Rules of Survival by Jus Accardo
Kevin…
I’m everything I am because you loved me - Celine Dion
Chapter One
There are just some things you don’t do. Call it common sense, self-preservation, or simply intuition. During my eighteen years of life, I’d accumulated one hell of a list from my mom. Never let people see you cry. Don’t overstay your welcome. Avoid the yellow snow—she always did have a good sense of humor…
But above all else, you don’t return to the scene of a crime.
Especially when you’re the main suspect.
It’s time to strap our boots on. This is the perfect day to die… The line from “Soldiers,” by Otherwise, played inside my head. This was it. Time to suck it up and push forward.
I hadn’t been back to Coopersville, New York, in nearly a year. The car slowed and pulled up alongside the curb. The driver, a middle-aged balding man with uneven brows and a funky lisp, tilted his head, frowning. “You sure this is where you wanna get out?”
I glanced out the window. Dense forest lined either side of the narrow road, thick branches hanging together to blot out the fading sunlight. To most people, it probably looked like the middle of nowhere. Deliverance with a side order of Children of the Corn. To me, it was home.
One of them, anyway.
I nodded, slipped the strap of mom’s old backpack across my shoulder, and swung both legs from the car. This was actually the last place in the world I wanted to get out. Playing in traffic during rush hour, wading waist-deep into a pile of rotting shrimp—even Jersey… I could think of a million places I would rather have been. But right now I needed to be here.
The passenger’s side door closed with an obnoxious squeak, and I ducked down to peer in through the open window. “Yep. This is perfect. Thanks for the lift, mister.”
He shrugged and zoomed off, leaving a trail of road salt and slush spitting in every direction. I watched him drive away, and as soon as he was out of sight, took a deep breath and stepped off the road.
The cabin was about four miles into the woods, and even though I could have found it with my eyes closed, the fact that I was losing the light made things tricky. Twice, I stumbled over exposed roots and fallen trees, twisting my ankle good.
Mom would be pissed at my lack of stealth, but the silence started getting to me about a half mile in and I sang Aerosmith’s “Livin’ on the Edge,” White Lion’s “Radar Love”—two of her all-time favorites—and recited the alphabet twice. Once in English and once in Italian. By the time the familiar crest of trees that bordered the house came into view, I was thrilled to see it—despite the fact that it brought a rush of painful memories.
I stepped onto the porch and set my bag down so I could pry the small piece of wood loose at the base of the door. With some work, it slipped free and I found the key—a bit dusty, but otherwise fine—right where I’d left it.
It had been three hundred and fifty-two days since I’d placed it there for safekeeping. I’d been wearing a white shirt stained with blood and black Converse sneakers with a small hole in the right toe. I remembered all this because it was the day my mom died. That wasn’t something you forgot. Ever.
I shook off the memories and slipped inside. There was a reason I left after Mom died. After she was murdered. Several reasons, in fact. One of the big ones being that I was the main suspect in her death, and I knew they were still actively looking for me. How far could an eighteen-year-old girl with no cash get on her own, right? But after I gave authorities the slip numerous times, they started to wise up. They had my mother’s associates watched. All our old haunts. Anything and everything that could be connected back to us. Back to the Morgan girls. I’d spent the last year living like a ping-pong ball. A few nights here, a day or two there—never in one place for very long.
I wouldn’t have come back if it wasn’t so important.
I tore into Mom’s bag, yanked out a flashlight, and went to work. Systematically ripping the entire house apart, I searched every oddball place she could have possibly thought to hide something. In the air-conditioning grate. Inside the toilet. Behind the loose paneling in the master bedroom. I even checked out the attic—and I hated it up there.
I worked all night, frantic as the minutes turned quickly to hours, and by the time the sun started to clear the hills to the east, I began to panic. I couldn’t still be here in the morning. I’d been here too long already.
“Come on, Mom,” I said, falling back onto the couch. It still smelled like the nail polish remover she spilled on it last year. Just four days before she’d died. “I know you left something for me. I just need to find it. Give me a hint. Some kind of sign…”
Letting my head fall back, I blew at one of the stray chestnut hairs that had escaped my ponytail, and my chest grew tight. I used to joke with Mom about dyeing my hair blond. She’d threatened to shave my head while I slept if I ever went through with it. Blondes didn’t blend in as well as brunettes, she’d always said. I blew at the hair again, sending the strands fluttering in and out of my field of vision and, for some reason, directing my attention to the ceiling fan overhead.
Holy crap. Of course…
I hopped off the couch and dragged one of the dining room chairs across the hardwood floor. It scraped and scratched, and I cringed a little with every step, the sound abrasive to my already-taut nerves.