Deviant

Chapter 4

Rowen

Feeling emotionally drained after my last unsuccessful attempt at the bridge, I walk into the sheriff’s station an hour later with a defeated frown still etched on my lips.

It’s only when Bobby, my father’s right-hand man, waves at me from behind his desk that I put on a fake smile for his benefit and pretend that all is well.

“Heya, kid!” he greets warmly.

“Hi, Bobby.”

“Are you here to pick up your dad?”

I nod, shoving my hands into my hoodie’s pockets.

“Thought so. He might be a while. Things have been a bit chaotic tonight.”

“They always are these days.” I let out a demoralized sigh after glancing over at my father’s office and finding him locked away inside, his head bowed over his desk with his phone glued to his ear.

I decide to shake off the reason behind my father’s recent hectic work schedule and engage in idle chit-chat with Bobby instead. But even my father’s favorite deputy, whose demeanor is usually upbeat and cheerful, doesn’t seem immune to the palpable tension in the air.

Not that I can blame him.

Once the calendar flips to September the first, Blackwater Falls takes on an entirely different ambiance—one that is bleak and dark… and terrifyingly ominous.

The abrupt change is anything but subtle, either.

You can see it carved in people’s faces.

The fear.

Like a switch is somehow flipped inside us all.

The lightheartedness of carefree summer days is quickly replaced with anxiety and trepidation about what the next month will bring.

Everyone wears the burden differently.

Some act as if the end of days were upon them, urging them to pack as much life as they can before the Harvest Festival arrives so as to not have any regrets on a life less lived, whereas others mourn whatever days they feel they still have left.

But in general, this town just musters through the season with conditioned apathetic grace.

It’s a state of being that Blackwater Falls has mastered over the years as a coping mechanism to survive the games.

We all lie and pretend to possess a certain type of resilience and fortified elegance in our actions. Still, there is no genuine concern or emotional investment for any of it.

That would require giving a fuck, and this town has long given up caring about anything aside from its own dismal survival.

After sneaking a peek over at his computer screen a few too many times while talking to me, I take pity on Bobby and suggest a different alternative to keep me busy while waiting for my dad to finish up.

“So, who do you have for us tonight that I might entertain myself with?”

“Who else?” Bobby laughs, tilting his head to the small jail cell at the back of the room.

“Why do I even bother asking?” I chuckle at the sight of our beloved town drunk, Joe, sprawled out on the floor rather than using the spare cot, nursing yet another bender by singing to himself.

“I got some paperwork to finish. Are you good with keeping him company while you wait?”

“Aren’t I always?” I smile before walking over to the coffee machine to grab a hot mug for Joe.

“You’re late, girlie,” Joe hiccups in greeting once I’ve reached his cell.

“Or you’re early. Depends on who’s asking,” I goad him, pushing the coffee mug through the iron bars.

“I was getting bored,” he complains, awkwardly crawling across the cell until he leans against the pale yellow wall beside me, separated only by the steel bars.

“You do know there are healthier, more productive ways to cure boredom? Or do you get yourself locked up every night just to get a free cup of coffee?” I tease.

“I don’t come for the coffee. I come for the company.” He winks.

“Right,” I laugh. “Because I’m such amazing company.”

“Better than most around these parts, girlie. Better than fucking most.”

I take his words to heart because I’m inclined to believe their sincerity.

People usually disregard Joe altogether on the mere principle that he’s an unrepentant alcoholic. Not many people in our town have the bandwidth to deal with him, preferring to complain about his antics to the sheriff’s department than actually offer him any kind of valuable help.

It’s a shame, really.

If people took the time to get to know him, they’d see he’s actually one of the most decent human beings this town has, which is saying something since decency in Blackwater Falls died a quick death ages ago.

“So, what did you do this time that earned you an overnight stay?” I ask, curious as to what lewd exploits he conducted to get himself arrested once again.

“Oh, you know… the usual.”

“Let me guess? You pissed on Mrs. Rodrick’s azaleas again?”

“Missed the azaleas, but not Mrs. Rodrick’s open-toe shoes.”

“Gross.” I laugh.

