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The weeks passed in a quiet manner, each day’s footprints washed away by the gentle rain of the next. It was peaceful, Owen supposed, even if he kept glancing at the sky when he was supposed to be relaxing.
He settled into his new life easily enough now that there was nothing lingering on his to-do list. Tranquil farming and gathering was the forecast for his life now, and his soul exhaled a long held breath. This was what existence was meant to be, he thought. This is what happiness tasted like.
Owen’s days were plain, and they were all the more vibrant for it. He would wake up in a room decorated to look like the sunrise and join his housemates for a simple breakfast. Sometimes they made plans, sometimes they ate in sleepy silence. Both were nice, but Owen was particularly fond of when he’d crack a joke and glance up from his eggs to see Rasbi’s involuntary smile or hear Apo’s teasing groan.
Graecie was in charge of their farms, and Owen passed much of his daylight helping her tend the crops. She wasn’t weak by any means, but she did tell him she appreciated having him to take care of the heavier tasks. Plenty of their group worked in the fields—after the Maze, it was a task all of them valued more. It never did feel like hard labor, though. Even when the sun rose hot on their backs, they were chatting and laughing and overall being the community Owen had never found amongst the ranks of his men. Oeca would chase Mohwee around the outskirts of the wheat field, or Spidey would hide sussies beneath the sweet potato leaves, and Owen couldn’t help but be glad he was here.
Acho and Kyle did their best, but they were born and raised city kids, and they had a hard time knowing what to do with themselves. Kyle was strong enough to grind the wheat efficiently, and he apparently knew how to make a good loaf of bread from there. He used to work at a fast food company, whatever that was. He certainly was fast at making the food, if that’s what it meant. Acho, meanwhile, liked gathering bouquets of wildflowers and leaving them in the bakery Kyle maintained. If he got enough, he’d deliver them in vases to homes as well. Never was there a week that each house didn’t have fresh flowers and bread on the table.
When he wasn’t in the fields with the others, Owen went to the pond with Apo. It was large enough to support an ecosystem, Apo explained to him, and as long as they didn’t overfish, it would continue to thrive. They spent their afternoons under a shady patch of trees, casting their lines and releasing most of the fish they caught. It was for fun more than it was for food, but they did keep the occasional cod for dinner.
Rasbi still needed her alone time, and Owen was getting rather good at knowing when it was her introversion and when she was having a paranoid episode. If the latter was the case, he’d knock gently at her door and tell her he’d made cheesecake. The script was always the same: She’d ask what kind, and he’d reply, “Raspberry, of course. I know you.” A moment would pass, and then she’d crack the door open and invite him in. He’d sit at the edge of her bed unless she told him he could come closer, and even then, he let her initiate a hug if she wanted one. They ate the cheesecake together and Owen would offer to do the dishes, saying she could come continue the conversation at the table while he did. By then, she was almost always feeling better, and it would draw her out of her room and back into the sunlit kitchen.
Life went on after the Maze. Their fissures scabbed over and eventually healed, revealing vulnerable pink skin that showed evidence of a time that had passed. The worst they would ever have to experience was over.
Owen found his eyes flickering to the skyline again. There was one more thing. Just one, and he could really, truly relax. Nothing to do but wait until it happened.
And then one day, on a breezy Monday afternoon, it did.
The helicopter landed outside the wooded acres they’d settled in. Its blades chopped the air into a concert, replacing the natural sound of the forest with something distinctly manmade. The entire Clearing was out of their homes the moment it came into earshot, all of them wearing matching panicked expressions.
Starr had finally come to accuse them of murder.
Owen smothered his fear as he had a million times before, striding out toward the source of the din. Rasbi clipped his heels as she followed, her dark eyes filled with darker terror. He turned to her, squeezing her arm. “It’ll be okay,” he promised. “Go find Soup, okay? Make sure she’s got Luke somewhere safe.” Rasbi nodded, too choked with her own thoughts to reply.
