Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
W aking up is certainly an experience. For the first few seconds all I can think about is how I’m very warm, comfortable, and sleeping better than I have in longer than I’d like to admit. I feel so secure, with someone’s arm around my waist and my face buried in another person’s bare chest.
But that’s when the knowledge of exactly what’s going on hits. I shift to look up, surprised by how peaceful Fletcher looks in his sleep. There’s so much less menace on his face this way, and while he’s always gorgeous, there’s something soft about him when he isn’t conscious.
Boone murmurs behind me in his sleep, his grip on my waist loosening. My t-shirt has ridden up around my ribs, so his fingers are splayed over my bare stomach. It’s both intimate and sweet.
But more importantly, it’s terrifying.
I need to go . I can’t stay trapped here, between my stepbrothers who made my life hell for so long. My skin feels heated, and my thighs that rub against Boone’s sweatpants are tender with the contact. At the memory of being ‘punished’ by them I can feel my face redden, and I fight the urge to bury my face in the pillow under my jaw and just suffocate.
No matter how good it feels to be here, I really need to go. Especially as the happy feelings fade, replaced by anxious anticipation as my heart starts to beat faster. Not wanting to be here when they wake up, I take a long, deep breath, keeping quiet as I calm myself down.
One thing I remember from when we were young is that Boone, at least, is a very heavy sleeper. Fletcher is less so, but he’s not the one with an arm wrapped around me. It’s my hope that even if I were to kick Boone in the kneecap, he’d only roll over and snore.
Though my plan is much more refined than that. Somewhat.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway, as I wiggle downward, my shirt rides up further than I’d like it to. But I somehow manage to get out of Boone’s grip without waking either one of them, and I crawl to my feet to stand on the floor at the bottom of their shoved together beds.
Boone only shifts slightly, his arm stretching until he finds Fletcher. If I had to guess, I’d say he’ll have migrated over to him in the next few minutes and it’s almost…cute. Almost like he doesn’t want to sleep alone, and certainly not without touching someone.
Something in me aches to have what they have with each other, even as fucked up as it is. It’s harder than it should be to tear myself away from them, but I finally walk over to the dresser where my phone and pj pants are, which I put on silently. Wincing when the soft fabric rubs over my thighs and ass, I lock my teeth together to not make a sound. Then, with one last glance at the bed to make sure they’re both still asleep, I make my grand, quiet escape.
I nearly fall down the stairs in my rush to get to the first floor. My first priority is Sitka, though I see quickly that I had nothing to worry about once I hit the kitchen. Fletcher either bought or found a pair of pet gates, which he used to make a corral for her that encompasses the entire kitchen. Her new bed and bowls are in here as well, though I’m unsurprised to find Sitka sitting at one of the gates glaring me down instead of anywhere else.
“I’m surprised you didn’t just climb over,” I murmur to her, shoving my phone in my pocket and unlatching the gate for her to come out. She gives a soft woof of disapproval, and I wonder if she’ll let me out of her sight for the next week in punishment for my transgressions. But I suppose that would be better than her punishing me by letting her affections wander even more.
Specifically to Boone. While I’m not jealous she likes other people, I promise myself as I unlock and slide open the patio door to let her shoot out into the darkness outside, there’s something that makes me feel strange about seeing him love all over my dog. Yet again, I silently wish she had better taste in people…
Though maybe I don’t have a lot of room to talk this morning. Closing the patio door with a snap, I wince at the loudness of the noise. For a few seconds I listen, head cocked, and try to catch wind of any noise from upstairs that would tell me they’ve woken up, or the timbre of their voices traveling down the stairs. I get neither, prompting me to walk back to the kitchen and snagging a bottle of chocolate milk out of the fridge.
Belatedly, I check the clock over the stove, only a little surprised to see it’s already ten pm. I’ve slept for longer than I thought I would, and now that my sleep schedule is really fucked up, I feel restless and somewhat energetic.
