Chapter 3
RUE
“Are you not going to eat?” Mom snips at me from across the kitchen table, still piled up with unopened mail and random shit. “You haven’t taken a single bite.”
I rip my eyes from Bullet still sitting at the front window staring out into the trees. “I’m just not that hungry.”
“Probably because you spent the whole day napping.” She says the words matter of fact, and then stabs her fork into the frozen lasagna I found in the freezer. “You never used to nap like that.”
My stomach sinks, the kindness of my mother instantly drowned with a guilt trip.
“I drove twenty-four hours straight to get here,” I reason, scraping my fork against the plate on accident.
I wince at the way it sends a chill down my spine and reminds me of the strange knocking noise I’d heard earlier this morning.
Probably just an animal.
“I still need to get someone to fix the hole,” Mom changes the subject.
“That’s how I hurt myself, you know. I had to fix that damned hole from the water damage on the second story.
If Mr. Wilson would’ve just fixed the leaking tub when I asked him to, the floor wouldn’t have fallen apart—and I wouldn’t have broken my ankle and wrist.”
My stomach lurches, and I set my fork down. “Didn’t Mr. Wilson die?”
My mother rolls her eyes. “Yes, but the ceiling started crumbling well before that.” She pauses for a moment to chew before continuing. “Now Martha lives alone in that little house. I don’t know why she didn’t just move to town.”
I could say the same about you. I glance back to the window holding my breath as Bullet squirms, his little body bouncing and then freezing in rapid succession. Maybe he’s just losing it.
“That place of Martha’s has really fallen apart since the Anders moved,” Mom hums, taking a sip of water with her uninjured arm. “I always liked them.”
My brow furrows. “You mean Noah’s parents?”
Mom stills, holding my gaze for an extra beat too long before clearing her throat. “Yeah, Noah’s parents. His father really kept the place looking tidy.”
“His father also beat him,” I say flatly, my chest tightening as my memory conjures up the long-lost past—one that’s buried beneath the trauma that came after. “I wonder what happened to them.”
“No clue,” Mom looks down at her plate. “They all moved away after that horrible divorce. Noah was only thirteen.”
“Hmm.” I ignore the weird way she draws out his name, like it pains her to even say it. She never liked him, anyway. But Dad did.
And that has my stomach knotting up in grief.
My dad never made it past the summer after everything happened, his heart giving out one afternoon while hiking. It’s my fault. My secret was too much for him to carry.
“I think I’m going to go for a walk,” I say, suddenly desperate to get some air. “Bullet looks antsy.” I shove back from the table, the chair squealing against the dull hardwood floors.
“Um,” Mom raises her thick, gray eyebrows. “I think there’s dinner to be cleaned up first. Let’s not forget why you came home. To help. Not to go for walks in the woods.”
I slowly rise to my feet, swallowing my response. “Right. I’ll do that first then.” I take a deep breath and grab my plate and then hers. I dump the entirety of mine into the trash and set the empty plates into the sink.
“Nancy asked about you at church.” Mom’s words have my hand pausing as I turn on the water. “Everyone asks about you—even more so than Eliza.”
“Hmm.” I nod without looking at her. I don’t want to think about Nancy Zendetti, Matthew’s mother. I can still hear her excruciatingly pained cries at the funeral.
And all it does is remind me of the thief of a son she raised.
I reach for the scrub pad and start washing dishes, digging into the ceramic as my mind races. Everyone forgets how shitty people are once they get murdered. Every fucking obituary, documentary—whatever the media—claims whoever died lit up every goddamn room they walked into.
Well, you know what?
Matthew never once lit up a room.
He was a conniving, backstabbing thief, who thought he owned me.
The plate cracks in my hand and splits in two, each piece crashing against the metal sink and slicing my skin. Red liquid squirts from a fresh cut across my palm. I shake my head as I hold it under the warm water, my eyes tearing up at the sting…
And the way the blood runs parallel with my worst scar.
My mother lets out a grunt and then a heavy sigh.
I squeeze my eyes shut just long enough to convince myself not to launch a fragment of the broken plate at her head.
I conjure up the image in my brain for a moment, and then mentally banist it from the realm of possibilities.
Instead, I scoop up the plates—including the nonbroken one—and toss them both into the trash.
Mom says nothing as I rinse out the sink and put the leftover lasagna away in the fridge, which hasn’t been cleaned in a good few years.
I wonder if cleaning the fridge was part of Mr. Wilson’s job, too.
I frown at the thought, thinking of all the time Frank Wilson spent with my mother while my father was on patrol. I push the anger and those thoughts away, turning to her. “What else do you need me to do before I get some air?”
She holds my eyes, and I swear I see a flicker of amusement. “Just roll me to my room and get me the remote. I had to wash myself on my own, since you were late.”
“Okay,” I ignore the jab and reach for the wheelchair still sitting at the table. Blood smears across the handle of the chair, a warm, slick feeling against my injured hand. I ignore it and roll her to her bedroom.
This time, I don’t bother to look at the family photos hanging along the hallway walls. I keep my mind on the task at hand and guide her to the side of her bed.
