Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
I don’t want to go up to the boys’ room. Frankly, it’s the one place in this house I prefer never to be, and I avoid it like I’ll catch something deadly in there. And well, if I piss off either of my stepbrothers, especially Fletcher, then the idea of suffering for it isn’t that far-fetched.
But even though I bitched and complained when Dad and Cheryl called, they were adamant that I need to tell my brothers to go into town and pick up some stupid light set they ordered. Naturally, I can’t do it myself. Not when Dad thinks I’ll die from driving with any snow on the road at all.
And, okay, maybe my accident last week where he had to have a towing company pull me out of the snowy ditch didn’t inspire much faith in my abilities.
With a groan, I get to my feet, rubbing my arms through the oversized hoodie I’m wearing. Even though the house is heated and the fireplace has been going most of the day, I still get cold here. Especially at night. As if anyone can hear me, I walk heavily out of my room, heels thumping on the hardwood floor in a satisfying way. Not that either of my stepbrothers will give a damn how I feel about this.
Or anything else, really.
But I take my time, heading to the kitchen to glare into the fridge like I’m even hungry after eating two grilled cheeses earlier. I’m not, but I still wrangle out a bottle of chocolate milk just to give myself something to hold on to. I’ll probably forget all about it once I get back in my room, and it’ll join the many lost souls of drinks that go to die on my nightstand, only to be thrown out in the morning.
Oh, well.
“Fletcher!” My voice carries up the stairs as I stand on the landing below, tapping one foot on the floor. Out of the two of them, he’s less likely to say something shitty or have a temper flare that will drag me into an argument or scare me back into my room. And it’s not like either of them are deaf, though sometimes I wonder about Boone.
Their room isn’t that far, and certainly not soundproof, yet nothing happens when I call his name. “Fletcher!” I call again, not daring to use the nickname of ‘Fletch’ that Boone prefers. I never know how Fletcher feels about me, and I prefer to err on the side of caution whenever I can. Unless I’m looking for a fight or an argument or…
Well, I refuse to admit what else I might be looking for when I piss him off.
Once again, neither of them answers, and I sag dramatically against the wall with a groan as I roll my eyes up to the ceiling. I’ll be in trouble with Dad if I don’t do this, and he’s already not thrilled with me for the whole car incident. And if neither of them could get a hold of the boys, I can only assume it’s because their phones are off or they’re asleep.
But as far as I know, Satan and his long-lost brother don’t sleep.
Finally I have to commit to going up the stairs. It’s inevitable, I suppose, since they won’t take pity on me and answer when I’m down here calling like a toucan. I take the steps two at a time, rushing up them on bare feet to get this over with faster. I don’t slip and eat shit on the stairs, which I consider a personal victory, and when I’m at the top of the stairs, I realize why they can’t hear me.
With the door closed, the music playing from their room is muffled and inaudible from downstairs. But the way it thrums in my ears tells me it’s loud as hell, and I’m going to get blasted by it the moment I open the door.
I suppose if I were a good step-sister, I’d knock. But I’m frustrated by having to come find them, and maybe a little unnerved, so I plan on taking a small kind of joy in interrupting whatever they’re doing and maybe surprising Boone into some kind of conniption fit.
It would be great if he could somehow fall out the window, actually. Very poetic. Very satisfying.
“Hey!” I yell, grabbing the knob of their door and slamming it inward so it smacks into the wall. “Dad and Cheryl are—” My words falter as I step into the room and my eyes fall on the two of them.
I’ve seen their beds shoved together before, when the two of them were gaming or had books spread between them. I know for a fact Fletcher helps Boone study so they can get into the same college next year.
But they definitely aren’t studying now.
Fletcher’s back is pressed to the glass of the bay window, his legs spread and knees cradling the person between them. He looks up at me, blue eyes hazy and blond hair tousled. One hand is braced at his side, fingers curled against the cushion of the bay window seat.
His other hand is curled in Boone’s thick brunet hair, guiding his head up and down in a steady rhythm in his lap.
My mind immediately goes as white as the blizzard outside and I just stand there, words dead on my lips as I try to remember what the hell I even need to say. But I can’t move, or speak, or anything else as I stare at both of them.
It’s like I’m trapped here, knowing this is the worst place to be, and yet here I still am.
Fletcher groans, eyes leaving mine as he throws his head back to let it fall against the window behind him. “You have an audience, sweetheart,” he murmurs in his low, purring voice. “But I think you already know that, don’t you?”
