The Rains (Untitled #1)(15)

A clicking sound rose, barely audible at first but growing louder.

It was coming from the closet.





ENTRY 9

From the darkness of the walk-in closet, two spots glowed a bluish white.

Eyes.

Or—I realized somewhere through the wave of panic crashing over me—eyeholes.

The sound continued, a wet, irregular, throaty clicking.

I swallowed. We turned slowly to face the closet head-on.

The glow illuminated the interior, enough for us to see Sheriff Blanton standing stiffly between the racks of hanging clothes, his head tilted slightly back to face the ceiling.

The glow faded, and the clicking stopped. His chin dipped down, and then those empty tunnels stared at us. It was as though he’d been sleeping and we’d woken him up.

Sheriff Blanton leapt from the closet.

Patrick stumbled back, trying to raise the shotgun, but Alex’s cuffed hands were still tangled around his neck. The two of them fell down, clearing the way to me.

The sheriff jumped over their bodies, one hand grabbing a second set of cuffs from his belt, the other reaching for my throat.

There was barely time to react.

I dropped, and as his hands clenched the air where my head had been, I whipped the hook at him, the point sinking into the meat of his thigh.

It was a deep blow—I felt the shock tremor of the tip striking bone—and he froze, staring down as blood soaked out through his khaki uniform pants.

For a moment everything stopped.

Then the shotgun exploded. In the confined space of the room, the sound rattled my teeth.

Patrick had managed to untangle himself from Alex. Not wanting to injure me or her, he’d fired straight up into the ceiling.

Sheriff Blanton tore himself free, ripping his leg off the hook. Patrick was on his feet now, the gun leveled, but before he could fire, the sheriff bounded across the floor and sprang at the window. He balled up, going sideways through the panes, glass shattering all around his curled form.

He hit the ground, rolled through the mud, and popped up onto all fours like a wolf. We crowded around the window, watching with disbelief. Sheriff Blanton galloped for the high fence, somehow transitioning from all fours to his legs without slowing. Then he jumped.

His haunches pulled up as he rose, his heels skimming the top of the fence. For an instant he was in clear view, silhouetted against the moonlit sky.

Patrick had the Winchester raised, the sheriff in his sights.

Alex slammed her palm down on the top of the shotgun as Patrick fired. The shot blew up a cluster of marigolds in the garden.

Her father was gone.

She whirled on Patrick. “What are you doing?”

“You saw his face, Alex. His eyes. That thing handcuffed you and shoved you into a steamer trunk.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks. “That thing is still my dad.”

Blood dripped from the baling hook in my hand, tapping onto the floor. Alex’s green eyes lowered to the curved steel protruding from my fist. She took in a gulp of air. I felt my face burn as if I’d done something wrong, even though I knew that I’d had to do it.

From the front of the house, we could hear the dogs barking ferociously. I sprinted out of the room, Alex and Patrick following me. Bursting through the front door, I jumped over the porch steps, running for the detached garage.

Around the corner, Rocky and JoJo huddled against the wall. The dogs had formed a protective ring surrounding them, Zeus snapping at the air, barking so hard that flecks of saliva sprayed from his mouth. I settled the dogs.

Only then did we realize that Alex’s hands were still cuffed. She shuddered and Patrick wrapped his arms around her.

“My dad keeps a spare key in his nightstand drawer,” she said.

“I’ll get it,” I said.

“Will you grab her a jacket and some clothes, too?” Patrick said.

I nodded and headed for the dark house.

Behind me I heard Alex ask, “Where are we going?”

“We’re heading into town,” Patrick said. “We have to get out of range.”

“Of what?”

I was glad I didn’t have to explain that one.

I walked through the halls of the Blanton house, the floorboards groaning beneath my feet. Cold winters and hot summers warped the wood, making our town a creaky place. Any other time that felt homey.

I found the sheriff’s spare key in his nightstand. Nestled in the drawer beside it was a framed picture of Blanton’s ex-wife. I lifted it to the light. The shot showed Katie Blanton at a backyard barbecue. Her blouse was unbuttoned at the top, not too much but enough to show a sliver of tan skin beneath her collarbones. She held a beer and was laughing, her teeth flashing in the sun.

She looked a lot like Alex.

As I lowered the picture back into the drawer, I saw what the frame had been covering. The sheriff’s holstered revolver. It was heavier than I thought it would be. I clipped it onto my jeans and headed into Alex’s room.

I’d been too scared to notice before, but it smelled really good, like shampoo and citrusy perfume. In the corner leaned a hockey stick—Alex was a tough-as-nails forward with a wicked slapshot. Standing in her room with those scents washing over me, I felt as though I’d stepped into some other dimension.

I put the baling hooks on her bed and went to her walk-in closet, looking for a jacket. I found one, looped it over my arm, and started emptying her drawers into her hockey gear bag. Shirts. Jeans. Socks. I opened the next drawer and froze.