Page 23 of The Chain House

“And Sam, he’s got this thing … people chewing, especially crunching on something.”

“You know that’s actually a medical thing, like a condition,” Jennifer said.

“See, Sam, you can be medically explained.” Carl glanced back over his shoulder. “But you really can’t get louder than corn nuts, right? But I’m just chilling while he’s studying. I have no clue how riled up he’s getting, but all of a sudden he’s standing right next to me—”

Sam said, “Carl, come on, she doesn’t need to know.”

Carl said, “And I’m like, what? And he goes, can you stop chewing those fucking things? I’m trying to study. I say sure, and he goes back to work. A minute later I throw a handful in my mouth and start crunching those bastards. I’m like, putting extra umph into it, just to see if I can really piss Sammy off, you know, and he comes back over … and he punches the corn nut bag on the coffee table.” Carl laughed. Jennifer was too amused for Sam’s liking, so he watched the passing trees and rolling hills of Twisted Tree out the window, still ashamed of that entire event. Carl said, “I started laughing, because, at that point, I’d never seen him get mad. I mean, he’s completely unhinged. So, I finish crunching what’s in my mouth and he goes apeshit. He just starts pummeling the corn nut bag on the table, just punching it like it’s his worst enemy’s face, over and over, until everything in that bag is dust and his knuckles are bleeding. I’m not kidding, his knuckles were bleeding. It was like he went somewhere else, and that wasn’t Sam anymore.”

“Just finish the damn story,” Sam said.

Carl said, “So I stood from the couch, and I yelled, What the fuck, dude! Huh? I mean, I love corn nuts, and they’d been reduced to dust bits. And I’m all, like, what the fuck!” Carl laughed again. “And Sam points to the bag he’d just pulverized and screamed right back at me. That’s the fuck! That’s the fuck, dude. He was practically psycho.”

Jennifer nudged Sam’s shoulder with her own; he figured she was trying to lighten him up. “This guy?” she asked. “Him? This Sam Harper who I’ve known since … yesterday?”

“The same,” Carl said, slowing down to take a sharp, hilly curve.

But within seconds, and after another glance toward Sam in the rearview, his smile faded. Carl’s tone changed.

Jennifer’s laughter subsided as well.

The entire vibe in the car had been altered on the heels of the story. Sam didn’t know if it was because the first of four massive guard towers now loomed over the treetops, and they’d all just noticed, which meant it was almost go-time.

Or maybe Carl and Jennifer realized they’d gone too far, and their sudden silence stemmed from guilt.

Carl said, “You good, bro?”

Sam nodded but kept his gaze out the side window.

He used their stupid phrase as often as Carl did, but what Carl didn’t know was that he felt a stab of horror every time it was used by either one of them, even years after the fact.

Because right before he’d started punching the corn nuts that day, he’d considered punching Carl in the same way, with the same barbaric ferocity.

With the same unknown rage.

His best friend.

Because he had been a different person in that moment; he’d smiled at the sight of the blood on his knuckles and for the briefest of moments craved more of it.

And remembered thinking minutes later, after he’d cooled off, Where had that rage come from? That burst of violence?

And that’s what scared him still.

The hidden origin of some things.

CHAPTER10

TREVOR HARPER AWOKE with a gasp, breathing heavily, heart racing, head swirling as remnants from the dream drifted away like smoke trails.

Lizzie Hall … naked and bare-chested and sitting atop of him, her eyes locked on his as she moved gently up and back, her hips in his hands and her hair hanging down like curtains on either side of her pretty face … shhhh, she said, placing a long, slender index finger to his lips like a tease … shhh.…

As much as Trevor enjoyed the vision, a memory from the dream he’d just had, the feeling of confused anxiety in him now needed it gone. Guilt surged, and he needed to right the ship. What was going on? He closed his eyes in hopes of pushing away the disorientation, and when he opened them seconds later, the sexual memory was gone. Long gone to where most dreams went whether the dreamer wanted them to or not. But what were dreams, he thought, if not the seeds of some previous thought, unconscious or not, fully fleshed out into a cleverly revealed conclusion whenever the eyes were closed.

And why did his bedroom smell like a woman’s perfume?

Why did it smell like her?

How do you know what she smells like, Trevor? Was that Annie’s voice coming out as his guilty conscience? What was another woman doing in our bedroom, Trevor? What was another woman doing in our bed?