“I don’t want to get in bed.” My mom’s voice takes on the whine of a child. “I want to sit in a chair.”
“You are in a chair,” I deadpan, grabbing the remote from the nightstand and turning on the small flat screen TV. Despite the place being a run down fuckery, it still has internet access.
“I want the recliner from the living room.”
I pause, just as the home screen illuminates the dimly lit space. “So you want me to move you in there?”
“No,” she says, shaking her mop of gray hair. “That TV doesn’t work.”
“Okay, so then do you want me to put you in the bed?” I hold the remote with my uninjured hand, still pointing it toward the screen.
“No,” she huffs, like my inability to read her mind is an inconvenience. “I want the recliner from the living room moved in here.”
My lips part, but nothing comes out.
Mom lets out another heavy, pained sigh. “After everything we’ve done for you, I wouldn’t expect you to balk at such a menial task, Rue. All it takes is—”
I don’t wait for her to finish before I exit the room, tossing the remote on the bed. This is the reason I’m here. She could ruin me with one simple phone call. The rational part of my brain tells me it’s just a bluff.
But the other part—the small, terrified child inside—still gives in to her every demand.
I latch onto the back of the tan leather recliner, and tug at it, the legs scraping so loudly against the floor that even Bullet turns to look. We make eye contact, and I shrug.
“You know what she’s got over my head.”
He seems to understand and turns back to face the window.
I grit my teeth and lug the big fucking chair down the hallway and bump it over the transition piece between the hardwood and the carpet in her room. Somehow, I manage to get it positioned on the other side of the bed, where there’s the most space for it.
My mother watches the entire time, keeping quiet about the nasty crimson stain I’m leaving on the side. When it’s finally done, and I’m left trying to catch my breath, I go for the wheelchair.
“You’re going to have to take the side handle off for me to move into the chair.” Mom huffs as I ready for the transition of her from one chair to another. “And don’t pull me too hard. I’m too old for that.”
I nod, and inwardly grimace through the awkward moving of my mother’s small frame.
She’s no bigger than me, which is the only reason it goes somewhat smoothly.
Still, she whines and wails through the whole thing, and I’m left with sweat beading up across my forehead by the time I reach for the remote.
“Here.” I set it on the arm of the chair. “I’m going for a walk now.”
She picks up the remote with a careful two fingers, her lip curling in disgust. I’m about to ask her what the problem is, when I see I used my bad hand. There’s a smear of blood on the remote and the arm of the chair.
“I’ll clean it,” I say with a sigh, my shoulders dropping.
She glares at me, and then wipes it across her black sweatpants. “Just go get your air first, Rue. It might help with your attitude.”
I bite down on my lip, but don’t wait around in case she changes her mind. I grab my flannel jacket hanging on the back of the couch and slide my feet into my shoes.
“Don’t forget it’s hunting season,” Mom calls from the back bedroom. “Plenty of trespassers out and about, I’m sure.”
“Okay,” I mutter, though I’m not sure she hears. I rip the front door open, and as soon as I do Bullet shoots through the small gap like, well, a bullet. He darts out into the trees, his bay echoing in the evening sun.
I step out onto the porch, shivering as the cold breeze brushes against my skin. Part of me wants to turn around and walk back inside the house—where the only threatening presence is my mother—but I force myself to take a step forward.
I used to roam these woods without fear of what was there. No stray hunters or animals kept me from exploring the ravines and seasonal creek beds surrounding the lake. That was before I smattered crimson across the forest floor I loved.
“Rue, what have you done?” I hear my father’s panicky voice in my head.
My chest tightens as my own reply kicks off. “He took your truck, Dad. He stole it, and he got so mad at me…”
A crunch in the woods off to the left halts the memory, and reality comes crashing down. I glance around, realizing I’ve walked nearly a hundred feet from the house.
When did I do that? I turn back to the front porch, which sits empty, and then back to where I’m standing, surrounded by trees. Bullet’s choppy barks fill the silence around me, and I shake my head.
Get it together, Rue.
But as soon as the thought comes, I hear another rustle in the leaves ten feet from me. I whip my head around and startle as a cottontail rabbit bursts through a pile of forest floor debris.
Bullet lunges right behind, his eyes on the prize.
I watch the dog chase the hare across the driveway and into the overgrown front yard where I lose sight of the white tip of his tail. My eyes jump from the chase to my bedroom window on the far side of the house.
My tongue glides along my lower lip and I turn my attention to the back porch, thinking about the day my dad sat there beside me on the porch swing.
“They’re charging someone for Matthew’s murder.” His expression and voice burned with the conflict we both felt. “He’s a biker Matthew owed money to, according to the guys they interviewed down at the station. He’s got a motive. They found my truck at the back of his property, beat to hell.”
“But he didn’t do it…”
“Look, the guy is trash, and would end up in prison one way or another.” My dad had argued. “You’ve got a whole life ahead of you, Rue. Go live it, and don’t worry about this.”
Later on, I’d seen the guy’s name on the news, and nothing about it resonated.
Thomas Peterson.
I haven’t forgotten it since.
Because trash or not, I’ll be forever indebted to him.