The gravel drive leading to the carport is overgrown, and no vehicle sits beneath the rusted metal shed. I drop my gear down behind an old Blackjack tree and ease forward, hoping like hell no vehicle means no tenant.
Even just for now.
There’s no fencing around the house, most of it beginning by the barn for the cattle my dad once thought he wanted—and then sold off to buy drugs for my mom.
What a happy fucking family we were.
I blow out a sharp, quiet breath as I make my way to the sliding glass door in the back. It’s newer than the one that was there when I lived here as a kid twenty years ago, but they’re all the same.
A little jiggle goes a long way.
Except it’s not locked at all.
I roll my eyes at the ease, and carefully tug it back. The scent of pine and something cinnamon hits my lungs, and I cringe at the incredibly chemical scent of leftover Christmas. It’s definitely the kind of smell that comes from a Glade plug-in.
And it’s not even the fucking holidays anymore.
Slipping through the crack in the door, I take in the dark house, devoid of any signs of life. But while it’s empty now, someone most definitely lives here. It’s clean, well kept, and basically everything my house was not.
Oh, and itscreamsold lady with the pastel quilt project strung out on the table.
I stare at the Fourth of July patterns and frown. The quiltmaker is either really late or really early. It could go either way. And either way, I don’t give a shit.
My boots are silent on the hardwood floors, and thankfully, they don’t leave mud behind as I make my way to the kitchen. As soon as I catalogue what I have to work with, I cringe.
I fucking hate stealing from people. In fact, it makes me sick to my stomach to think about taking an old lady’s food.
So, I hit the lever on the bottom of the trash can, hoping like hell I can get lucky. I peer into it, and sure enough, it looks like she cleaned out her cabinets recently. I pull out a few boxes of expired junk food and set them back on the counter.
“People waste so much food,” I mumble under my breath, and then move to the rack of clean dishes. I grab a cup, fill it with water, down it. I repeat the last two steps until my stomach nearly feels sick from all the liquid. I wash the cup and put it back on the rack, staring at the old granite countertop that I recognize.
“If you’d just do the goddamn dishes, this wouldn’t have to happen!”I hear my father’s deep voice boom in my head, and I wince. I push the thought away before my mind runs to what happens next.
The hammer. Broken fingers.
There was a reason I never told RueThomaswas my first name. I didn’t want her to think I was anything like the man I was named after. I thought I was protecting her.
But I was really just running from myself.
I clear my throat and rip my gaze from the counter, flexing my fingers as I travel through the house to the master bedroom.
I notice the shadow box of a late Frank Wilson, who passed about three years ago.
And that thought leads me to the closet, where men’s shoes line the wall.
I swipe up a pair of new hunting boots, barely used. I pull the tongue back, and lucky me. Frank Wilson wears a thirteen, too. Thank God. I grab a few shirts and a new pair of jeans. Again, I hate stealing, but…
I doubt he’s gonna need this shit six feet under.
I take my armful of clothes and then stop at the bathroom. I hesitate, my eyes landing on the shower, complete with the handicap seat.
Andfuck,it looks enticing.
But I also don’t know how long I have.
I crack my jaw, and then decide it’s worth the risk. I drop the shit to the floor and strip down as fast as I can, starting the water. I don’t wait for it to warm up as I scrub my body. It’s my first shower since I busted out.
And it’s not nearly as great as everyone always said it’d be.