“Funny, I say.” He grins, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Are my eyes deceiving me, or are you not that inebriated tonight?” I ask when I realize the lack of slurring in his speech. Usually, it takes me a hot second to interpret his remarks, but tonight, he seems almost sober.

“Your dad picked me up before the night got fun,” he grumbles, disappointed. “He said he couldn’t deal with my shit tonight, and locking me up early was as much for his benefit as it was for mine. He really is a spoilsport, that one.”

“He’s the sheriff. There’s no such thing as fun in his vocabulary.”

Joe chuckles.

“Thank God you took after your mom then. Like her, you don’t feel the need to spoil people’s fun. She was always up for a good laugh.” My genuine smile wanes a bit at the mention of my mother, but thankfully, Joe doesn’t pick up on my changing mood. “Anyhoo, how are you doing, girlie? Are you getting the harvest jitters yet?”

“Isn’t everyone?” I shrug, leaning my head back against the wall.

“Yeah. I guess you’re right.” He lowers his gaze to stare at the black sludge in his mug. “I have to admit, I’m a bit antsy for this one to be done with, too.”

“Oh?” I arch a brow, curious as to why this harvest would be any different from the others.

“It’s my last one. Then I’m out.”

“Congratulations?” I reply in the form of a question, unable to hide how sad it is that aging out of the games is a motive for celebration.

Sadder still that Joe must endure the next few weeks with the impending Harvest Festival hanging over his head, wondering if this is the one he’s going to be selected or finally freed from such torment.

“Hey, none of that.” He points to my wrinkled brow. “I’m as good as golden, girlie. Those fuckers don’t want drunkards like me. Trust me.” He scoffs.

“You sound disappointed.”

“Not disappointed. Just exhausted from having to watch so many good people being ripped away from their homes and families when there is no reason for it. If they just paid attention to the rules, then maybe they’d find a loophole too and not get sucked into the madness.”

“Loophole?” I parrot, holding onto the word with all my might for fear it will disappear.

Joe’s lips curve to the side, realizing he inadvertently let his mouth run away with him in front of the one person who actually takes him seriously.

“What do you mean by ‘loophole,’ Joe?” I ask more sternly, determined not to let him dismiss the remark as just another one of his drunken, incoherent comments.

We both know he’s not drunk tonight. He’s very fucking lucid. Perhaps the most lucid one in this godforsaken place.

“Answer me, Joe,” I repeat, staring him dead in the eye.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mumbles under his breath in exasperation before giving me his full attention. “You’re a smart girl, Rowen. You figure it out.”

“No, no,” I shake my head at him, trying to continue with our conversation before he brushes it off. “What did you mean by finding a loophole? Tell me,” I demand a little louder.

Joe’s eyes widen, displeased, as he stares behind me, making sure no one at the station can hear what we are talking about.

“You said if we paid attention to the rules, then innocent people wouldn’t have to march to their deaths. But the only rule I know of is that anyone between the ages of eighteen and twenty-eight might be called as a sacrifice to The Scourge. So what rules are you talking about?” I insist, but then I’m momentarily stunned silent when Joe decides to laugh at me. “Do you think this is funny?”

“Fuck no. It’s the most tragic thing I’ve heard.”

“What is?”

“That you think a ten-year gap is the only requirement for the Harvest Dozen.”

“Isn’t it?” I counter in confusion.

“Nope,” he pops the ‘p’ in the end before shimmying in closer to me like he’s about to finally confess a secret. “There are other rules in play.”

“What other rules?” I whisper back, admittedly invested in what he’s about to confide in me.

My hackles rise when he raises his finger, ready to list them all, confirming there is more than just one rule.

“You got the ages right, but there is more to it.”

“Like what?” I repeat, my throat completely parched all of a sudden.

“Come on, girlie. I already told you one.”

“No, you didn…” but the rest of my sentence dies on the tip of my tongue when I realize Joe has, in fact, already given me a clue. “No alcoholics,” I finish softly instead.

When he double-taps the tip of his nose, I know I’m right.

