Chapter 8 #2
“Hey, Mav.” I rub his forelock. “You’re lookin good, old man.”
He watches me with his soulful brown eyes, swishing his long tail.
“How bad is it inside, huh?” I ask him, my stomach like a wet towel being squeezed dry.
The other two horses in this corral, a mare and her foal, stand close together on the far side. They must have come in since my last visit because I don’t recognize them.
Swallowing hard, I give Mav a kiss on the nose, then turn toward the house.
Up close, it looks even worse. A board in the middle step is rotted through.
The railing is missing on one side. There’s a crack in one of the windows, the screen torn.
In the right corner tucked above the molding is a swallow’s nest that would be cute if their guano hadn’t stained the siding and an area the size of a dinner plate below it.
The porch is littered with the detritus of ranch life: a lead rope draped over the railing, a stack of delivery boxes from vet supply stores, a shoe cubby mostly empty except for a set of rubber boots, one sneaker caked with dried mud, and a pair of work boots so worn they might as well be slippers.
A hammer is propped upside down against the siding next to a box of U-bolts and a thick coil of shiny new barbed wire.
On the right side is a dismantled automatic watering system, and stacked milk crates full of who knows what.
The rescue has a shop off the barn, but Mo has obviously stopped using it.
I dig out my key because the first responders would have locked up when they left.
When I step into the entryway, I make the split-second decision to leave my shoes on.
There’s a distinct sour smell that could be any number of things.
Soiled laundry in a forgotten hamper. Dirty dishes.
A bathroom that hasn’t been cleaned in too long. Something dead.
Though technically I’m only here to check on the animals and pack some of Morgan’s things, I won’t be able to leave it at that—I’ve always been the neat one. But I also won’t be able to tell her I spent hours cleaning. She already knows it’s bad. Flashing it in her face is counterproductive.
I scan the living room to the right, relieved to see the piano is still here, but the tan couch looks untouched since my last visit and the painting I gave her to hang above it is still propped on the floor.
To the left, the too-big dining table is stacked with more vet supplies—equine supplements and books on animal husbandry, horse therapy guidelines, alfalfa farming at elevation, pasture management.
Shit my sister was drawn to but when it came to actually committing to learning about, the concept either overwhelmed her or her attention had already flitted to something else.
I flip through the pile of unopened mail.
Most of it’s junk but there are a few envelopes that look important, going back months.
Not surprising, but a sign she’d been deteriorating for longer than she let on.
I also find a bong shaped like a grinning Buddha, an empty carton of cigarettes, several empty beer cans, and a giant bag of shelled pistachios, the zip top partly open.
Gripping my waist, I glance out the dingy windows and sigh.
The scuffed hardwood floor feels gritty under my clogs, like it hasn’t been swept in months.
I push through the swinging door to the kitchen and cover my mouth.
Not only are dishes and pots piled next to the sink and on the counters…
god, the stench. Though I’m te mpted to start here, I need the complete picture.
I pass through the kitchen to the empty space in the corner, where what looks like tractor engine parts are strewn over a flattened cardboard box next to a rolling tool chest, then turn right, bringing me to the back of the living room.
I walk to the piano, taking in the layer of dust and the bench tucked neatly beneath it, as if whoever used it last never meant to return.
I press middle C and wince. I try a few more keys, then stop.
No wonder Morgan hasn’t played. It sounds awful.
Of all the things to let slide, this one hurts the worst. Because without music, of course Morgan couldn’t cope.
That billboard of Nic Salazar’s face flashes in my mind.
My fists tighten, nails digging into my palms. How big a part does he play in this?
Did his upcoming tour stop at Creekside shove Morgan off the cliff she was already teetering on, or did that billboard send her running for it?
Regret burns in my chest but I shake my head—hard. I’m not going there today.
Next I visit the guest bathroom. No surprise, it’s a disaster.
I head upstairs, grounding myself in the smooth banister beneath my palm and the soft squeak of the wood under my feet.
Everything happened so fast when Gudrun’s property became ours.
It would have been smarter to knock her old house down and build something new.
Maybe one of those tiny homes. Less space for Morgan to care for on her own.
Fewer old house problems to stay on top of.
But Morgan would have waved me off. And I was in such a rush to leave, I wouldn’t have put up much of a fight.
The first room on the right is still empty, the windows bare, the closet containing only a handful of wire hangers.
It was supposed to become a guest room. I had offered to supply the furniture, but Morgan assured me she had a plan to do it herself.
I thought it might bring her a sense of accomplishment to let her handle it.
