Page 1 of Captive of Outlaws

Prologue

IT SEEMS LIKE ALL OFSherwood County has turned out for my parents’ funeral.

The Fox Hunt Club’s reception room is crammed with grown-ups, people I kind of recognize from Daddy’s job or Mama’s volunteer work, nice-meaning adults in black who lean down and whisper how sorry they are for me, talking all sweet like I’m three years old instead of thirteen.

Ms. Perkins, the social worker, keeps a hand on my shoulder the whole time, but glances at her phone whenever she thinks I’m not looking.

“I’m sorry,” she says, when she catches me staring. “There’s a lot of kids out there who need help, Maren. And not a lot of...resources. I’m doing my best, here.”

I didn’t ask for an apology from her, but I nod anyway, the heavy velvet bow on the back of my head swishing against my hair. “Can I sit down now?”

She looks around the room, seeing everyone start to taketheir seats, and nods. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”

I scowl, because I hate being called that, and stride right for the front row. Behind me, I hear Ms. Perkins’ kitten heels clacking after me.

“Sweetheart, are you sure you want to sit so—”

I whirl around. “Yes,” I say. “I want to see them.”

Ms. Perkins opens her mouth, then closes it again. “All right.”

I plant myself on a folding chair right in front and stare at their caskets.Caskets,the funeral director kept calling them. But they’re coffins. Everyone knows that. Just like someone in Sherwood to use a polite word instead of telling the truth.

They didn’t die in a car crash—theypassed away suddenly.

They aren’t being put in a hole in the ground—they’re beinglaid to rest.

People aren’t angry at how freaking unfair it is—they’resorry for my loss.

Well, I’m over it. I want to see.

Daddy looks blank, like he’s fast asleep, his hands folded solemnly over the stomach of his three-piece suit. Mama, though, looks almost happy. Serene, even—a vocabulary word we learned last month in school. Her strawberry blonde waves, just a little lighter than my auburn, lie gently around her face and neck, where her signature diamond necklace glints.

I bite my cheek hard to stop the tears.

No use crying over spilled milk, Daddy used to say. Well, this is the spilledest milk of all.

“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen.” A man takes to the podium up front, calling for attention. He’s about Daddy’s age, dark hair and ruddy-faced, not someone I recognize. Ispin around to Ms. Perkins.

“Who’s that?” I ask, not bothering to whisper.

“Shh,” she says. “In a minute, sweetheart.”

“Thank you,” the man says. He clears his throat and bows his head, mumbling a quick prayer. It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. Daddy and Mama were never much for church, outside of Christmas and Easter. And even then, just for appearances’ sake.

The man looks up, fixes his audience with a stare.

I already hate him.

“We gather here today to say farewell to Richard and Jennifer de Mornay,” he begins. “Gone, I think we’d all agree, much too soon.”

There are murmurs of agreement. I fold my arms and scowl at him.

“For those of you who don’t know me”—this draws some light titters from the audience—“my name is John Lackland, and Richard was a longtime friend and associate of mine. We all know the business community here in Sherwood is tight-knit, and no one was prouder than I was when our own native son and former district attorney Richard de Mornay was promoted to the U.S. Attorney’s office. Could not,” he pauses for effect, “have happened to a more respectable, responsible man.”

Again, he pauses.

“Richard,” he goes on at last, “was nothing if not sensible. Practical.” There are more murmurs of agreement. “We all knew him as a straight shooter. Always reminding us the value of a hard day’s work, that nothing comes for free, that you can’t get something for nothing. He planned for the future, always. Why, the moment his daughter Maren was born, heset up a college fund for her.”

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