Page 62 of Savage Surrender

We map a route anyway, from the front steps beneath the house, around the hot tub screen, through the narrow strip between the shower and the trees, then back along the deck with a clear view of the boardwalk. If anything changes, we can start rotations in minutes.

By the time we go back inside, Freddie’s list has spread onto a second page. He’s added electrolyte packets, bottled water, cooling packs, basic medication, gauze, detergent, towels, flashlights for every room, door alarms, window contacts, cameras, motion sensors, screws, cable ties, extra locks, and enough food to survive what he keeps calling our heat appetite.

“Protein,” Weller calls from the office. “Fresh vegetables. Potatoes. Bread.”

“Cookie cereal,” Tristan says at the same time.

Freddie writes both without looking up. “I’m adding frozen pizza so nobody murders anybody over dinner.”

His pen stops at the bottom of the page. “Has Mason’s guy called back? About my mom?”

“The second he knows anything, we all know it,” Tristan says from the office doorway. “New rule, remember?”

“Right.” Freddie nods at the list like it needs his attention.

“Add chips,” I say.

“Already did, B. Salt and vinegar.”

The entertainment room is behind two wide double doors at the back of the first floor. I’m shocked when I open them and realize the room is two stories tall, with an observation deck on the second story where I can see the ocean and hear it if I open the French doors to the balcony.

I expected another pretty sitting room. Instead, the floor drops down two shallow steps into a broad square lined with an oversized mattress, deep enough to stretch out without touching an edge. Built-in seating runs along the sides, and a few movie-theater chairs face the largest television I have ever seen. A wall-to-wall library-style bookshelf fills one wall, the ladder reaching all the way to the top. A mini fridge waits beneath a countertop with several cabinets for storage, empty but functional, and a control panel beside the door offers separate settings for temperature, lighting, speakers, blackout shades, and the two large skylights overhead.

“Wow,” I whisper. “This is nice.”

Nice barely covers it.

I turn off the bright overhead lights and bring the wall lights up slowly until the room settles into a warm gold. The blackout shades stay open for now, but I program them to close together at night, then press the button for the skylights. The covers slide back above me, the motor barely audible. The extra light gives the room a dreamy quality.

The mattress only has neatly arranged pillows, but not enough fluff. I steal a few more from a room across the hall, then another from upstairs. My arms are piled high with several blankets, along with a heavier quilt because the ocean breeze will probably turn cold after dark.

I just want to be prepared, and I’m struggling with my haul down the stairs when Freddie catches me.

“Are you stealing all the bedding?”

“It isn’t stealing if it belongs to me.” The words are out before I can think about them. “There’s a mini fridge that needs stocked,” I tell him. “Water, juice, maybe those little single-serve cheeses, fruit, chocolate, and enough snacks that nobody has to leave the room if we don’t want to. We need ice cream if it has a freezer.”

He looks down at his list. “I’ll check.”

The flowers are still beside the champagne in the kitchen. I find a glass pitcher in one of the cabinets, fill it with water, and bring it into the space. They’re messy and bright against all the careful neutral colors. I shift the pitcher from the counter to the table beside the mattress, decide it might get knocked over there, and put it on the cabinet where I can see it from anywhere in the room.

Then I collect a few of the weapons and a flashlight to hide around the room. A knife goes beneath the mattress near the door. The fire poker stays beside the built-in seat closest to the balcony.

Perfect.

I wander upstairs where Weller and Tristan are making an office. They’re discussing their fathers, and I pause outside.

“Can someone let Winston and Ezra know we made it,” I say from the doorway. “Winston can tell my mom a general rundown of what’s happening, but not specifics. So she’s less likely to do something stupid.”

“On it.”

When Tristan starts making a list of pharmacies, I go back downstairs.

The sunlight has shifted across the den by the time I return. I decide the gray blanket is too scratchy. The pillows look wrong lined up in neat little rows. I pull them into a loose crescent along the back of the mattress.

The den is as ready as it’s going to get without a supply run, so I follow the crinkle of plastic to the kitchen.

The four of them stand around the island, dividing what’s left of the gas station haul. A bag of cashews, two granola bars, the jerky nobody wanted last night. Freddie has fanned it all out like presentation might multiply it.