When we run out of shops and hit the residential end of the street, I’m confused. I shoot Clay questioning looks, which he ignores. When he continues past the rest of the homes, with their dimly lit windows and smells of cooked meat, and heads straight for the last house on the road, the stately white ranch with the wrap-around porch, I grab his arm.

“This is the Sheriff’s,” I hiss.

He removes his arm from my grip and scans the road. With his face set all calm, he nods. “Thanks for the tip, hot shot, but I think I know where I’m going. Duck behind there and wait for me.” He points to a slanted wooden outhouse. “I got to send the guard on a little errand.”

I scowl, but bite my tongue. If I make a scene here, it will be the end of me. I slip behind a battered outhouse several yards from the Sheriff’s white picket fence and watch from the shadows as Clay slips through the gate into the lion’s den.

From my dark hiding space, I can see everything. Gas lamps light the front rooms of the Sheriff’s house. I note the smoothly carved furniture, the shiny upright piano in the sitting room, the polished silver tea set on the table. I scan the windows for my mother and Auntie, but see no one.

Clay strides up the gravel path and greets the guard at the front door. They chuckle about something I can’t hear. Clay motions back toward town and the guard nods, picks up his rifle and crunches down the street. When the guard’s out of sight and the road quiet, Clay waves me forward. I slip out from behind my hiding spot, feeling more nervous than ever. My skin crawls beneath my layers of clothing. What are we doing?

He leads me around the side of the house. We trot past the little backyard with patches of clipped green grass and four apple trees heavy with red fruit. Beneath the trees is a weathered wooden swing. I imagine the Sheriff wiling away the hours, rocking beneath his apple trees. He probably needs to relax in between butchering families in their sleep.

Clay steps up to the back door, grabs my arm and pulls me in. Our bodies are so close, I can smell the sticky sweetness of his aftershave. My eyes rest on the curve of his jaw, the stubble on his chin. My cheeks flush beneath my bandanna. I shake my head and focus.

“Here’s the plan. I head in and make sure the coast’s clear. You slip down the basement real quiet. I’ll send ’em down to you. When you’re ready, head out the back gate. They’ll be a ride waiting.”

“What about Ethan?”

“He’ll be there, too. Okay?”

I nod.

Clay looks up at the house. “Let’s get started. We only got an hour.”

Clay puts a key in the lock and cracks open the back door. I follow on his heels. To my right is the basement stairs. I tread carefully into the dark basement. I don’t dare fumble for a lantern, just plunge into the cool darkness with my hands outstretched. When my feet hit the concrete floor, I shuffle forward and almost smack into a pole. I wrap my arms around the cool metal beam. It gives me something solid to hold onto when most of me feels like dust picked up in a twister.