Chapter 5 Rafferty
RAFFERTY
I walked into the cabin I’d grown up in, inhaled the scent of the cedar paneling, and smiled.
Two bedrooms, one tiny bathroom, one smallish living room, a kitchenette, and a large back porch-slash-pier had been the entirety of my childhood, and I counted myself lucky.
My old room had long ago been turned into Grandma’s craft room, and the primary bedroom was where my grandparents had slept for fifty years.
After tossing my duffel onto the bed, I cranked up the ancient central heating, dripped the faucets, wrapped the exposed exterior pipes, and put away the groceries, then dug out my grandma’s old bucket of cleaning supplies and gave the place a once-over.
Pleased with my productivity, I grabbed one of Grandpa’s vintage Guinness pint glasses.
Fuck ice, I thought, pouring the vodka till my wrist ached.
I finished off my drink with a whiff of orange juice—because I’m classy like that—and called it a Christmas Screw.
Drink in hand, I made my way out to the back, where my grandfather had built a deck on pilings so my grandmother could fish in the comfort of her muumuu and house slippers.
After a few minutes of the wind cutting through my summer-weight clothes, though, I went to my duffel and pulled out a pair of sweats, a long-sleeve tee, and the lined plaid overshirt I’d thrown in at the last minute.
I was lucky I’d thought to bring it—it was the closest thing to a jacket I had out here.
I changed, topped off my festive drink, and was back out in time to see the sun do battle with the incoming clouds, producing a heady mix of magentas, oranges, and ominous grays.
Everything went a little fuzzy around the edges as I took in the opaque water, listening to my grandfather’s old outboard bump against the pier.
When the last sliver of daylight winked out, something cold landed on my nose. I held out my hand, and damned if a flurry didn’t land on my palm. I snuggled into my too-light jacket and let the vodka warm me as the flurries danced around in the frigid dry air.
Within a few minutes, the flurries increased and, rather than melting, fell to the ground.
Huh. That was real snow.
Fuckin’ Texas weather.
I spun in place, a little kid in a swirl of flurries. About thirty seconds into that, my adult self decided I’d rather enjoy the weather from the warmth of my living room.
Damn, did I already need another top off?
Why not.
Satisfied with my choices, I plopped down on the ancient brown sofa with my drink, scrolling social media as road closure notifications lit up my phone.
I was watching a compilation of babies crying on Santa’s lap when the Wi-Fi went out.
After the cellular service didn’t pick up the slack, I double-checked, and that was down too.
Fuck it. Who needed technology anyway? I set my phone face down on the coffee table and watched in drunken wonder as actual snow fell over the lake, slowly at first, and then all at once, turning the familiar landscape white.
The Texas Hill Country was going to have a white Christmas, and I probably should’ve packed warmer clothes.
Eh. That was tomorrow’s problem.
I sat for a long time, letting the general fucking disillusionment with my job wash over me. I’d long since moved past the sadness of losing my marriage, but now that my brain cells were soaked in vodka, the idea of a reboot took hold.
Hell. I had some kickin’ around money from my grandparents’ retirement funds.
Maybe I didn’t have to stare down the worst parts of human existence every damned day.
Maybe I could live out here and start over.
Whatever I decided, something about this rare Texas snowstorm felt like a line in the sand. A distinct before and after.
With that thought in mind, I let myself drift off.
Just as my eyes grew heavy, however, a loud banging on the front door jarred me awake. It went quiet, and I blinked, not sure what I’d heard. The banging started up again, and I realized somebody was yelling to be let in.
Jesus, who was outside in this weather?
Shaking off my stupor, I lurched to my feet and yanked the door open to a swirl of snow. Then staggered back.
There stood Jesse Travis, covered in snow, shivering violently, with blood dripping from his face like something out of a horror movie.
“They’re after me,” he said, then collapsed into my arms.