Chapter 11
RUE
Murderer. The jagged, messy word etched on the rabbit’s foot is burned into my brain, and I haven’t been able to unsee it for the last twenty-four hours, no matter how hard I try. Were they talking about Bullet and the rabbits? Or does someone know more?
I can’t stop thinking about it. Or the ghost eyes from the store.
“I don’t want to just at the house by myself,” Mom cuts in, her voice sharp.
I shut off the water in the sink, my hands numb from having let it scald my skin. “Well, you’re in a wheelchair, and the ground is uneven. Macey also mentioned some kind of maze that Mara was set on doing.”
She gives me a disgusted look. “And you’re going to do it?”
“Maybe,” I say, eyeing the utility room door. The deadbolt is still slid in the locked position, giving me a dose of peace, albeit small. “I’d like to be able to run and play with Mara. I haven’t seen her since—”
“You’ve never even met her,” Mom states. “And I’ve seen her plenty. I don’t want to be left out, just because I’m disabled.”
“Okay, then come,” I shoot back at her, giving up the fight. I dry my hands on a dish towel, and then drop it back down the counter. “I’m going to get ready.”
“I’d like some leftover stew first.”
I chew the inside of my cheek as I reach for a clean bowl in the drying rack. I head for the fridge, popping it open and grabbing the Tupperware. I ignore the pit in my stomach as my mind jumps back to the skewed lid on the crockpot yesterday evening.
It was nothing, Rue. Nothing.
I blink it away, and dump some of the stew into the clean bowl. I pop it in the microwave and punch the reheat button.
“It’s better on the stove,” Mom comments, folding her arms across her chest.
“Well,” I grit my teeth, “This will be good enough.”
“You need to take the trash out. It stinks.”
I bite back the urge to snap back at her, and instead, turn and grab the white plastic bag from the stainless-steel bin. I don’t catch a whiff of anything too putrid, but still, I head for the front door, flipping the lock and pulling the door in.
“You need to be quick, because my soup only has a couple of minutes—”
I slam the door shut behind me, the small moment of power a relief. I take a deep breath in, the cold air burning my lungs. A cold front moved through this morning and dropped the outdoor temperature by a solid twenty degrees.
And to think, some dude was trying to wait this shit out in Martha’s barn.
I almost feel sorry for him. I’d happily offer to let him stay here if he could take care of my mom instead. I let myself laugh at that, and I jog down the porch steps to the dumpster. I flip the lid, and then stop myself, unable to keep from peering into the bag.
Carefully, I sift through the ten-gallon trash sack, searching for the rabbit foot. My eyes finally land on it at the bottom, and stupidly, I pull it out, my nose crinkling at the scent.
I roll it between my fingers, and I blink.
There’s nothing written on it.
What the fuck? I squint, searching for any signs of the black marker, as I roll it over again, and again. I shake my head, and then note the paracord missing as well. I fish through the trash sack, my breaths coming out increasingly ragged, as I search for the missing component.
Where did it go? I start dumping the trash on the ground, juice splattering across the overgrown sidewalk. I don’t stop until the whole fucking sack is empty. Only then do I kneel and go through all the contents once more, sifting and covering my fingers in grime.
Was I imagining this? Did Bullet just bring in a partial foot of a rabbit he chewed off? I pick up the rabbit foot, seeing the bite marks at the end of the foot. I squeeze my eyes shut, a wave of nausea rolling over my body.
I swallow the bile rising in my throat, and then scoop the trash up, put it back in the sack, and chunk the whole thing into the trash can. A shiver rolls down my spine as I head back to the house, the feeling of being watched.
But it’s probably just God. Or paranoia.
Or Matthew’s ghost. Or… Karma.
“Fuck,” I breathe out as I whip the front door open, leaving grime of trash on the worn knob. I step inside the house, completely unbothered by Mom’s harsh glare. “I know,” I say before she can berate me. “I was gone too long.”
I rip the microwave door open, and grab the bowl, ignoring the sear of heat against my fingertips. I grab a spoon and plant the bowl down in front of my mother, who’s already somehow managed to line herself up at the kitchen table.
She looks at the soup with disgust.
“What? Do I need to reheat it?”
“What…” My mom’s voice trails off as her eyes jump to my hands on my hips. “What’s on your hands?”
My expression falls, and I flip my hands over. Shit.
“The trash dumped,” I say quickly, rushing to the sink and kicking on the water. “It’s just juice or something.”
“Or something.”
I breathe out, smattering soap across my hands. “I can make you a new bowl.”
“I’ll just wipe it off,” she says, begrudgingly. “Go get ready. I think I’ll skip the outing, actually. My stomach feels ill.”
Mine, too.
But I don’t respond. I just slip off toward my bedroom and shut the door behind me. I rest my back against it, and try to catch my breath as my chest starts to constrict.
I’m fucking losing it here.
My eyes jump to my bedroom window, the blinds and curtains wide open. I let my mind run to the past, if only to calm my racing heart.
“Come on, Rue,” Noah whispers, as I raise my window, the warm summer breeze blowing through my hair. “Let’s go to the ravine.”
“My mom is gonna kill me,” I giggle, peering back to my bedroom door. “I’m not supposed to leave.”
“So? She’ll never know. I have snacks.” He wiggles his brows in his usual silly fashion, though this past summer, he’s grown up dramatically, now thirteen.
And my eleven-year-old self has the biggest crush.
I smile, my breath stuttering as his eyes hold mine. Under the moonlight, his eyes are a fragile blue, so translucent they seem to catch the light and hold it.
A knot catches in my throat, and my eyes fly open.
I think I know who the man was in the Grab n’ Go.