Page 29 of Pretty Dead Things

But then she’s saved from answering at all, because the heavy glass doors clang open, and everyone turns.

From the stage, I can see the whole Events Hall, polished wood floor, gold balloon arches, sequined tablecloths, women in silk blouses and pearls, their perfumes competing in the air.

So when Abel Sherman shuffles in, wilted ball cap low, dirty hunting jacket swallowing his decrepit frame, an almost-empty whiskey bottle dangling from one hand, he looks like an actor who has stumbled onto the wrong set.

Whispers ripple uneasily, like a breeze stirring the hairs on the backs of our necks.

“Can we help you?” Mom says.

Abel Sherman stops at the end of the center aisle. “Y’all should be ashamed of y’allselves,” he says, flat and low. Then he holds out the whiskey bottle, pointing a finger off it and scanning it through the crowd. “Every last fucking one of you.”

Sheriff Ryan, who’s been posted up by the snacks table, eating up all the Danish, seems hit with a sudden sugar rush, hurrying forward to stand at the other end of the aisle. “Abel,” he says, “You don’t need to be here.”

“This is my land. This is my family’s land.Youshouldn’t be here.” He jabs that finger directly at the sheriff like it’s a knife. “None of y’all should be here.” He swings his arm wildly, baptizing those close by in whiskey. “You thieving sons of bitches.”

He lifts the whiskey bottle to finish the last of it. When he does, his jacket rises just enough to reveal the handle of a gun. The room stops breathing.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVECAT

When I see the gun, my heart stops.

Someone gasps. The women around me stiffen, a subtle tightening that ripples down the row.

“Abel,” the sheriff says. He’s got one hand out, like he’s trying to calm a spooked horse, but his other hand lowers to hover just above the revolver at his hip. “Don’t do something stupid.”

My eyes fly to the stage, to Olivia, just a few feet away, but it feels like miles in this moment. I see the pulse at her neck, see the heartbreaking vulnerability of her.

Then, suddenly, Melanie rises to her feet beside me. “Stop it!” She is usingthemom voice, the one that shuts up sibling arguments, stops children from doing foolish things, fills you with shame and the fear of retribution.

With her purse tucked tight under her arm, she strides to the center aisle, bumping chairs and brushing past knees.

“Melanie, get back,” Sheriff Ryan warns.

But she doesn’t flinch. Her fists are clenched, mouth set in a determined line, as she marches straight toward Abel. I’ve never seen her like this, taking charge without hesitation, without apology.

“Just go, Abel,” she says, shooing him out like he’s nothing but a nuisance.

He works his jaw, considering, bleary eyes sweeping over the room. But he lets her turn him and steer him out. “Fuck you, Sheriff,” hemutters over his shoulder, a last parting shot before Melanie shoves him out.

The door clunks closed behind him.

Melanie turns back toward us, shoulders straight, eyes hard.

“That was reckless, Melanie,” the sheriff says, as he pushes past her to follow Abel. “You could have gotten yourself shot.”

At first, no one moves. A stunned, uneasy silence lingers. Then Iggy steps forward. “Melanie, that was amazing.”

Color rises in Melanie’s cheeks. She ducks her head as other mothers start to stand, murmuring gratitude, admiration. Relief blooms through the room, shaking loose with nervous, grateful energy.

But I don’t join them.

I’m still staring at the door.

Because I know the truth about Abel Sherman. Know that he is a man with something to protect, and nothing to lose.

And I don’t think he’s giving up that easy.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIXINGRID