Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
The darkness is so oppressive that I can almost feel it pressing against my eyes. I scream once, then again, but the echo of it feels wrong, which is motivation enough for the screams to fade.
For the first time, I cry. Not reactive tears streaming hot lines down my cheeks, only to be swept away and forgotten. Not my eyes watering from pain, from fear, from whatever else.
No. This time, I sob. Every single one wracks my body, until I’m curled up on my side with my arms around my legs.
Every single fucking thing, from the blood and gore in my hair, to my fear and panic, to the anguish over what had happened and, to some extent, the smaller pains from the few injuries I’ve received—every single thing drives the sobbing on.
But no one answers me. Not God, not the devil, and no one here in Wolf Creek who likes to cut up anyone just driving through.
There’s nothing, except for the occasional creak from the ceiling above me, and movement that might be Pearl somewhere out in the other part of the basement.
Like an infant, I cry and scream and eventually I’m hiccuping, whimpering through tears that won’t fucking stop.
But just like an infant, eventually I’m just so tired, so exhausted, that I fall asleep on the floor of the dog kennel, my face pressed to lightly textured plastic, with tears still hot and wet and sticky on my cheeks.
I sleep because I have nothing else to do, and I can’t stay awake any longer.
Humming meets my ears, and a hand brushing my face causes me to jerk awake, though it takes a few tries for me to open my stinging eyes that are dry and sticky from crying. The room’s light is on and I gasp, sitting up, just to bang my head on the dog kennel’s wire.
Fox watches, his head tilted as he waits for me to get my bearings, and I realize the kennel door is open, though he’s blocking any kind of escape route. Still, as I watch, Fox holds his hand out to me, still humming, and I sit up, forced to hunch against the top of the kennel, my eyes on his.
“What are you humming?” I murmur, my voice hoarse as I still don’t take his hand. Not yet. Not when I know I can’t trust him.
When he smiles, the sound fades. “Why? Does it sound familiar?” When I shake my head, Fox chuckles. “I figured it wouldn’t. It’s an old song, and probably not too popular with people like you.”
People like me?
He flexes his hand slightly, drawing my attention back to it. I know this is my only way out of this fucking kennel, and while part of me wants to spit on his hand, the rest of me can’t bring myself to do that. Not when I’m sure it would mean being locked down here again.
Carefully, oh so carefully, I shimmy forward on the plastic tray, hating how it catches every movement and plays them back to me loudly. My hand finds his, my palm sore even under the bandages, and I let him extract me from my temporary prison.
“There you go.” Tenderly, Fox helps me from the kennel, and before I can say anything, stands to pick me up bridal-style in his arms.
“I can walk,” I protest quickly, only to get a look from him that’s one part exasperated, two parts amused.
“Yeah. You can walk right out the window and off the roof,” he agrees, voice dry. “You look, uh, pretty awful.” His grin is apologetic, while his hold is gentle but firm. I feel like a breakable, delicate thing as he walks out into the main part of the basement, and my eyes go to where Pearl is.
Or, where she was a few hours ago.
“W-where’s—”
“Outside. Deacon looked her over a bit ago and decided she’s okay to be in the backyard instead of down here.” He gives me that sweet, almost reassuring smile again, but there’s something lurking beneath his dark brown eyes that I can’t place.
But even so, it isn’t comforting.
The longer I look into the sheriff’s eyes, the more certain I am that he and Deacon are hiding something more than Ariana’s corpse in the shed and a dog kennel in the basement.
It doesn’t occur to me I’m staring at him, scrutinizing every feature, until we’re up the stairs and back on the main level of the house.
With sunlight streaming in from a window at the end of the hallway, Fox’s face is illuminated like a Renaissance painting.
Sharp cheekbones.
Full lips with a slightly upturned nose.
Freckles across his tan cheeks, though they’re hard to see in most light.
His eyes seem to catch the sun and hold it, becoming caramel-like instead of just brown.
He’s gorgeous.
And he’s still humming, I realize belatedly as his gaze slides down to meet mine.
Shit.
