Hour of Need (Scarlet Falls #1)(74)
I open my locker and jump backward. Inside, a Barbie swings from a string tied around her neck. Her hair is black, and someone has glued a pink stripe on one side to match the streak in mine. Her fingernails are even painted black. A note glued to her chest reads, “Do everyone a favor and die.”
I close the locker and pull out my clothes. I pretend not to have seen anything, but I can feel the girls’ glee burning my back. I change quickly, an embarrassing act on the best of days. I’m too skinny. Seventeen years old and no boobs yet. Since I moved here, my acne has flared up too, as if my own skin is collaborating with the enemy to make me yet uglier.
In my black T-shirt and army cargos, I put a foot on the bench and lace up my combat boots. Most of the other girls have left now. I look over my shoulder. Regan and Autumn are gone. Did I disappoint them by not freaking out? I hope so. Though I’m not sure if my ignoring them will make them get bored and move on to someone else, or if they will only see my attitude as a challenge and try harder.
It could go either way. It probably all depends on whether another possible victim gets their attention. But for now, we all know I’m their bitch.
I toss the doll into my gym bag. I don’t want to see it there again tomorrow, and it’s the first piece of actual physical evidence of their torment. On the way out of the locker room, a hand to my spine sends me sprawling forward. Pain slams through my bruised knee as it hits the concrete. My duffel bag slides down the aisle. I drop my purse. The contents scatter on the concrete. Why do the tampons always go the farthest?
I scramble to scoop my stuff back into my purse. Where is my duffel bag? I spot it near the door. The zipper is open. I look inside. The doll is gone. As if it never existed. My evidence just went poof.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Grant slowed the rental car and surveyed the rows of crumbling buildings. Two rows of ten attached units faced each other across a hundred feet of blacktop. Clumps of frozen slush dotted the parking/delivery area. Despite the recent snowfall, weeds sprouted through cracks in the asphalt. Snow spread in random patches on the surrounding fields. Brick walls had fared better than the roofs. Most units sported broken windows and doors.
“This is the address?” Grant lowered his window a few inches and listened. On a flagpole at the entrance to the complex, a tattered American flag whipped in the wind. The sight of the torn and faded Stars and Stripes stirred his anger.
Mac checked the piece of lined paper in his hand. “That’s what it says.”
A ten-year-old boy in a scout uniform had knocked on the front door early that morning. He’d sold Mac a candy bar and passed him the note with his change. The note read: Last known address, D’s BFF, Earl.
“How did Freddie know where to find Donnie?” Grant asked.
Mac gave him a casual shrug. Grant was tense enough for both of them. The recent snow had blown across the open fields and drifted against the buildings. Even with recent warm temps, a few inches remained on the concrete walkways. Zeroing in on footprints in the slush, he pointed toward a unit in the center of the row. The roof and windows seemed intact. “Looks like he’s squatting in that one.”
The remaining snow appeared undisturbed. Grant saw no other signs of occupation, but he circled the entire complex to be sure. A POS sedan was parked behind the unit he’d targeted.
He parked the car and pulled his Beretta. He checked the inverted knife strapped to his boot. Secure. They got out of the car.
Grant ran to the building and crouched beneath the window. Mac took position on the other side. Peering over the sill, Grant scanned the interior. The unit was narrow. The rear of the space was an open room. A few doors suggested offices and restrooms toward the front. A kerosene heater glowed a few feet away from a mattress on the floor. A man slept under a pile of blankets. The space had been fitted out with a few tattered lawn chairs, a card table, and a camp stove. Canned goods were lined up on the table next to a stack of red Solo cups. Plastic grocery bags and trash littered the concrete floor. A few items of clothing were piled on the floor next to a backpack.
Mac slid a tool from his pocket, knelt at the back door, and worked the lock, while Grant watched the inhabitant. A faint click signaled the movement of tumblers. Mac grinned, and Grant wondered what other skills his brother hadn’t lost in the years since his reformation.
Grant shooed his brother away from the door. Rolling his eyes, Mac moved his arms in a grand be-my-guest gesture. The door swung open without sound. Bonus. Grant crossed the space and whipped the blanket off the sleeping man, a skinny guy in his mid-twenties. Pointing his Beretta at the guy’s face, Grant put a finger to his lips. Skinny Guy’s eyes bugged.
Letting Mac cover Skinny Guy, Grant checked the remaining rooms.
“You’re alone?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Skinny Guy’s head bobbed.
“Are you Earl?”
Earl nodded again. He licked dry lips.
Grant patted down Earl’s hoodie and jeans with gloved hands, tossing a switchblade and a 9mm aside. He found another small knife tucked in his boot. The jacket on the floor next to the mattress was empty.
Grant nodded at the gun and knives. “Three weapons. No ID. Earl, you are either really paranoid or up to some serious shit.”
“What do you want?” Earl shivered. The kerosene heater wasn’t large enough for the size of the room, though it did make the room habitable.