Lance Jacobs must be a great businessman because he sure as hell knows how to play the blackmail game.
9
It isn’t until I get home from school that I remember where Stone told me to meet them. The Devil’s Hole. The place isn’t unknown to me even though I’ve never been there to party. It’s the typical high school hangout where all the cool kids get drunk and whatever else it is that they do at these things. Apparently, that’s moved to college now, too.
The good thing about telling them I’ll meet them later is that I get the rest of the day to myself. They act like I’m invisible. Wyatt doesn’t follow me in his truck at school’s end. They even leave with Meghan and a couple of other girls while I take to the sidewalk to walk the couple of blocks back to the dorms.
When I get there, my door is unlocked. That’ll be the first thing I fix as soon as I get money. I continue to rack my brain, trying to think of any way I can make a decent amount of cash without accepting Lance’s offer, but I know if I don’t, I’m fucked anyway. My reputation, what good of it there is, will be gone. College—everything—it’ll all be over.
I lie to myself about what I’m going to do when I get to Devil’s Hole tonight, but I already know. What a fitting place to surrender my pride. Devil’s Hole is rooted in Apache legend. They say the very hole to hell is there. It may seem inconspicuous. A slight depression of the earth surrounded by a circle of rocks, but it’s known in the area as a place to avoid. Through the years, stories emerged about terrible things that happened there, only strengthening the validity of the legend. The occurrences sound paranormal—like the majority of the tales that come out of the Superstitions—but mostly it’s just dumb teenagers getting drunk and doing stupid shit. They can blame it all they want on the devil coming out of that hole, but that’s not it at all. It’s immaturity and thinking you’re invincible.
The Apaches have their own ritual to keep the devil underground. Once a year, they hold a tribal meeting to secure the gate. Then, the teenagers move back in and open it right back up. The thing is, Devil’s Hole isn’t on Apache land, it’s on state land, and as far as the teenagers are concerned, it’s free rein, whether or not the Apaches are trying to save us.
I get ready for the party with a dead weight in my stomach. I know what I have to do. They’ve put me in a corner with no other way out. But I also wish I could find a different path. In fact, I wish my dad had never left that day. He’d know what to do.
Instead of doing my hair, I throw it up in a ponytail and make my way back over to the contract on my bed. My heart hurts just looking at it. I, in no way, want to hand over all of my ancestor’s hard-earned work. It’s not happening. I’ll have to think of something else.
I stand in front of the mirror, tugging on my shirt. It’s just shy of a crop top, flirting with the tops of my jean shorts. Since this will be my first time in Devil’s Hole, I should at least try to make it worthwhile. No one’s ever invited me to school parties before because I’m one half of the town crazies.
Not that I think I was actually invited to this party either. Not really. They only asked me, so I could give them a decision and they just happen to be going there tonight.
I’m still pulling my shirt on when I head into the living room. I start picking up the mess the guys made. I don’t have a lot of things, but what I do have is in the middle of the floor in tatters. I quickly gather everything up and throw it onto the coffee table. On my way to the couch, I spot a white envelope off to the side. I pick it up and stand. Shit. I’d forgotten the school secretary gave this to me.
I let myself fall backward onto the couch. A hint of cologne plumes around me. I breathe in deep, recognizing Wyatt’s scent. He smells like the earth after a rainstorm. All country, like a breath of fresh air. Despite being a douche, he smells good.
I run my finger under the flap of the envelope. I hadn’t noticed before but there’s no return address, only my name written in black ink. Boxy letters stare back at me as I pull out the sheet of paper inside.
My heart glitches for a second as I read the note. FIND THE TREASURE AND YOU FIND YOUR DAD.
Just that. Nothing else. It’s not signed. The note was written by hand, but by someone who painstakingly took the time to make the individual letters look generic. Each line of every letter is straight and squared off. There’s no personality. No discerning features. There’s nothing. Maybe that’s why my heart wrenches a little. The impersonal nature of it all.
Dozens of questions spill into my mind with a roar. Who would send me this? Is my dad alive? Do they know where he is?
Most of all, I wonder if someone from Jacobs’ team sent this. Another way to get me to fall in line. Dangle my father over my head. If that’s the case, their cruelty knows no bounds.
I carefully place the letter back into the envelope and retreat to my room. I open the closet door and move to my tiptoes to place the letter on the top shelf above where some of my more formal clothes hang. My cheeks flush with angry resolve. I’m even more determined than ever to figure out what the hell is going on and why