He wasn’t much of a leader, not anymore, but the others still fell into a procession behind him as he jogged over to the helicopter’s landing site. It was odd that they would continue to look up to him like that. They’d feared him, initially. Right after he told them who he was in his real life. But time continued as it was prone to do, and eventually, that fear melted into understanding. Understanding that he was not that person anymore. Now, the title of “ex general” probably just earned him some respect in times of crisis.
A few figures were dismounting from the aircraft when Owen arrived. Two soldiers, dressed in typical Watcher gear, were scanning the perimeter as the face of Starr Enterprises himself stepped out.
He and Owen locked gazes immediately. A radiant smile burst across the man’s face. He strode over with a hand outstretched, fixing his garish blue hair with the other. “I can’t say I’m surprised,” he said loudly as he approached. “The general, at the front of the pack?”
Owen’s eyes narrowed. “How many times must I tell you? I gave up that position. It’s just Owen. Keldor, if you will.”
The man’s very being sparkled. He wore a dark navy suit, not dissimilar to the one he had on during the interviews. His golden earrings, too, seemed to be a constant. He looked like he’d just stepped off the set of the show rather than a helicopter. “Scott Smajor,” he said easily, finally grabbing ahold of Owen’s hand and giving it a stern shake. “I will say, it is a pleasure to properly meet you.”
“We’ve been introduced well enough, asshole!” Oeca called from the treeline. Owen glanced back, raising an eyebrow. Oeca smiled back impishly.
Scott didn’t dignify the outburst with a response. He brushed his hands off on his pants, turning a critical eye to the sky. “It’s getting dark, isn’t it? Perhaps there’s somewhere more suited to conversation?”
Krow snorted, a few yards away from where Oeca was. “Fat chance we’re letting you in,” it said. “Starr promised to leave us alone. What, you got cameras with you, too?”
Thankfully, Graecie arrived then, appearing slightly breathless with strands of hair slipping from her bandana. She smiled apologetically at Owen and then Scott as she straightened up. “I’m sorry I’m late. I had a stew on the stove.”
Code words. None that they had previously decided on, but ones with obvious enough meaning: she was checking on Soup. Hopefully by now, Luke was well out of sight, along with any evidence of their trip to the city.
“You’ll have to pardon me for my intrusion,” Scott said fluidly. “I don’t mean to violate our contract. However, that clause about ‘special circumstances’ . . . is in effect right now.”
Graecie’s face creased with perfect confusion. “What do you mean? What happened?”
“As I mentioned to your guard dog, I’d prefer we go somewhere . . . quieter. Maybe with fewer prying ears?” His gaze swept around, taking inventory of all those poorly hidden against the brush. “Am I working with the same leaders that you had during the season?”
Graecie pursed her lips. “More or less.”
In truth, they didn’t have leaders anymore. There wasn’t as much need when there wasn’t a death trap in their backyard. Plus, why have it when their population didn’t even breach two dozen? In this quieter atmosphere, people were happier to defer to those with more knowledge than them on farming or hunting, and they got by just fine. The biggest decisions they had to make were along the lines of where they’d build the beehive.
They picked Red’s tavern for Scott’s questioning. It was empty around this time anyway, and upon Scott’s leader comment, Red was eager to insert himself into the situation. He led them and Magic to a booth far enough from the windows to ensure privacy, readily telling Scott that he was “happy to help a fellow businessman!” The sentiment didn’t extend beyond words, of course, but it didn’t hurt. Apo was mysteriously unreachable when Owen looked to invite him to join.
“How has the real world been treating you?” Scott asked as they settled into their seats. He folded his hands atop the table, looking utterly at ease.
“I’d prefer it if we got right to it,” Graecie said quietly.
He dipped his chin in acknowledgment. “Of course. I only hoped to soften the news.” His gaze found Magic, who was steadily avoiding him by staring at her lap. “Miss Singh, I regret to inform you that your father was found dead a few weeks ago.”
Suddenly, Owen wished very deeply that Bek had maintained her facade as a leader so she could be here with them right now. She was passably good at acting and loud enough to cover Magic’s blunders. He could only hope that the phrases he’d drilled into her head while they awaited Starr’s arrival stuck.