Without his shirt on, I can see the tan expanse of Boone’s back, muscles flexing under his skin as he sits up and turns to me, dark eyes glittering as he wipes his mouth on his forearm. “I thought she’d just shriek and run away,” he admits, a grin curling over his lips. “ Are you just going to stand there, Conor ?” Boone purrs, eyes narrowing . “ Because this isn’t a free show, babe.”
“I wasn’t trying to—” I stumble over my words, unable to get them out the way I intend. “What are you two ? —”
“So…either get out, or come over here and let your stepbrothers fuck your mouth.”
His words have me completely at a loss. My heart races in my chest and I immediately step back, though I see a flash of something in Boone’s face that I convince myself is satisfaction. There’s no way he’s disappointed, after all.
“Dad and Cheryl…” I bite my lower lip, glaring at the floor. What the fuck is going on here? “T-they need you to ? —”
Noises make me look up, and when my eyes find Fletcher, he’s in front of me, naked and gorgeous as he reaches out to wrap his fingers around my throat. “Poor thing,” he coos. “Did you think we didn’t know how you look at us? Did you think we can’t see you watch us?”
I open my mouth to reply, trying to ? —
Sitka’s paws make contact with my kidney just as her bark in my ear wakes me up in an instant. I gasp, bolting upright, and find myself panting as I try to remember where I am.
“Sitka?” I whisper, reaching out for her. My husky squirms onto my lap, licking my chin as she wags her tail against my arm. I can tell by her wiggling she wants to go out, but I need a few seconds to reorient myself.
Fuck! I haven’t had that dream in a long time. I groan and bury my face in her fur, the memory running on repeat in my head. For some reason, this time it veered from the reality of the situation. Fletcher hadn’t gotten up and said anything to me. I’d spat out what Dad and Cheryl told me to say and ran back down the stairs with my chocolate milk, locking the door to my room and turning on my television as loud as I could in an attempt to blast the memory out of my head.
Later, though—in bed that night—I’d been unable to stop thinking about it. And that’s when I started to feel so fucking guilty about it. Sure, I suppose morally there was nothing wrong with them…doing that. None of us are blood related, after all. Just step-siblings in the case of the boys and me. And the two of them were adopted, and not from anywhere near the same place.
Not that I know too much about it, past what Cheryl told Dad before they got married. That information had been relayed to me, in an attempt to win my sympathies toward them. Especially Boone, who apparently grew up for a while in pretty bad circumstances?—
Sitka yips, and I can feel in my soul the buildup to sounding like an ambulance siren. That’s what’ll happen if I don’t let her out, and even though I’m alone in our vacation house, I don’t want my ears bleeding tonight.
“It’s four am,” I groan, picking up my phone before scooting off the bed. My room was kept almost exactly same, with only a few touches of Cheryl’s taste in the pictures on the wall or the crystals on the wall shelf she’d thought I’d like
She’s not wrong.
“Can’t you hold it until six am like a reasonable husky?” But I’m already up and shoving my feet into my sneakers. I know the snow is deeper than what my shoes cover, but I don’t intend on going off the deck. Hell, I barely intend on opening the damn door. Grabbing my hoodie, I yank it over my t-shirt and pj shorts, reflecting again on the insanity of wearing shorts to sleep in the mountains in December with snow on the ground.
But I can’t sleep hot. I’d much rather pile on blankets than put on the horror of pants at night.
The house is quiet as I walk past the living room, the fireplace taking up most of one wall is barely visible in the darkness. There’s very little light coming in from outside, but I figure I’ll be fine with the motion light on the back deck. That’s the thought that keeps me from turning on anything until I can tug open the patio door that sticks halfway. “God forbid you fix it Dad,” I grumble, huffing as I shove it open. “God forbid .” Sitka rushes out of the house, plowing through the layer of snow onto the deck and vanishing into the yard beyond. If there was ever any confusion on her breed and what climate she thrives most in, that would be cleared up here.
Half the time, I wonder if she’d prefer I just leave her outside so she can cover herself in fresh powder and sleep like a puppy. “Please don’t go into the woods,” I groan, realizing a few seconds late that the motion light hadn’t come on. That’s…weird. It has before, whenever I’ve let out Sitka in the morning or evening.
