The Flint's have taken Big Boy, not because he's worth anything, but because the Bradfords love him. If you want to hurt someone, you don't take their things. You hurt what they love the most.
A sob bursts from my mouth, and my hand flies to my face. This is my fault. Everything's my fault.
The key to the truck is still in the bowl. I race out of the house, leaving the ravaged door open. I jump into the truck and speed out of the driveway, a rising trail of dirt rising behind me as I make my way off out of Hard Valley Ranch and onto the road to town. I drive past the sign to my old home, blinking at the house that used to be mine, the size of a matchbox in the distance.
I don't even know where I'm going. The Flints live somewhere in town, but where?
The only place I can think of to go to is the hardware store. Rob might know where I can find them. Or if he doesn't, he might know of someone who does.
The journey seems to take a hundred years. My foot is practically to the floor, and the engine of the old truck growling like a tractor as I try to extract as much speed as I can from the vehicle. When I reach Main Street, I slow just enough to be safe and throw it into the first parking spot I can find. I don't bother to lock it, just sprint until I'm bursting through the door of the store, twisting my head and straining my eyes for Rob.
He’s over by the tools, loading packets of screws and nails onto the rack. He turns at the ring of the bell. "Melanie?"
"Do you know where Jethro Flint lives?" I gasp.
"Jethro Flint? You don't want to get involved with a man like that," Rob says, rubbing his hands on his work apron. "He's a million times worse than the Bradfords."
"Just tell me where he lives. He's gotten something of mine, and I need to get it back."
"What's he taken?"
"It doesn't matter, okay? Please, can you just tell me?"
Rob shakes his head and purses his lips, obviously very reluctant. "He lives with his brother in a singlewide over on the McCafferty trailer park. You'll know which one because he's attached a makeshift wooden porch to it, and there's a pile of beer bottles rested on their side. But you shouldn't go there alone, Melanie. Do you have someone to go—"
I'm out of the door before he finishes his sentence, leaping into the truck and speeding away without fastening my seatbelt. McCafferty's Trailer Park is on the outskirts of town in the opposite direction to Hard Valley Ranch. It's down a long dirt track and cleared out from an area of forest, so it's hidden from the road and only visible when the road opens into a cleared lot filled with rusted old vehicles, discarded furniture, and assorted trash. There are around twenty trailers that I can make out, and none have a wooden porch. The one I'm looking for must be toward the back.
Again, I leave the truck unlocked, jogging between the trailers, scanning to make out one that fits Rob's description.
"Hey girl, are you looking for me?" It's a man slumped on a stained white plastic chair, beer bottle in hand, but it's not Jethro or his brother.
I don't answer, and he shouts after me as I disappear around another trailer. The air is filled with the smell of cooking and the taint of trash bins that have been warmed in the sun and not emptied in time to keep them sanitary.
And there, in front of my eyes, is a flimsy wooden porch, clinging to a trailer that looks like it's being propped up by a stack of glass bottles. If the Flints don't have liver failure already, they're definitely making good progress toward it.
I slow my pace, looking from side to side. Children whoop in the distance, but the Flints' trailer door is closed, and the atmosphere around it is still. I pad closer, my heart pounding and blood rushing in my ears like radio static. Big Boy could be inside, and so could the Flints. Now that I'm here, I have no idea what I'm going to do.
But if Big Boy's not here, where could he be?
I don't even want to think about what they could have done to him. If they're prepared to kill cows to get revenge, they're capable of almost anything. I clench my fists tightly, my nails biting into the skin of my palms as I get closer. The windows are filthy and stained yellow by nicotine and neglect. The Flints have no pride in this place, and it shows. I risk popping up my head to look in the window, ducking down again quickly. Glancing from side to side, I smooth my sweating palms on my jeans and risk looking again. It seems empty, but then I catch a movement—a brown shape on the floor in front of an old sagging sofa.