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I can smell his half-burned cigar from here, a glass of some amber-gold liquid at his side on the end table. Scotch, I think.
His other hand holds something I don’t process at first.
My graduation picture?
“W-what are you doing here, Clay?” I stammer out, dreading the answer.
“How many boys did you date at that fancy college, Gracie?” he says, dead serious as he is drunk. “Did any of them ever tell you what sweet fucking sugar you are? Did you let any of those little boys get up your skirt?”
I’m so stunned and disgusted I don’t know what hits me faster.
Hot fury that this sicko, this intruder, invaded our living room to ask these kinds of questions…or the absolute horror that his pants are undone. And it isn’t hard to tell what he’s been doing with my picture.
“Whatsamatter?” he slurs, blowing a long line of smoke. “Cat got your tongue? Must run in the family, girl, let me help you out.”
Before I know what’s happening, he flies out of the chair and whips around it with shocking speed, grabbing me and pushing me onto the sofa.
It’s the stench that bothers me more than his weight. We’re face-to-face and he reeks.
Too much cologne, scotch thick on his breath, but more than anything, that sickly tobacco smoke. It flows up my nostrils and burns from the inside out.
“Don’t act surprised. You know how long I’ve waited for this day, Gracie. Ever since I saw you standing around your place in Milwaukee, watching me real wide-eyed, a slice of cherry pie ripe for the picking…”
I let out a muffled scream. He shoves his hand across my mouth, pushing it back in.
“You come with me, we’ll call it even, your daddy’s debt paid in full. I’ll call off my men. Hell, I’ll even have them help fix this place up—it ain’t like it used to be, considering recent misfortunes.”
“Never!” I spit out the second I work my mouth away from his hand.
It’s horribly tempting to bite him, but not when I’m crushed under him like this.
Incredibly, my harsh response leaves him stunned.
I’m able to slide out from under him, dart across the room, and stop near the stairs.
“Don’t be stupid. I’m offering you a golden opportunity to put your shitty luck behind you. All you’ve got to do is come with me back to Milwaukee. I’ll set you up in the place of your dreams, anything and everything you want on demand. I’ll—”
“No. If that’s what you’re here for, I’m giving you my answer. I’ll die before I’m a prisoner, especially yours.”
The nasty haze in his eyes fades, gives way to this fierce glow. He rakes a hand through his dark hair, greying at the temples. It’s sickening how normal—how distinguished, even—this man would look in some other time and place where he isn’t impersonating Satan.
“I don’t think you follow, Gracie,” he bites off, focused rage coming into his clipped tone. “You shrugging me off like I’m one of those dickless little college kids you dated…not how this works. Maybe you need a proper lesson.”
“Clay, wait, I…”
I don’t know what to say, what to do, what to even think as he marches across the room. He knows the house too well, heading straight for the little cabinet that belonged to my grandmother.
All I know is I’m utterly frozen as he tears the glass door open, reaches inside, and holds up the urn.
Oh my God.
Not that.
Not Mom.
“Clay…”
“Last chance, Gracie. I’m being kind. So how about you be a good girl and reciprocate, hmm?” Snarling, he holds it up high over his head, flashing a cruel grin. “I’ll ask you one more time, sweetie—will you come with me? Give up your shitty little farm and join the living. Don’t let your daddy wind up like Mama, a pile of ash I can hold in my hand. Not a hard choice.”
I fight with everything I have not to tremble, gazing into those brown eyes so dark they’re nearly black.
“Well? What do you say? Speak!” he snaps.
I say nothing.
Not with words.
I try to ignore the sickening crash as the urn impacts the wall behind me. I take off, racing up the stairs, straight for Dad’s room through a cloud of ash.
He’s got the gun on his nightstand.
I wish to everything holy I’d gone to the range just a few more times. I’m not the worst shot, but now, facing the prospect of having to fire a gun to save my life or to end this monster’s?
Crud.
It feels like hours pass, but it can’t be more than a minute or two.
By the time I hear Clay’s heavy footsteps thudding slowly up the stairs, smell his stinking cigar smoke from a freshly lit smoke, see his gnarled shadow on the wall…
I’m a broken mess, but I’ve got Dad’s gun in front of me, safety off, pointed and ready.
