I pull my hand free, fisting it to get the blood flowing again.
“Shit,” I hiss.
And then I shoot out my other hand, knocking my alarm clock off the nightstand with a growl.
I came here to get space. To get away, but if anything, I’m more fucked up than when I came. Three days, and I’m having nightmares and night terrors for the first time since fourth grade. I don’t need this shit. Noah had no business bringing up personal things with me, much less regarding a situation he knows nothing about. If I want to talk, I will.
Wiping the sweat off my upper lip, I throw off the covers, turn on the lamp, and hit the ground, digging under the bed for my suitcase. I don’t have to go home, but I don’t have to stay here. They don’t like me. I don’t like them. There are tons of places where people will leave me alone. I’ve always wanted to go to Costa Rica. Rent a treehouse. Hike with the spiders and the snakes. Live amongst the insects of unusual size. All of it sounds worlds better than here.
Charging out of the room, I head downstairs, seeing every light is off and hearing the grandfather clock ticking away.
Jake will be up in a few hours. I should leave before he wakes. I’m not sure how far I’ll get. It’ll probably take me two days just to walk back to town with my luggage.
Swinging around the bannister and heading into the kitchen, I open the door to the garage and jog down the five steps to the washer and dryer. Chills spread down my legs, bare in my sleep shorts from the cold night, and I open the dryer, pulling out the small load of clothes I’d dried earlier, including Noah’s flannel.
I pull out a new, clean T-shirt, lifting up my ripped one to quickly change.
But the doorknob to the shop door suddenly jiggles.
I jerk my head left, dropping my shirt back down.
My mouth falls open and a thousand thoughts race through my head as I train my ears in case I misheard. Jake and Noah are upstairs asleep, right? It’s after one in the morning.
Less than a second later, the handle shakes again, and a thud lands on the other side of the door. I jump and grab a rusty, steel bar off the worktable. I stand frozen a moment longer before backing up and deciding to run back in the house to get my uncle.
But before I can spin around, the door is suddenly kicked open, and I suck in a breath as leaves blow in with the wind, and I see a mess of animal and blood as I stumble back into the railing and fall. I land on my ass and catch myself on my hands behind me, the breath knocked out of me. What the hell?
A man steps over the threshold of the shop, wearing jeans and blood running down his bare chest from the dead animal carcass hanging around his neck. I watch, my mouth suddenly dry and my heart lodged in my throat, as he walks over to the long wooden table and slings the dead deer, foot-long antlers and all, onto the table and turns around to kick the shop door closed again.
I gape in horror. Streams of blood run down his back, covering his spine, and I dart my eyes over to the animal, seeing its head hang limply off the table. I look away for a moment, pushing the bile back down my throat.
Is he where the deer came from that was here when I arrived a few days ago, too?
Turning around, his eyes meet mine as he heads to the wash basin next to the dryer. He looks away again and turns on the water.
I try to wet my mouth, generate any kind of saliva, but the blood all over him… Jesus. I fist my palms behind me.
Who…？
And then it finally hits me.
This is Kaleb. The older son.
He pulls up the hose and leans over the sink, running the water over his dark hair and down his back, cleaning the mess off his body. When he stands up straight again, I watch as he rubs the water over the back of his neck, and I notice a thin, faint tattoo running vertically from the bottom of his skull to his shoulder. Some kind of script.
His hands glide down, over his stomach, making the muscles there flex and the water drench his jeans. The overhead bulb swings back and forth from the wind he let in, the light hitting him and then the darkness swallowing him up again.
But I see him turn his head again—looking at me. His dark eyes fall down my body and stop, zoning in with his jaw flexing, and my stomach flips and then drops, every hair on my body standing on end. The room suddenly feels so small.
I inhale a breath. “Um, you’re, uh…” I say, standing up. “You’re… um, Kaleb, right?”
He meets my eyes again, and I see that his aren’t really dark, after all. They’re green.
But he looks mad.
His black eyebrows narrow, casting this shadow over his gaze, and he turns back around as if I’m not here, finishing his washing. He turns off the water and grabs a shop cloth, wiping off his face and neck and then runs it over the top of his head, smoothing his hair back and soaking up the drenched strands.