The Merciless (The Merciless #1)(31)

“Get me a bandage!” she screams. Behind her, Brooklyn licks the blood from her lips. Her eyes shift to the staircase, but this time I don’t need her to tell me what to do.

“We have to get to a bathroom,” I say. I go to Riley’s side and gently pry her fingers from her face. She moves her hand just long enough for me to see the mangled, bloody skin beneath. Brooklyn’s teeth left a perfect indentation on her cheek. “It’ll get infected if you don’t wash it.”

Riley’s fingers tremble. She nods, letting me steer her toward the staircase.

“I think I saw Band-Aids in the kitchen,” Grace adds.

Alexis tightens Brooklyn’s ropes. “These should hold this time,” she says, then follows us up the stairs.

I keep my expression emotionless as Riley slips her free hand into her pocket and pulls out the key to the basement door, hoping she can’t read in my face how badly I want to rip it from her fingers. After she unlocks the dead bolt, Riley grabs my hand and squeezes.

“Once we clean off the blood you won’t see a thing,” I lie. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had a scar on her face for the rest of her life. Alexis narrows her eyes at me but says nothing.

Once upstairs, I let Alexis take Riley’s arm as Grace leads the way to the bathroom. I hold the door open while they all filter inside.

“I’ll find the Band-Aids,” I say. Riley nods, but the bathroom mirror distracts her. She mutters a curse and leans over the sink, gingerly patting the tender skin around her wound. For the first time since getting here, nobody’s watching me.

I slip down the hall, into the kitchen. Dust coats the countertops and cobwebs stretch across the ceiling. No back door like I’d been hoping, but there’s a single window on the far wall. I lean over the sink to reach it, but another row of crooked nails jutting out of the sill keeps me from trying to pry it open.

A long, colorful string of curse words flies through my head. Riley must’ve nailed every single window shut. I lean back again and wipe the dust from the window ledge on the seat of my pants, then start opening cupboards and drawers. There might be a spare key around here, or at least something I could use as a weapon.

But the cupboards are mostly empty, with cobwebs stretching across the corners. There’s a wineglass on the highest shelf. Standing on my tiptoes, I pull it down. It’s plastic, not glass—no use as a weapon. Bright red lipstick, like the kind Brooklyn wears, smudges around the lip, and the bottom is stained red from wine that never got rinsed out. I set the glass back inside the cupboard and close the door. Kneeling, I open the cupboard below, but all I find is half a loaf of bread and a plastic jar of peanut butter.

“Sofia, we found the Band-Aids,” Grace yells from the bathroom, startling me. “They were in here, under the sink.”

If they’re bandaging Riley up already, then they’re almost done. Sighing, I stare through the dirty glass in the window above the sink. There’s no yard behind the house, just a long stretch of upturned dirt bordered by thick trees, their leaves already turning orange and brown.

I wonder what’s on the other side of those trees. More abandoned houses and empty lots? Or could there be a road, businesses—civilization?

Something moves in the yard beyond the dirty glass.

I see it from the corner of my eye and glance up. It’s a man–homeless from the looks of it. He wears a black T-shirt and sweatpants, tattered and at least three sizes too big, and he’s holding a bottle concealed by a brown paper bag.

He stumbles through the trees. Any second he’ll disappear. I lean over the sink, lifting a hand to bang on the glass. My voice catches in my throat as I smack my fist against the window. The man cocks his head toward the house. I open my mouth to yell.

“Sofia?”

I clench my mouth shut and whirl around. Riley’s right behind me. She glances at the window.

“There was a bug,” I lie, lowering my hand. “A cockroach.”

Riley wrinkles her nose. “Gross. Didn’t you hear us? We found the Band-Aids.”

She motions to the flesh-colored bandages on her face. They make an X over her left cheek. I want to turn back to the window and see if the homeless man is still there, but I can’t do that with Riley standing in front of me. Riley crosses the kitchen and leans against the sink.

“I know you feel uneasy about what we’re doing,” she says. She makes it sound like I’m nervous about sneaking out at night or going skinny-dipping.

“I wanted to show you this to help you understand.” Riley pulls a folded piece of paper from her pocket and hands it to me.

It’s a newspaper clipping. I unfold it and read the headline. BELOVED TEACHER KILLED IN ACCIDENT. Just below is a photograph of an older man with thick white hair and dark, deeply lined skin.

I frown, scanning the first lines of the article.

Adams High School geography teacher and drama coach Carlton Willis died at 8 PM last night when he fell from a ladder in the school gymnasium. He leaves behind his wife, Julianna Willis . . .

Something familiar tugs at my brain, but I can’t figure out what it is. “What does this have to do with Brooklyn?”

“Mr. Willis used to lead a Bible study after school.” Riley wraps her fingers around the edge of the sink. “Grace and Brooklyn were in his last period geography together last year. Grace says Brooklyn hated Mr. Willis. One day, Brooklyn was chanting in the back of his class. It was really creepy and disruptive, and Mr. Willis kicked her out. But before she left she threw her textbook at him. Grace says she broke a window. Mr. Willis swore he was going to have her expelled—maybe even arrested.”