Her head jerked up. “What?” The alarm on her face was not fake.
“You have my sincerest condolences,” Scott said. His voice dripped with honey-thick sympathy, sweet and almost certainly fake. “I had the pleasure of knowing your father personally, and I know this must be very hard to hear. There are some matters we must discuss later, but before that, I have a much more difficult reason for being here.” His eyes sharpened, meeting each of theirs in turn. Owen could have sworn it lingered on him the longest. “Ezekiel Singh may have been murdered, and each individual in this village has exponentially more motive than anyone outside of it.”
They all reacted at once. Graecie’s mouth fell open with a loud “what?” at the same moment Red shook his head, saying, “You must be mistaken.” Magic stared off into space, playing her role of distressed daughter as well as anyone could.
Owen spoke the loudest. “What authority do you have to come here and say that?”
Scott regarded him impassively. “I am the executor of his will, and because our company falls outside of any district jurisdiction, I have the right to investigate. I hope that isn’t a problem.”
“Of course not,” Red said, pretending to rein Owen in. They hadn’t known just who would be coming to interrogate them, but whoever it was would have been well versed in the show. Their plan didn’t change now that they knew just how well versed that detective was. “Anything to help with your investigation, officer.”
Scott smiled. “Oh, no need for the title, I’m not quite the law. I’m just here on behalf of Starr Enterprises. If you don’t mind, I’d like to interview every one of you. Separately.”
“This is preposterous!” Owen argued, his voice rising. It wasn’t difficult to summon the anger he needed. “You and your fake laws and fake justice. You take people whose only crime is assault of an officer or accidental manslaughter and you put them in the Maze to die. If you just decide one of us is guilty, without evidence, what’s going to happen to them? Are you going to drop them back in there?”
“Actually,” Scott interrupted, “it’s death by firing squad.”
The table fell silent.
“How can you do that to someone?” Graecie whispered.
Scott didn’t have the chance to answer before Magic straightened up, pinning him with her two-toned, empty stare. “How did he die?” Her voice was flat, sounding more like a statement than a question. Energy buzzed around her as all went quiet to hear what she had to say. In some ways, Magic always had been the strongest leader among them.
Any emotion on Scott’s face was quickly replaced by soft concern. “He had a stroke at his desk after working late one night. The autopsy identified a strange substance in his stomach and bloodstream. Unfortunately, it was too dissolved to identify.”
Owen didn’t know anything about chemistry and alchemy, but he had trusted Soup did when she brewed the poison. She’d tried explaining it to him, telling him that the concoction was acidic and would be neutralized upon contact with the bloodstream, but he didn’t know half the words she used and the conversation ended with him being evicted so she could focus.
“So what you’re saying is . . . you don’t even have evidence that it was a murder,” Graecie said slowly. Her brow furrowed as she pretended to think about it. “You’ve come to interrogate us based on circumstance.”
Scott cocked his head. “In short.”
“How can you not know if he was murdered?” Owen demanded. “Doesn’t your company rely on cameras? Don’t tell me you conveniently haven’t placed them in your building, so, oh, a natural death can be played up for drama.”
Scott was silent, but the way his eyes narrowed and bore into Owen made him deeply uncomfortable.
“I’d like to start my interviews now,” he said. “With the war criminal.”
Red shrugged, already sliding out of the booth. His covered face was the last shred of diplomacy here. “Sure. C’mon, kid, out you go.” He nudged Magic forward, and wordlessly, they both exited the tavern.
Graecie threw a worried glance back at Owen as she made her way to the door. “Good luck,” she mouthed.
And then they were alone.
You could kill him right now.
He wouldn’t. Owen was done with killing now.
Isn’t that what you said right before murdering Ezekiel Singh?
That was different. That man deserved it, and everyone was safer without him.
This man deserves it, too. He watched your suffering and merely told the cameras to zoom in closer on your tears. The whole country saw your breakdowns because of him.