The middle room is the office slash recording studio. Unease washes through my belly as I take in the desk coated with a thin layer of dust and the overflowing trash can. I cross to the instrument storage cabinet, my fingers shaking as I twist the handle.
Bare shelves stare back at me. The locker is empty.
Her violin, guitars, and sound equipment are gone. Even my old trumpet case is missing. The instrument I bought with my own money my senior year of high school and that now I only play when I’m with her.
Gone.
I gaze up at the ceiling, blinking back tears.
Did someone steal from her, or did she sell them?
Why didn’t she tell me it had gotten this bad?
After swiping at my tears, I shut the cabinet.
When I move to the bedroom, my despair turns to anger. It’s fucking gross in here. Dirty clothes, empty booze bottles, the mattress on the floor with dingy sheets and a rumpled blanket, one of the pillows sliced open to reveal the lumpy batting, some of it strewn over the floor.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I count to five, breathing through my mouth, then turn for the adjoining bathroom.
The only reason I don’t puke up my donuts is because I don’t want to get any closer to the toilet.
I open the tiny window and turn on the fan so I can tolerate a few minutes in here checking the labels on the pill bottles next to the sink.
It’s not as bad as Beth Dutton’s Season One arsenal, but it’s not far off.
Half the meds are unfamiliar. Who the fuck is prescribing all these?
Some aren’t even for Morgan. I take pictures of the labels to scrutinize later, then return to the bedroom.
It’s when I go to the dresser to pack some clothes that I find what I’d most feared.
It’s tucked in an old cigar box that, at one time, held our stamp and ink pad collection.
Now, it contains boxes of large bandages, gauze, ointment, and the tool she’s been using to self harm.
I close the lid and return it to the drawer, then draw a shaky breath. Tears sting my eyes and I take a moment, bracing against the dresser, to let them fall.
This is my fault. I set my sister up for a battle she couldn’t win. I convinced her it was the best choice. But I should have known the secrets would eat at her, corrode her bandwidth one frequency at a time.
What am I going to do? How can I help her?
Fifteen minutes later, my backseat is occupied by a duffel bag containing some of Morgan’s clothes and two garbage bags of laundry I’ll do at Will and Theo’s.
Theo won’t like it but he wouldn’t dare try to stop me because where the fuck has he been?
I know he’s busy with his residency, and he had to erect strict boundaries with Morgan after she broke his trust too many times, but he could have at least checked on her.
I walk to the barn, where our sixty-two year old former convict ranch hand Gus is cleaning stalls. His hair has gone completely white since my last visit, but he’s just as lean. He prefers horses to people, but I don’t hold that against him. He, on the other hand, holds plenty against me.
“Hey, Gus,” I say from the half-door.
He gives me a glance while scraping up a stripe of soiled floor with the big shovel. “Saw you drive up. How’s she doin’?”
“She’s hanging in there.”
He shovels up another load and dumps it into the wheelbarrow.
“You coulda called me,” I say.
His lips flatten. “What difference would it have made?”
I give him an exaggerated nod. He’s right. I should have picked up on the clues. I should have come to check on her. But with Henrik, and prepping for the Seattle Symphony audition, and…I stop myself, shaking my head. I’m here now.
I want to insist that I’m doing my best, but we both know it’s a lie. “Do you need anything?” I ask instead.
He lists off a couple of horse-related worries and a fence project we need to complete before winter.
I’ll need to call the vet. The fence project I might be able to do myself.
William’s plea to let him help sneaks into my thoughts.
It’s been there all morning, lurking in the back of my mind.
But he’s just taken on a major project himself with The Limelight.
That alone would be enough to keep him booked solid for the rest of his life, but he’s also a firefighter.
“The farrier,” Gus says, setting the shovel on top of the wheelbarrow. “Find a new one.”
“Why?” I ask, frowning. I open the half door so he can push the wheelbarrow through it.
“He started comin’ around, and not for scheduled visits.”
I scrunch my eyes so tight stars dance behind my lids. “Shit.”
“The last time I met him at the door with my shotgun.”
I don’t ask how a convicted felon got his hands on a shotgun. The truth is, I trust Gus more than I trust a lot of people. “I’ll handle it,” I tell him.
It’s no surprise Gus didn’t call the police, but if he had, would it have saved Morgan from herself?
Gus huffs, but I let his disdain roll off my back.
Once I’m driving away and reach the quieter pavement, I call Crosby.
“Charlie?” he answers, surprise in his tone. “Mom told me about Morgan. Are you back?”
“Just visiting,” I correct. Why does everyone assume I’ve moved home? “I…need a favor.”