Switch Blade Romance

Little Fires Everywhere

" You should learn to say No!"

The woods around the cabin smelled of pine and wet rot, the kind of smell that gets into your clothes and stays there like a bad memory you can't shake. Allen Frederick moved through the underbrush behind John Henry and Juanita Anthony, his service revolver heavy in his palm, slick with sweat despite the chill. John had his pistol riding low on his hip like some old-time gunslinger who'd wandered into the wrong century, and Juanita carried her revolver the way a woman carries a secret she doesn't want to share—loose, but ready.
"How far now, John?" she asked, voice low, almost lost in the whisper of needles overhead.
"Not too much farther," John said. "Another mile, maybe less, and we'll come out at the back of the cabin. Right where the bastard thinks he's safe."
Inside that cabin, Andrew Grant came back to himself slow, the way you surface from a nightmare you half-believe is real. His wrists burned where the ropes bit in, tied tight to the arms of an old chair that creaked like bones every time he shifted. Across the room, on the sagging couch, his mother Helen and sister Olivia sat duct-taped together like packages nobody wanted delivered. Their mouths were sealed with silver strips that caught the candlelight and threw it back in dull gleams.
"Mom," he croaked. "Oh God, Mama, are you okay?"
Helen nodded, eyes wide and wet above the gag. Olivia nodded too, small and frantic.
"Lacey and Rachael are downstairs," Helen managed when the tape was finally peeled (later, much later, when the screaming started). "That man—he lit all these candles and just... left us. We thought you were dead, but I saw your chest moving. Oh God, Andrew, this is a mess."
"It's my mess," Andrew said, tasting copper. "But I'll get us out. I promise."
Down in the basement, Rachael worked her second hand free with fingers that felt like sausages—numb, clumsy, determined. The room stank of mildew and old earth. She stood, world tilting, then went to Lacey, who was chained like a dog nobody bothered to feed.
"Okay," Rachael whispered. "He took them upstairs, then went out back. I'm getting these chains off you. When you hear him come inside, head for the outside cellar door. Squeeze through—the chain's around it, but you're smaller. You can make it."
Lacey stared up, eyes huge. "Then what?"
"Then run. Hit the road, find help. I'll distract him, maybe get Andrew and the others loose. And we kill him."
Charles Grady came back in whistling something tuneless, the way men do when they're feeling good about the bad things they've done. He looked at Andrew and grinned, teeth too white in the candle-glow.
"Well, if it isn't Mr. Sleepyhead. Ready to join the land of the living?"
Andrew glared. Charles held up the nail gun Andrew had bought back in Tennessee, turning it like a kid showing off a new toy.
"Weren't planning to shoot me with this, were you?"
"That's exactly what I was gonna do, motherfucker," Andrew said. "Put a few nails in your skull and heart. Figured it'd work better than stabbing you did."
Charles laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "Ain't that sweet?" He stepped close and backhanded Andrew hard enough to snap his head back. Blood bloomed hot in Andrew's mouth.
Helen screamed behind the tape. "Don't hit my boy! Please, Charles, just stop!"
"Shut up, you old bitch," Charles said mildly, then turned back. Andrew spat blood in his face.
Charles froze, stunned. Then he wiped it slow, licked it off his fingers like it was syrup. "See? Now this is fun. Aren't we having fun yet?"
Down below, Lacey wriggled through the bulkhead, scraping skin, tasting dirt. She popped free, fell hard, palms stinging like fire. Then she ran—blind, crashing through brush—until hands clamped her shoulders.
She screamed.
John Henry hugged her tight. "Lacey, calm down. It's okay. You're safe."
Juanita joined the hug. "Is Andrew in there?"
"Yes," Lacey gasped. "Charles took his mom and Olivia upstairs. Rachael's still in the basement—she sent me for help."
John nodded. "Deputy Frederick here will take you to the car. Call backup."
Allen started to protest, but John cut him off. "If you care about Andrew, do it."
Allen sighed, led Lacey away.
