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I do an about face. That motherfucker. He said to take things slow, give her time, let her come to us, and all that bullshit. If he screwed this up . . .
“Something seemed off about her.”
“Yeah, she probably hates us.”
“No, she said she was tired, but . . .”
“But, what?”
“I don’t know, she just seemed off, like she was sick or something.”
I turn toward her house, all the lights are off, but that doesn’t mean anything. The lights were all off yesterday when Breckin was taking his shower, too. “What do you mean, sick?” I try not to growl the words as my blood pressure rises. My shoulders are so tense I could crack a walnut with them.
“I don’t know,” he scratches his chin, before shutting the lid of his laptop and standing up, “she was hugging her knees for most of our meal. Barely ate anything, and just didn’t seem there. I don’t think she was just trying to avoid me, it seemed like more. She stumbled a few times on the walk home,” he shakes his head, “I don’t know, but I don’t think she needs to put up with any of your shit today.”
I glance back at her house for all of two seconds before I drop my shit and run over there. I take the steps two at a time, calling out her name.
“Brendan,” Breckin calls out, rushing around the fence as I start banging on her door, “what the hell are you doing?”
“Asra,” I pound my fist on the door a few more times, ignoring him, “you home?”
“Have you lost your mind?” He pants, coming up beside me. I almost laugh, he goes running almost every morning, yet one little sprint has him breathing like an asthmatic with bronchitis. If my own chest wasn’t hammering in my ribcage, I’d call him out for it.
There’s no answer from inside her place.
I turn and look in his eyes. “You sure something was wrong?”
He nods.
That’s all the answer I need. I call out her name one more time. When she still doesn’t answer, I grab the doorknob.
It turns. The door eases open.
“Hey, Prude,” I take one step inside the dark house, “everything okay? I’m coming in. If you’re naked, don’t move.”
Still no answer.
With Breckin right on my heels, I take another cautious step inside.
A weird noise emanates from the front of the house, like a gurgling or splashing followed by a low moan. We share a look, then dart through the open-concept kitchen and living room.
It’s fucking dark, with all the curtains closed and not a single light on, but I manage not to trip on anything as I follow the hushed whimpering.Something’s not right,my ass. The Asra that’s been bashing on me for the last two weeks would be in my face cussing me out by now.
I pause in front of four closed doors, holding my hand up to halt my brother. How many rooms does her house have? And how is it so much larger than ours?
A gargled noise comes from the door right at the end of the hall. Puking, definitely puking.
“Asra,” I call softer, “everything okay, Little Girl?”
She groans as an answer, followed by a toilet flushing.
“I tap on the bathroom door with my knuckles. “I’m coming inside if that’s okay.”
Another groan.
I ease the door open, my chest constricting.
A slight moan comes from the figure curled in a ball on the floor. Her head rests on the toilet seat, hair sprawled everywhere. On the fucking toilet seat. Her body twitches, every limb all at once, like she’s having a seizure.