Enough to binge an entire season of Catfish, maybe, but not enough to do anything of value. From the cabinet I grab a packet of PopTarts, then head to the door to let Sitka back in after her latest polar adventure.
Thankfully she doesn’t make a big deal out of it, and she’s waiting for me at the door with her mouth open in a pant and her tail wagging instead of zooming across the yard and doing her best impression of a snowblower. Yelling at her right now isn’t something I’d like to do, since I’m sure my shrieking would wake up my stepbrothers real quick.
“Thank you,” I tell her softly, promising myself to give her some of my wildberry PopTarts in gratitude. The two of us head for my room, and it’s not until I have the door closed behind me that I finally let out a sigh of relief, my shoulders slumped.
“Holy fuck.” Quickly I toss my PopTarts and milk onto the bed, plugging my phone in on my nightstand before I forget. Then I strip out of my pj pants, needing something less fleece-lined and less constricting. Sometimes, no matter how cold it is, I can’t sleep in pants.
This is one of those times. Before I put on my shorts, however, I head to the mirror in the corner, heart thumping nervously in my chest as I turn to look at my backside and thighs.
Even though I bruise way too easily, I’m surprised at how light the remaining marks are. On my thighs are a few light bruises, mostly red with a few darkening only slightly. I run my hands up my thighs, fingers moving over my still-heated skin until I squirm uncomfortably. My face burns when I think about how it felt to be over Fletcher’s lap with Boone holding me in place, and I swear I can feel the sting of his hand even now.
It does nothing to make me want to go back to sleep. Instead, I feel a flood of heat between my thighs and I groan, shaking my head and walking away from the mirror. When I’m wearing my shorts and tee, I move to flop down on my bed, only to reconsider at the last second and sit down lightly instead. It’s the right choice, I can tell, when my skin only stings with discomfort instead of actually hurting like it could have.
A groan leaves me, and I drag my laptop onto the bed just as Sitka hops up, circling around on the foot of the bed before throwing herself down with a dramatic groan that makes me snort lightly. “Yeah, okay,” I tell her. “Your life is just so hard, isn’t it Sitka?” She pricks her ears at me, tail thumping on the bed when she knows she has my attention.
“Poor thing. You had to stay in the kitchen for what, six hours? With food, water, and the bed Boone got you? I bet they gave you treats too, didn’t they?” Even down here I’m careful how loudly I speak, not wanting to somehow make the one noise that’ll manage to wake up the guys.
Part of me wants to call my dad again, and convince him to somehow change the weather and clear all the roads himself so I can get the fuck out of here. I’m not sure how I’ll survive staying here for any longer. Especially after today. But I know rationally there is no escape until after the weather changes and the snow melts at least a little.
God, I’ve never wanted an unseasonably warm Christmas like I do right now. I want the opposite of a white Christmas. I want New York’s first tropical Christmas instead, just so I can get out of here.
Once on my laptop, it’s easy for me to find stories on the internet from last year’s triple homicide, and immediately my frustration builds. I can’t find names, only ‘Illinois residents’ or ‘former SIU students.’ Which is too vague for me to really go on.
Especially since I don’t speak to anyone from my college anymore. Even reading about this is enough to make the memories twitch to life in my brain, and I find myself having to take breaks and pet Sitka in order to not overwhelm myself.
But it doesn’t really help when I keep searching through articles. More and more my brain drifts back to my senior year, my heart twisting as the same feelings of humiliation, embarrassment, shame, and self-loathing shoot through me.
I absently rub my throat, remembering the burn from when the pills I’d swallowed had tried to come back up. Remembering how it felt when I finally had enough of the looks, the laughs and, worstt of all, the way I’d felt about myself afterward.
“Crap.” I sigh, finally just closing my laptop and sitting back. This is getting me nowhere, and it’s only tanking my mood harder. I want to find out who these former SIU students were. I want to find out why they killed them. But I can’t do it in a way that’s going to trigger my trauma.