Owen grit his teeth and tore his mind back to reality to find Scott watching him intently. They stayed like that for a moment, just looking at each other in search of answers. Owen was the first to break the bubble that sat heavy between them.
“What is it you want from me?” he asked tiredly. That’s all he was now. He just wanted this over with.
“I want to know if you did it, General,” Scott said. The reply was quick, simple, and terrifically accusative.
Owen folded his arms on the table, relaxing into his posture. There were no guards or police here. Scott would need irrefutable evidence that they had done it to convict any of them. And Owen, a militaristic and thus judicial leader, had more than eradicated anything that could possibly be traced back to them.
“I didn’t,” was all he said. The words were true enough that they rang with clarity in the air.
Scott raised a single eyebrow. “No? You seem to have given an awful lot of thought about what Starr does and doesn’t have.”
“Of course I have,” Owen snapped back. “Your show has haunted my every moment since it started. It’s not over for me just because you’re out of footage. All I can think about is which crevices you must have hidden cameras in, because for the life of me, I cannot figure out how you heard my every conversation in the Clearing.”
Both of them knew which conversations Owen was being prickly about. He’d been shown them, all of them, after he was released. The ones he had had with Rasbi and Apo. The breakdowns, where Graecie hugged him tight or Red handed him a drink. The screaming into his pillow at night, the talking out loud when no one was there. The way he pleaded with the wall to forgive him. Each and every single one of his mental breaks, recorded live for anyone to see at their leisure.
“Do you know anything about our cameras in headquarters, General Agarci?”
“No, and if you’re trying to get me to crack by purposefully calling me by some stupid name I made up, it’s not working.” Owen worked his tongue between his teeth and bit down to keep from seething.
The ghost of a smile graced Scott’s mouth. “Except you didn’t make it up, did you? You’re far too sensitive about it for it to just be a string of letters. You come from a small town; did you take someone’s name from there? Is it your mother’s before marriage?”
Sharp iron zinged his taste buds. He’d bitten down too hard. “Must you know everything about my private life? Was my right to dignity stripped away when you threw me in that labyrinth?”
The expression on Scott’s face morphed into a proper smile, smug and cruel. “So it does have personal meaning to you.”
Owen’s jaw ticked. “It is irrelevant to the case, and I’d appreciate it if you dropped it.”
“Who was it?” Scott pressed. “Was it someone you loved? No, no reaction. Let me think . . . Ah. Someone you killed?”
Owen shot to his feet abruptly. His fists clenched painfully as his teeth dug into themselves. “Our hospitality only extends so far, Scott Smajor,” he fumed. “Don’t give me this bullshit law business. I will not hesitate to drag your bruised and beaten body to a proper police station if you continue testing our patience. You are allowed here only because we are not as vile as you. But believe me, puppet, you’ll regret ever taking the job if you continue your sick games.”
The drop of a pin could be heard for miles in the wake of Owen’s rage.
Scott remained in his seat, a satisfied smile simmering on his lips. “I was starting to wonder if the general really was dead,” he said, even as ever. “You did a good job with all the pity acts. Crying to your friends and all. Really, I am impressed.” He tilted his head forward. “But here we are. At least we’re being honest with each other now. Sit back down, General.”
For the first time since before the Maze, Owen was not repulsed by the title. It seeped into his skin and slid through his veins like liquid gold, ambrosia to his fractured heart. He felt . . . strong. Able. Like himself again.
No, that wasn’t right. He’d been more himself in the past few months than he ever had been. But there had been a piece missing, something significant. His spark, he might call it. The drive in his soul to be more, more, more. His insides were on fire. This was what it was like to be Owen Agarci. To be able to fight back.
He sat back down. Oddly, he felt calmer now. His anger was out there, and there was nothing to do but mold it. Shape it into a tool for his own will. This, he could work with.
In reality, Owen never had been his mother’s son, had he? He was his father’s, down to the despicable bone.
“I see no honesty from you,” he replied. “Let me make my guesses, then.”
