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 thelockedposition, 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 ifhecould 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’snothingwritten 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.