Inside, Charles had cut Andrew loose and marched him to the couch. "Now you're gonna sever ties with your past. Kill your family. And those two downstairs."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Andrew said.
"You come alone, I let them go unharmed. That's what you said."
Charles shrugged. "Let them go? Sure. Unharmed? Not so much."
"Fuck you."
Charles sighed, almost sad, then raised the nail gun and fired. The nail punched into Andrew's chest like a white-hot finger. Helen screamed. Andrew fell back, pain blooming huge and bright.
Rachael heard it from the stairs, plank in hand, climbing slow.
Outside, John and Juanita heard the scream and broke into a run.
Charles stood over Andrew. "Could've been simple. Love me. Do what I say. We could've been happy."
Andrew coughed blood. "I did love you. But you were a fucking mess."
"Yeah. We all got faults." He fired another shot this time into Andrew's right knee. Andrew screamed in pain, Helen Grant closed her eyes and cried, praying that this demon didn't kill her child in front of her.
Charles aimed at Andrew's head.
Then the plank cracked across his back.
Rachael. "Get away from him, you maniac."
Charles turned, surprised. "I tied you up, bitch."
She swung again—jaw this time. He staggered.
Rachael knelt by Andrew. "Andy, are you okay?"
"Get Mom and Olivia out. Sheriff's in the woods."
"I'm not leaving you."
"Do it!"
She freed Helen and Olivia. Helen rushed to Andrew. "Baby, Mama's here."
"Go," Andrew said. "I'll make sure this thing dies."
Helen nodded—somehow knowing—and pulled Olivia out.
Charles stirred. Andrew reached for the nail gun.
Then John Henry burst in. "Andrew, let's Charles rose like smoke, knife flashing. Into John's back. " Hey John, goodbye John! Maybe I'll go look Emily up in Missouri after all this is over. I need to catch up with her it's been years." He laughed.
"No!" Andrew and Juanita screamed.
John fell. Charles grabbed Juanita's hair, slammed her head into the doorframe twice. She dropped.
Charles threw Andrew back onto the couch. Pain exploded in his chest and knee.
The door cracked again. Rachael stepped through, slow, deliberate, the way a man walks into a room he knows is already full of ghosts. She looked at the carnage—John bleeding out, Juanita unconscious, Andrew slumped breathing  and leaking—and his face was stone. Charles Grady grabbed Rachael from behind. She screamed, " You just don't know how to mind your business do you bitch. He Punched her in the side, Rachael cried out. She clawed at his face, leaving a long streak of scratches. Charles hissed in pain slamming Rachael to the ground, he started kicking her. Blood flew from her mouth, across the room Sheriff Henry mustard enough strength to do something.
He slid the revolver—the same one he'd given Andrew back in Arkansas, the one Andrew had left in the glovebox of his car—across the bloody floorboards. It spun once, slow, then stopped inches from Andrew's trembling hand. Andrew rose to his feet. " Aiden!" He screamed. Standing shakily on his legs, his right knee thrummed where Charles had shot him with the nail gun. " look at me Aiden" he said pointing the gun at him.
Charles laughed, low and wet. " As he stepped over a beaten Rachael. Look at you, all dressed up in Daddy's shoes. You can't kill me. You love me too much."
Andrew's fingers closed around the grip. The metal was cold, familiar, like an old promise.
"And the sky was made of amethyst..." Andrew whispered.
Charles laughed again. "Too weak."
"And the sky... the sky was all violet."
"I love you too, babe," Andrew said, voice cracking like old ice.
He raised the revolver. Charles's green eyes widened, just a fraction.
The shot was very loud in the small room. The bullet punched through Charles Grady's forehead, dead center. A small red flower bloomed there, then the back of his head came apart in a wet spray that painted the wall behind him like bad modern art. He dropped straight down, knees first, then face, the nail gun clattering useless beside him.
Smoke rose thick from a tipped candle. Fabric caught. Flame licked up the couch, hungry.
Rachael crawled to John, pressed her hands to the wound. Charles stared sightless at the floor, one eye open, the other already glazing.
They limped out—Andrew dragging his ruined leg, Rachael holding her ribs, Helen and Olivia ahead, Sheriff John Henry carrying Juanita like a broken child. Sirens wailed distant. He collapsed too once outside.