Scott tipped his chin. He would allow Owen to play his own game back at him.
“You’re here with me alone when you suspect me of manslaughter. In fact, I am a convicted murderer. You’ve left whatever guards you had at the helicopter. Nearly the exact same clothes are on your back as the last time I saw you. And for some reason, Magic’s father made you the executor of his will.”
“I’m a man who knows how to play his cards,” Scott conceded with a flick of the wrist.
“Do you want to know what I think you are?” Owen asked.
Scott gave no response.
“I think you’re a guilty man, Scott,” he said lowly. “I think you’re an opportunist who took the chance to inherit the company. You’re tired of being the frontman, aren’t you? You want the money for yourself. How well are they paying you for all that work you do? Surely not enough. You killed him, didn’t you, knowing you could run the investigation any way you damn well pleased.”
Scott said nothing for a moment as he digested the words.
It was complete crap. Owen had been there with Krow, the enforcers of the poison. He mustn't play this as a cornered animal, hissing and throwing out the last of his cards. No. He was composed, calmly taking his turn in the chess match they played. Outside of Starr, Owen was just as powerful as Scott was. He could throw the accusations right back at him.
“I didn’t murder him,” Scott said finally.
Something clicked.
“But you thought about it,” Owen realized. “You weren’t friends. He was still going to give the company to Magic, even when she didn’t want it. You wanted him dead.”
Scott’s mask fell.
Gone was his mildly pleasant demeanor, replaced by dripping disgust. He leaned forward. Toxins practically fell from his lips when he spoke. “I never said I didn’t,” he replied darkly. “So no, I didn’t kill him. But I can understand why someone would.”
What was it he’d said earlier? At least they were being honest with each other now?
Owen leaned back in his seat. “Smajor, it sounds to me like you’re accusing my Clearing of murder because we have motive when you have the same. More, even. You have something to gain that isn’t just revenge.”
“And who would believe you?” Scott spread his hands. “I am a face known by the nation for my performances. You are a name whispered to children to scare them to sleep.”
“No one needs to believe me, they just need to doubt you.” It was Owen’s turn to look pleased with himself. “What a headline, eh? ‘Face of Starr Falsely Accuses Former Cast Members for Attention.’ Yes, that sounds quite nice.” Owen looked up at the ceiling, feigning disinterest. “Look, I’ll make you a deal. I know the matters you wanted to discuss with Magic are about her inheritance. That means she’ll be your boss very soon, no? I’ll talk to her, get her to promise she won’t fire you for insolence in return for you leaving us the hell alone.”
Scott studied him. “Whatever power you think you have here, General, you’re sorely mistaken.”
Owen smiled. “Do you know what they do to people who are accused of murder, Scott? I hear it’s death by firing squad.”
The face that had taunted his dreams paled. He thought for a moment, then sighed heavily, standing up and brushing his hands off. “You sound an awful lot like you’ve got something to hide.”
“Not a thing. I simply like to pull the weeds from my garden before they spread.”
Frustration flickered over Scott’s features. “Fine. I’ll speak with Magic, and then I’ll leave. You’re off the hook for now, but so help me . . .” He met Owen’s eye. “You understand she’ll have to come with me?”
“Of course. Good luck getting her to go without Bek, though. She’s practically her bodyguard.” Owen walked him to the door, opening it to the bright sunlight outside.
“I don’t think I’ll ever understand you all,” Scott muttered as he took his leave.
Owen agreed with him. An outsider just couldn’t understand the Outsiders.
Scott would never get why Magic forgave Bek, why Soup hadn’t ditched the escape artist. He would never realize why Krow and Owen got along now, and he’d never comprehend the friendship Owen shared with Apo. These were bonds forged by staying in the flame for too long, by forcing them to walk on hot coals together. The concept of a ‘good person’ had long been foreign to them. All they were was people. People could forgive and learn and change, but they would not forget. They would never forget what had made them this way.
When Scott left, a raucous round of cheers went up, just as loud as when Owen had announced Magic’s father’s death. They were free.