But they have pictures. I hadn’t really looked at them the first night, and it dawns on me that maybe I should’ve. Though I haven’t seen them since Boone had them in his pocket, and I know they could be anywhere at all in this house or property. Hell, Boone could’ve eaten them for all I know. That seems like something a feral asshole like him would do.
“Please sleep for like ten more hours,” I mutter as I get up and pull on my thick, fleecy leggings and boots. I don’t love wearing these boots, especially without socks, but I’d rather wear them than have snow-covered toes and frostbite. Again.
Since I’m not planning on being outside for long, I toss on a hoodie over my t-shirt before opening my door slowly, just in case one of my stepbrothers is waiting to pounce. But they aren’t on the first floor, and it doesn’t seem like they’ve come down at all. If they catch me walking outside, it won’t be a big deal. I can just tell them that I’m letting Sitka run around since she was caged in the kitchen for half the day. I’ll play the guilt card about her being a husky who needs to run, instead of telling them any version of the truth.
She zips out the door the moment I open it, and once again I watch myself on the stairs so I don’t have a repeat of yesterday morning. Instead of taking the stairs at all, I hop off the side of the front porch, my steps crunching in the snow that’s hardened to have a crust of ice over the top of it that I have to break through with each step.
Once I’m in the driveway, though, surrounded by the yard and trees on both sides, I can’t help but stop to admire the snow, and the way the ice on top of it looks like a field of diamonds outside the house in the light from the garage and moon.
God, I’ve missed winters here. It was easy to forget how much I love this place, how much I love the snow and the way I can see my breath in the air in front of me. I love the mountains, the lake, and everything else about this place that I got to experience growing up.
I even love my memories of trying to learn how to snowboard, even though almost every attempt ended up with me face down in the snow and my nose streaming from the cold. The thought brings the smallest hint of a smile to my lips and I make myself keep walking, barely paying attention to Sitka as she gets in touch with her inner snow loving husky.
“Please be unlocked,” I whisper to myself, glancing up at the windows of the second floor. Thankfully the bay window where they sleep faces the backyard, and the blackout curtains are drawn over the windows facing this way. Sure enough when I tug on the driver’s side door of the charcoal-silver truck that I totally should’ve slammed my car door into the other day, it opens easily.
Fletcher isn’t careless, but Boone is. So I figure he must have come out here sometime during the day to get something out of it after driving Cheryl’s Jeep home.
The only bad thing about going through their truck in the dark is that the cab light is bright enough to both help and hinder me. I have no idea how to turn it off manually, or if I even can, so instead I just try to hurry before one of them spontaneously looks out the window. I don’t know why they would, sure, but with my luck they just would.
There’s no sign of the photos in the truck. No box, no envelope, no printed out pictures themselves. I check the entire cab once, then again, making sure to look under seats, in the console, and in every possible space available to me. But there’s nothing here.
“Crap.” Sliding out of the truck, I close the door just hard enough to make sure it’s actually shut, and glance up once more toward their window. The curtains are still drawn, thank God, and the cab light blinks out a few seconds later, causing me to let out a breath and my shoulders to relax.
Now I’m back to having the plausible deniability of just walking Sitka. I whistle for her and the copper and white husky plows through the snow, her markings almost invisible in the dark. The sun has long since set, and the only lights are from our garage and the moon above us bathing the yard in just enough light to create that white diamond field I love so much.
Before I can go back in, an idea hits me. I veer off course and trudge toward the backyard instead, hands shoved absently in my pockets. There’s nothing suspicious about this. At least, not for now. But it does put me at an angle where I know the two of them like to sit and look out over the trees.
The thought of them catching me makes me hesitate when I stand in the middle of the snow, eyes on Sitka as she goes from one interesting smell to the other and tears up the smooth, untouched surface of white. There’s still plausible deniability right here.
