal he’s succeeded in for weeks. Today I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of scenting my fear.