“And that means no junkies, either. They don’t want anyone with any kind of substance abuse impediment. Probably because it’s a pain in the ass to have to deal with addicts detoxing for the big event, ” he concludes with a hint of distaste, using air quotes while pronouncing ‘big event.’

My brows pinch together as I take in his detailed suspicions and quickly try to make my own assessment.

He could be right.

In my limited lifetime, I can’t recall anyone who had some form of substance use disorder ever being chosen, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened in the past. I’d have to look into it to verify if his information is on the mark or just a conspiracy theory.

“Don’t believe me, then go to town hall and search the records yourself. And while you’re at it, if you go back and check everyone who has ever been selected for the Harvest Dozen, you’ll see they were all in peak condition, too. I’m talking about a squeaky-clean bill of health. Maybe the best shape they have ever been up to that point. So no sicko’s either,” Joe says, raising another finger, making it now a total of three requirements when I’ve officially heard of only one.

“Okay, what else?” I ask, diving headfirst into this rabbit hole he’s taking me under.

He stares at me for a while and utters, “No parents. It’s an unspoken rule that you’re immediately disqualified from selection if you have a child,” making it the fourth requirement.

“You’re wrong,” I snap, hating that he would suggest such a thing.

Especially considering…

“I’m not wrong, Rowen,” he says, sounding guilty to be the bearer of such news. “Your mom… she was… an anomaly.”

“An anomaly?” I spit out the word. “Right. Because that’s what every child wants to hear. That their mother died for nothing.”

“I didn’t say that,” Joe quickly backpedals, uncomfortable with the anger brewing in my eyes. “I just meant that… she should have never made the cut, that’s all.”

I try to temper my rage since my fury isn’t directed at him but at this town. No one ever lifted a finger to help my mother when she was chosen for the Harvest Dozen when I was just five years old.

They just let her go.

Watched her leave me… fully knowing she’d never come back.

It’s a wound that will never fully heal, no matter how hard I try to ignore it.

“I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but no parent has ever been chosen before your mom or since. That alone tells me it’s one of their requirements and that your mom was, for lack of a better term—”

“An anomaly,” I finish for him, still unconvinced. “Are you saying that whoever is behind the games has a conscience somehow?”

“Fuck no,” he blurts out, appalled. “We know these fuckers don’t have a heart, much less a conscience… But they do have an intention… one intention in particular… and that’s to keep the games running smoothly every year. They can’t do that in a town that refuses to reproduce. Keeping parents out of their selection pool is their own form of silent manipulation and incentive. If people feel safe enough to raise families, then new potentials for the harvest are cultivated for the slaughter every year. See? It’s just pragmatic.”

My stomach churns at the thought.

“That’s sick,” I whisper, feeling a chill run through my bones.

“Agreed.” Joe nods despondently. “Why do you think I never had kids? Wouldn’t want to bring some poor child into this fucking nightmare. Fucking selfish, if you ask me.”

His gaze turns apologetic yet again when he sees me frown at his heartfelt remark.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re right. I agree with you. Who wants to bring a child into this?”

“You say that now, but one day when you shack up with the Larsen kid for good, he’ll pressure you into having a couple of rugrats of your own. That kid is a breeder just like his daddy.”

Like hell, I’d ever let that happen.

Even if my life wasn’t already on the clock, I’d never bring an innocent life to… this hell.

And I certainly wouldn’t do it with Aidan, of all people.

He’d program our child to live a subservient life early on, and living one single day like that is a curse all on its own.

“Okay, so is there another rule? I feel like that finger right there wants to pop up, too.” I point at the last digit in his hand, wanting to move this conversation along.

Joe’s face turns to stone.

“There is, isn’t there? One more rule?”

He nods.

“And? What is it?” I ask impatiently.

“Every person chosen… every last one selected… has a secret they don’t want anyone to know about.”

“A secret?” I mimic skeptically.

“Yes,” he confirms assuredly.

“That’s it? That’s your big revelation? That the Harvest Dozen harbors a secret or two? Doesn’t everyone have one of those in this town?”

“Yes, but I’m not talking about secrets like shoplifting a chocolate bar at the grocery store when you were a kid. I’m talking about secrets that can ruin a person. Ruin a life.”