His smile widens a little at the corners, lips tilting upward in a sweet, charming smile. “You can stare all you want, Sadie-Rae,” he teases with a chuckle. “I certainly don’t mind. But you’re also welcome to tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Why are you doing this?” It’s the first thing I can think to say. “I don’t understand. If you’re the sheriff, shouldn’t you be helping me? Reporting this? Catching the other guys who—”
“What makes you think I’m not doing those things?” He’s walking again, barely looking where he’s going, but I suppose he doesn’t need to.
The house is pretty and seems to come right out of a rural homestead magazine.
The hardwood floors are old but clean, and the whitewashed walls with shiplap borders look like they’ve been well kept up to maintain their appeal.
Every room we pass is homey, lived-in, but all together, this doesn’t look like the den of monsters.
It looks nice, if I’m honest with myself. Especially when we pass a large bay window overlooking the front yard, the white, lacy curtains drifting inward on the breeze that blows through the house.
“My mom did all of this,” he says, in answer to a question I haven’t asked and probably won’t. With no effort whatsoever, Fox starts up another flight of stairs, taking me back to the second floor where I escaped from earlier.
It’s better than the fucking dog kennel.
At least up here, I can see outside if he locks me in that room again. Even if he locks the window, I can break the glass. I can do something, and I won’t be alone and in the dark.
“Is she…?” I trail off, not sure what to ask.
“She’s gone,” he admits. “My brother Jed left a few years ago—he was her favorite. Her protégé.” Fox rolls his eyes at that.
“Anyway, he left. Went up north and never spoke to her again. It broke her heart, and she never really got over it. But…” Shifting me in his grip, Fox opens a door leading into a large, tiled bathroom, and turns on the light with a click.
“No offense, Sadie”—his smile is apologetic and he sets me down finally, holding onto me as I regain my balance—“but you fucking reek. And your hair is, uh…” He gestures at me like he can’t quite figure out how to say it, which only makes me want to see it more.
The mirror behind me over the sink is large and ornate, but for a moment, I can’t tell who I’m looking at. After all, the bloody, hollow-eyed girl staring back at me can’t be me.
I don’t look like that.
Except I do, apparently. “Fuck,” I murmur, my hands coming up only to pause and hover near my hair. I look awful, and if I wasn’t probably, mercifully, nose blind to myself, I’m sure I’d be in agreement about how badly I reek.
“Yeah,” Fox agrees, bustling around behind me.
As I watch, he shows me a bundle of clothing that’s mostly flannel and cotton, and a towel.
Both end up on the back of the toilet before he gestures to the tub.
“Take your time. Hot water lasts a while.” His smile is sweet, genuine, and makes something in me stir.
But it’s stomped down by the rational side of my brain that can still see whatever lurks under Fox’s sweet smiles and Deacon’s less innocent, less genuine grins. I nod my head, waiting to move until he leaves and I can lock the door behind him.
It’s not like he told me not to, after all.
But once I’m alone, I can’t hold out any longer.
With the shower heating up, I strip out of the clothes that are, at this point, only fit to be burned.
They really are an absolute loss, with blood and worse staining any fabric that didn’t get torn or frayed.
My shoes are hardly any better, but those I set beside the tub, intent on at least trying to clean the blood off them while being thankful as hell they’re mostly black.
I shouldn’t be showering in the monsters’ house.
Yet here I am, stepping gingerly into the tub and nearly melting out of sheer relief when the water hits me.
The only thing that keeps me from lying down and waterboarding myself is the filth that streams from me, and I force myself to pick up a bottle of shampoo from the caddy under the faucet.
Instead of using an appropriate amount, I dump probably a quarter of the bottle into my hair, until it runs down my face like slime.
My hands go to the stiff, matted strands, and I scrub like I’m trying to rip off a layer of skin, starting with my hair and working downward.
No matter that it hurts, no matter that I’m rubbing my skin raw, I don’t stop. The water continues to run a rusty brown, but Fox was right. The hot water absolutely lasts.
Through all three different lathering sessions of shampoo, the one round of conditioner, and even as I scrub and scrub my skin to make sure all evidence of the auto shop is gone from my body, the hot water stays almost scalding.
It’s perfect, and when the water runs clear at long last, I give in to what I’ve been craving since I first stepped into the tub.
With a groan, I sit down, legs crossed under me, and let the water fall like rain over my head and shoulders. It streams down my already heated skin, and when I close my eyes to rest my face in my hands, it feels a bit like heavy rain.