“The heck…” I mumble, grimacing as I step out onto the deck to look up at it. I wave my arms at it, jumping up and down as I do, and finally the light switches on, as if finally remembering to do its damn job. “Guess you need replacing, too.” Already I can feel snow seeping into my shoes, freezing the skin of my ankles.
Having cold feet is totally what I was hoping for at four am. I suppose in revenge, I could always stick my feet under Sitka when we’re back in bed so she can be my personal radiator.
Walking back to the door, I stop when something unfamiliar catches my eye. A box sits on the railing of the deck, small enough to perch on the flat top of the wood. I swear it hadn’t been there the last time I took Sitka out before we went to bed.
Right ?
It hadn’t been there the day I got here, either. Surely if it had, I would’ve noticed it. Any deliveries certainly wouldn’t get put back here, and it’s not like there are any neighbors around who might’ve, I don’t know, casually walked their shit up the mountain and forgot it on our deck.
At last I realize the only thing I can do is actually look at the box if I want my questions answered. I groan when the snow piles into my shoes on my trip across the deck, snatching the box off of the rail and heading back toward the door to stand under the motion light.
Quickly, I pull open the flaps of the box, able to hold it in one hand and rummage around with the other. My fingers find the edges of something flat, and it takes me a few moments to pick up the first of the thin objects and lift it out of the box.
It’s a photo, I realize. Like from a disposable camera we used as kids taking stupid pictures to have developed at the local pharmacy. But I haven’t seen pictures like these for ages, and these don’t feel that old.
The light above me goes out just as I flip the photo over, and I glare up at it before waving my hands above my head, careful not to dump the box. After a few seconds the motion light gets the hint and flips back on, bathing me in white, LED light and letting me actually see the picture.
Instantly, I wish I hadn’t looked. Even in the harsh light, my eyes can identify two bodies spread-eagled in the snow, dark blood staining the ground around them. I suck in a breath of cold air, wincing as it stings my lungs, and try not to let my hands shake.
Morbid curiosity has me picking up the rest of the pictures, and I riffle through them with jerky, urgent motions.
They’re pictures of dead bodies on the overlook.
The same overlook I visited today.
“Oh, fuck ,” I murmur, staring down at them. “Fuck, that’s…what the fuck ?” That’s all I can seem to say right now as my brain works to figure out why there are pictures of dead bodies on my deck at four am.
The motion light goes out again and I gasp, dropping the photos to the snowy surface of the deck under me in surprise. But this time when I wave my arms, it doesn’t come back on. “Oh, come on ,” I hiss, stepping over the box and further out into the ankle deep snow. “Sitka!” I haven’t heard her in the snow for a couple of minutes, and it only adds to my anxiety about the situation.
“Come on!” I hiss again, jumping up and down and waving my arms. But yet again it doesn’t work. Finally I move to the top of the deck stairs, all but doing jumping jacks to catch the light’s sensor.
This time it works and the light comes on, causing me to let out a huff of relief. “Sitka!” I call again, turning to look out into the empty yard.
And then the light goes off. Again.
“Oh, come on!” I wave my arms, not turning back around. But I have to, when that doesn’t work, and I shift positions once more and do another jumping jack to catch the sensor. It works again, and I turn back to the yard, my dog’s name on my lips.
Except, the yard isn’t empty.
Two figures stand near the treeline, one of them kneeling down and rubbing Sitka’s ears enthusiastically, while the other just faces my direction, mostly still.
“SITKA!” I scream her name and my dog looks at me, tail wagging in the snow. The person petting her gets to their feet, almost reluctantly, and gives her a little shooing motion that prompts her to bunny hop through the snow and back to the deck as I trip back toward the door, too afraid to take my eyes off the two people.
But they don’t move.
Not one inch.
“Come on!” I hiss, grabbing Sitka’s scruff so she can’t run away. Momentarily, I consider grabbing the pictures, but instead I leave them, deciding I don’t want to know what they are or why they’re here as I slam the patio door shut and lock it.
Naturally, this time the motion light stays on, and when I look up from the lock, the yard and the treeline are both empty.
I’m alone again, or at least, it appears that way. But that doesn’t make me feel any better, and my hands shake on the lock as I check it once, then again, and one more time before shoving the curtain closed and backing away from it into the living room.
“Fuck,” I murmur, shaking from cold and terror. “What the fuck ?” There’s no way I can stay here alone. Not if there are stalkers outside leaving weird shit on the deck. “We’re calling Dad,” I murmur, looking down at Sitka. “And we’re getting the fuck off this mountain.