Suddenly, my heart jacks up to an alarming rate with his insinuation.

I have such a secret.

I have the motherload of secrets.

“Earlier, you said that The Scourge only takes good people, but if you’re right, if they do harbor such self-destructive secrets, then how good could they possibly be?”

“Even good people do bad things,” he explains with a shrug.

“You know what? You’re more fun when you’re drunk. This conversation is far too dark for my liking,” I try to brush off, not entirely comfortable with how quickly this conversation has turned to touch my own inner struggles.

“Nothing in Blackwater Falls is ever light and breezy. We all live in the dark. I just found a way to get used to it.”

Getting hammered, twenty-four-seven, wouldn’t be my first choice, but I understand where he’s coming from.

But as I think about everything he’s divulged, certain things start to click in my head.

“If you’re right… if all you just told me is correct, then none of the Harvest Dozen are randomly selected, are they?”

He taps his nose yet again in agreement.

“But if that’s the case, then someone, maybe even someone we know, is more than complicit in the deaths of the dozen. They’re responsible for them.”

“You might have inherited the sweet, good-natured temperament from your mom, but the brains, they are all Hank’s, girlie,” Joe jokes, eyes gleaming with pride.

“That’s—”

“Sick?” he finishes for me with a loud exhale. “Tell me about it. Knowing one of our own is keeping tabs on us and choosing who will be sent to their death is all sorts of fucked.”

“But then again, aren’t we all complicit with The Scourge ? I mean, don’t we all turn a blind eye to it?” I ask, my guilt multiplying tenfold since the income from the games is what keeps the lights on in most of our homes.

“It’s not like we have a choice. It’s not like we can ask for help or leave this place to alert anyone. We all know what happens to those who try.”

My chest tightens at the underlying truth of his warning.

It’s true.

We’ve all heard the rumors about how, over the years, the more conscientious of us tried to get help for our little town from the outside and got their throats slashed in the process. All the brave souls that managed to escape Blackwater Falls were somehow caught in the real world, their remains ending up scattered in the town square as a warning for all of us to see.

We all know we’re hostages here, and to leave or ask for help is a death sentence.

There is only one safe and secure way to get out of this town and take your loved ones with you—and that’s winning the games.

In all my twenty years, I’ve seen many families move out of our town as a reward for one of their relatives having won The Scourge.

But even then, people know that if you leave, you must never talk about what happens here.

If you do, then death is never far behind.

Still, even under such a threat, the winners and their families don’t think twice in leaving Blackwater Falls, fully aware they are abandoning people they’ve known all their lives, who will continue to endure such unscrupulous evil.

I wish I had it in me to blame them for their apathy.

But I don’t.

Everyone wants to live.

It’s human nature to want to survive.

I, on the other hand, would actually feel relieved if my name was chosen this season.

That way, at least, I’d find the closure I’ve been looking for.

“Has anyone ever won the games and stayed?” I ask, the moving pieces in my head starting to clasp in place.

“Only one that I know of,” he replies with a yawn, slithering down to the floor and making himself comfortable.

“Who?” I insist before he falls asleep on me.

“Who else? The priest.”

“You mean, old man O’Sullivan?” I ask in amazement.

Joe nods, closing his eyes.

“I didn’t know he was in the games, much less won one,” I whisper more to myself than to Joe. “Is that why he’s so—”

“Fucked up in the head? Wouldn’t you be if you witnessed all your friends die at the hand of some twisted fuck?”

I press my lips into a thin line.

He’s right.

No one could have experienced The Scourge and not have a few bolts loose afterward.

Father O’Sullivan is… not all there.

Aside from the priesthood robes he wears, he’s not really fit to give out any sermons. In fact, all he does is walk around Hollow Church, ring the bell incessantly, and tend to the cemetery in the back. Sometimes, when he’s on one of his psychotic breaks, he’ll go as far as walking around town just to throw holy water at people. Every town has that one crazy person that is part of its culture—ours just happens to wear a Roman collar.

“Rowen!” I hear my dad call behind me.

