Even in the dimness, the room looked homely. Like fruitcake, cockroaches, and taxes, Mama’s patchwork furniture—complete with plastic slipcovers—would endure forever. Add a maze of water spots on the ceiling and an ugly orange carpet, and you had the makings for a bass-ackwards funhouse in hell.
I eased down on the sofa expecting to feel grief or even anger, but it wasn’t there. Maybe Doc Rosen was right about facing the monster, because the knot in my gut had slackened. If I could survive Gainstown, surely I could endure Gary Dawson’s House of Horrors.
But what about the basement?
A chill rippled over me when I glared at the basement door. Funny. I didn’t remember it looking that damn creepy. The wood appeared worn in some spots, splintered in others, and where the bottom met the floor, two inches of darkness reached out from beneath.
I looked away, shelved the thought altogether. These were temporary digs. Aside from my share of the money in Mama and Daddy’s retirement account, the one good thing the old man had done was deed me this house. Ten-and-a-half months of rent money from a revolving door of tenants—a little over six thousand—along with whatever I could net from the sale of this hell hole, would further my plans. I’d satisfy the conditions of my parole, deal with the situation with my brother, and get this place in shape for the market. In two months, six tops, I’d start on my BA, and later I hoped to launch my own business. Somewhere.
But first I’d have to do a major overhaul here. The walls needed spackling and paint. Crown molding along the ceiling. Wainscoting in the stairwell. A pine floor lay beneath the carpet. Maybe I’d rent a buffer—
Light flooded in from the adjacent dining room. I leapt to my feet and pain speared my ribs. In the hallway stood my apron-wearing sister. She cradled a white bowl filled with what looked like dough. An iPod was clipped to her waist. Headphones draped her neck.
I breathed a relieved sigh. Seeing Bev made my soul feel a hundred pounds lighter. She flashed a smile and a tear dashed down her cheek. Her long auburn hair was gathered up high in a ponytail. That combined with a sprinkling of freckles, made her look much younger than her thirty-two years.
“I was beginnin’ to worry,” she said. “Are you hungry?”
“I could eat.” I glanced beyond her. “Is Icky in there?”
She set the bowl on the table and scrubbed her hands together. A cloud of flour wafted up. “I haven’t seen him since he left to get you.”
So she didn’t know about our fight. Good. ‘Cause I wasn’t in the mood to rehash it. “What’s up with the lights?”
“Fuse musta burnt out.” Her grin faded as she drew near and frowned up at me. “What happened to your face?”
“It’s nothing.”
Her hazel eyes—the same color as mine and Mama’s—narrowed with concern. “You been fightin’ again, Tracemore?”
“Naw. C’mere.” I hugged her close to stifle her questions, mindful of my sore ribs and her messy hands. A lump wedged in my throat. I didn’t think I’d ever hold my big sister again as a free man. “Damn, I missed you.”
“Missed you more,” she said, sniffling. “Amber had to go sign some papers for the rental car she got, but she’ll be back. I put her bag in your room.”
That was a relief. I could use some of Amber’s TLC. We were ‘friends with benefits’—great sex with no commitment, which suited me just fine because I didn’t want strings and neither did she. The girl loved her freedom.
“Before I forget.” She rested her chin atop my chest. “I may have a lead on a carpentry job for you. Now nothin’s set in stone, but Zoe Dillon’s husband owns a construction company, and they’re in the running for a big contract. It’s with the city to build a new library. She said she’d put in a good word for you.”
Zoe and Bev had been friends for years, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up. “Thanks for looking out for me.”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something.”
I fingered Bev’s ponytail, smelled it. “I thought you said you quit?”
She buried her face in my shirt. I could feel her grin. “God’s just testing me,” she told me, her voice full of sass.
Ever since Bev found Jesus three years ago, He, let her tell it, had kept her busy. The Lord was an easy scapegoat for her nicotine addiction.
She gazed up at me again. “I’ll serve you as soon as dinner’s done, but I can’t stay. I gotta get home.”
To that wife-slapping crackhead. “Soooo what’d you make?” I asked, keeping my thoughts to myself.
“All your favorites. T-bone steak. Mashed potatoes and broccoli.” She pecked my cheek, grabbed the bowl, and set off down the hall. “There’s Herradura in the fridge,” she said over her shoulder. “Cold, just the way you like it. I put fresh towels in the closet, a new robe in the bathroom, and a bottle of Mr. Bubble on the sink. Oh, and Shannon Bradford called.”
TRACE
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“Shoot.” Amber canvassed the busy parking lot. “Where the hell is the car?”
I strode beside her lugging a dolly weighted down with renovation equipment and supplies. Cupping a hand over my brow, I squinted against the biting wind. The day was sunny, but a cold front was expected to slide in after dark, bringing an unseasonable ten inches of snow. Not surprisingly, Home Depot had morphed into a hornet’s nest of panic buying.
“There.” I pointed, picking up the pace. “By the Hummer.”
The trek to the car was treacherous. Black ice and potholes abounded. When we finally reached Amber’s SUV rental, my relief was short-lived. A rude shout greeted us—this from one of five teenage punks loitering by the dumpsters several yards away.
“Yo, Butcher Boy. What’d you buy?”
“Garden tools,” the idiot next to him blurted with a cough.
A burst of laugher followed.
Another hollered, “Psycho!”
“Fuckin’ nutjob!” someone else yelled.
“Ignore them,” I said out of the corner of my mouth. I stabbed the remote at the car and yanked the hatch open. “Just a bunch of dumb ass kids.”
“Hey, baby,” the first boy yelled at Amber. “If you’re still alive tomorrow, call me.” He shook his junk. “I may have a home improvement project for you.”
“I’ll prolly need a microscope to find it,” she fired back.
I blasted her with a glare. “What are you doin’?”
“Eat me, bitch,” the crotch-grabber retorted.
She smiled, tilted her head, and flashed a one-finger salute.
“Amber!” I barked.
“What?” She batted her lashes innocently. “The little bastard had it coming.”
I ignored the dull ache in my ribs and snatched a set of power rollers and a can of paint off the dolly. “Get the hell in the car before you get me arrested.”
“Don’t worry, shug. I’ve got your back.”
No doubt she did. Though her close-cropped black hair and violet eyes made her look like a pixie, the leggy ex-prison guard held a concealed weapons permit and two black belts—one in karate, the other in aikido.
She grabbed a snow shovel and grinned. “Speaking of arrests, I still have my handcuffs if you want to play later. I’ll even spring for the honey and whipped cream.”
I fought a smile. “What am I gonna do with you?”
“I can think of a few things,” she said with a saucy wink.
By the time we finished loading the car, the punks had moved on. I hopped in and was about to start the engine when Amber began squirming in her seat.