But there won’t be in about ten more steps.
The shed they locked me in sits sturdy and waterproof near the treeline. It’s been there since I was a little kid, and Dad used to keep quite a bit of yard equipment in there. At least, until it started spilling out and Cheryl convinced him to get an expansion built on the garage for him to store things. Ever since then it’s been more of a home for odds and ends, for things that are mostly forgotten and not used so much anymore.
But it’s still snowproof, still maintained, and still here.
Fletcher and Boone know that I’d never go in there just because. I haven’t been in the shed at all since they locked me in it, and I’ve always been pretty vocal about the fact it would take an act of God to get me in there again.
Or an act of murder, apparently.
“Don’t get caught,” I whisper to myself, looking up at the bay window. It’s empty, with no sign of either of my brothers sitting or leaning up against it. So I jog across the yard, only to come to a fast stop at the door of the shed as I twist to look behind me.
Shit.
I hadn’t considered the very obvious footprints I’d be leaeaving in the snow. It’ll be clear evidence of where I’ve been, and I bite my chapped lower lip as I stand perfectly still, afraid to take a step closer.
Maybe I can disguise my intentions. If I walk around out here and call Sitka over to me, get her going, and push her into snow-plow mode, I can say I was out here playing with her and ended up being close to the shed. I can say she was fixated on something and I had to come after her and grab her collar to drag her away, which is the reason for my footprints and hers being right up against the shed, and for the mess of snow all over.
It might not work, but being this close to the shed means I don’t really have a choice. One more look shows me that the window is still empty, and I quickly slide the door to the shed open, slipping inside before closing it behind me.
It’ll be a dead giveaway if they see it open, after all.
The utter darkness reminds me of being a kid and screaming to be let out. Of the feeling of my fingers going numb and the pain when they’d warmed back up in the hospital. But I push that out of my head as much as I can, fumbling for my phone and turning on the light. The space is small enough that it takes only a couple steps to get to the back wall, and I start there at the shelves lining the wall. Scanning each shelf with my light, I go over them twice and find nothing except empty jars and insect corpses.
I suppose Cheryl took over this space for her yearly canning of veggies from the garden that’s long dead this time of year, and I wonder what she’s growing now. Not that it matters since I won’t be coming back here ever ?—
The thought brings me up short with a quick, surprising pang of regret in my chest. I stand there in the quiet, cold shed for a few seconds, not looking at anything except the empty mason jars marked with dates on the lids.
Is this really going to be the last time I come here? That’s what I’ve been telling myself since Boone and Fletch showed up, but it finally hits me just what that means.
“Dwell later, look now,” I mutter, shaking my head slightly to clear it. I turn to look at the low work table placed against the wall, the surface only a foot or so wide and taking up half of the shed.
Immediately my phone light illuminates a familiar, water-stained box. The same box that had been on the deck not so long ago at all. But when I peer into it, I find that instead of five or six photos like I’d found back then, there have to be at least thirty, maybe more. There are different bundles of them, I realize, as I reach my hand into the box to sort through them. Each stack is wrapped with a rubber band, but not marked. With just a quick look, I can see they’re all of bodies, though it’s hard to see details with only the stark light of my phone.
Now the question is whether I look through them out here and leave them, or I take some back into the house to continue my investigation.
Just as I’m reaching for the third bundle, intent on maybe snagging a few, Sitka’s bark of acknowledgment makes me look up, fingers frozen around the bundles. I don’t have even a moment to figure out what to do when the shed door is slid open roughly, revealing Fletcher in the doorframe.
He meets my gaze before looking down at my hand in the box. But instead of anger, a slow, lazy grin curls over his lips. “Oh, princess.” He sighs. “Hasn’t anyone told you that it’s wrong to try to find and open your Christmas presents early?” He clicks his tongue in disapproval, eyes glittering in the shed that’s lit only by my phone and now the motion light from the deck. “What am I going to do with you?”