“That’s your cue, girlie,” Joe says before turning his back on me to settle in for the night. “Tomorrow night, same time, yeah? Maybe get some of those glazed doughnuts from Rosie’s I like so much.”

“Or you could go one night without being a menace and sleep in your own bed instead of a cell’s floor?” I retort, getting up to my feet.

“Nah. One thing I’ve learned is that there is no safer place to be than in this jail cell right here. A man with no secrets has nothing to be fearful of. I’d rather get caught by Hank and the whole town find out what I’ve been up to than have my name showcased on a screen by Davenport.”

A cold shiver runs down my spine at the ill-thought.

I used to have nightmares about my name being called out in the town square by Mayor Davenport.

But those nightmares changed as I grew older.

They morphed into ones where I feared seeing Nora’s name pop up more than mine.

How ironic that now… I’d give anything to see her name written just about anywhere.

“Goodnight, Joe.” I wave off, my old friend already closing his eyes, ready to get some shuteye.

Hmm.

Maybe the real reason why Joe gets into so much trouble isn’t because of some imaginary loophole he thinks he’s discovered but because the sheriff’s station is the only place he feels safe.

Safe enough to rest his head and sleep.

However, if he’s onto something with this loophole business, then Joe should be the last person frightened of anything.

Or maybe… he would rather not risk it, either way.

Perhaps he’s just hedging his bets.

Maybe that’s Joe’s true superpower—how he’s perfected his mask. One that has deemed him too incompetent to be part of the Harvest Dozen and too inconsequential for people to even notice him, concealing how clever he really is.

He might think me bright, but to me, he’s the real genius walking amongst us.

“Rowen,” my father calls yet again, his tone now coated with impatience.

I turn to face my father, who is now standing in the center of the lobby, only to find his blank expression staring back at me, a single flicker of disappointment dwelling in his eyes.

Head bowed, I make a beeline to him, doing my utmost best not to glance at the evidence room just a few feet away to my right.

If I so much as look in that direction, who knows how my father would react.

He doesn’t say hello when I reach his side, preferring to hand Bobby a folder with some last-minute tasks instead.

“Leave it to me, Hank,. I’ll get this all done for you,” Bobby says after glancing at a few pages. “Now you and Rowen skedaddle and be on your way. We can take it from here.” Bobby winks at me.

I feel my father’s body stiffen instantly at the endearment.

Everyone under his deploy has this idea of me… of the sheriff’s daughter that… doesn’t hold any water to it whatsoever.

They think I’m perfect.

That I’m good.

That I’m everything a daughter from Blackwater Falls should aspire to be.

But not everyone in this town has been so falsely misled.

My father knows that I’m anything but perfect.

And that realization has compromised his own idealistic views about himself.

Because while he might be the sheriff—who has a duty of locking up criminals—he refused to imprison a murderess like me.

He hasn’t forgiven me for my treachery.

He hasn’t forgiven me for the lies and deceit.

And when he looks at me, he no longer sees the daughter he loved above all—he sees Nora’s killer.

And rightfully so.

And though my father refuses to punish me for it, I’ve promised myself not to be as lenient.

I don’t want to cause him any more shame, but I will avenge Nora’s untimely death by punishing her murderer in the only way I know how.

My days are more than accounted for.

I just need to figure out a way to do it.

Even good people do bad things.

Joe’s words come to me like an omen.

Maybe the punishment I deserve for what I’ve done would be to die the way Nora would have if I hadn’t interfered.

‘Maybe The Scourge is the answer to all my problems.’

The cruel whispers of hope dance in my chest at the thought.

But how can I get picked if I don’t even know what qualifies someone to be selected?

If I go by Joe’s account, then I know how not to get chosen but not how to get chosen.

Secrets.

The Harvest Dozen all harbor secrets.

If that’s true, then I pray whoever is in charge to look into my brain and see mine.

Because what better secret of destruction is there than the one where a girl killed her best friend?

Surely that will suffice to qualify?

But how can I be sure?

I guess if I want answers about the games, then maybe I should seek out the one person with first-hand experience in them.

Maybe Father O’Sullivan won’t object to one final confession.

One that I hope will finally give me the absolution I’ve been praying for.