Praying for Rain (Praying for Rain Trilogy, #1)(48)

Why would she lie about that? What is she hiding?

Whatever it is, I have a feeling it’s inside that house.

And I just shoved her back toward it with both hands.

Fucking asshole.

An idea, a wild hope, ignites in my mind as I take the wooden ladder rungs two at a time. But, when I lift my head above the threshold of the tree house, all I find are two beanbag chairs, some protein bar wrappers, and an empty bottle of whiskey. No Rain. Just remnants from our first night together.

I look over my shoulder at her house and see it the way I saw it then. The faded gray siding. The darkened windows. It looks just as empty as it did that night, but it’s not. It can’t be.

I hop down and feel the impact deep in my shoulder wound. It’s still throbbing, but I think my fever has gone down. I slide the backpack onto my good shoulder and dig the bottle of Keflex out of the front pocket—just another reminder of all the ways Rain tried to help me.

Popping one into my mouth, I cross the overgrown backyard with a renewed determination to find her and return the favor.

I round the corner, passing her old man’s pickup truck in the driveway, and march up the weather-beaten steps to her front door. With my heart in my throat, I raise my fist to knock, but the sound coming through the broken window in the door makes my blood run cold.

It’s a song.

It’s a Twenty One fucking Pilots song.

“Rain?” I call through the hole in the door, hoping she’ll just walk over and let me in. Like anything in my life has ever been that easy.

“Rain!” I yell louder, the artery in my neck pulsing with every second that ticks by unanswered.

The only response I get back is that singer’s whiny-ass voice telling me that he can’t sleep because everyone has guns for hands.

Unable to stand here any fucking longer, I reach out and turn the knob. It rotates in my hand freely.

Moving so that my body is against the wall and out of view, I yell, “I’m coming in,” and nudge the door open with my foot. When the action isn’t met with a spray of bullets, I take a deep breath and look around the doorframe.

Then, I immediately retreat.

Gasping for air with my back against the wooden siding, I try to process the scene inside.

A dark living room. Blinds drawn shut.

A coffee table. A couch. An old-school TV.

And a man.

Sitting in a recliner, facing the door.

With a shotgun across his lap.

And his brains splattered all over the wall behind him.

With every breath I draw, the smell becomes more and more unbearable.

The smell of death. The smell of dried blood and exposed gray matter.

The song starts over.

I pull the small flashlight from my pocket and breathe into my shirt as I tiptoe into the house. Broken glass crunches under my boots.

“Rain?” I call again, swallowing down the bile rising in my throat.

I tell myself not to look as I walk past Mr. Williams to check the kitchen, but morbid fucking curiosity gets the best of me. Swinging the flashlight in his direction, I have to clamp my teeth together so hard they almost crack to keep from puking. The entire back of his head is mushy pulp, mingling with the fluffy insides of the recliner. The streaks on the once-country-blue wall behind him have long dried to a deep rust, indicating where the bigger chunks were before they slid off and calcified on the crusty, bloodstained carpet.

I don’t see an entrance wound on his bloated old face, but the blood spilling over his lower lip and into his gray beard tell me that somebody put that shotgun into his mouth before pulling the trigger.

Probably him.

The color of the blood and the stench in the fucking air also tell me that this shit did not just happen. I’d say this guy’s been sitting here for …

My guts twist, and this time, no amount of teeth-clenching will keep me from hurling all over the carpet as the last two and a half days scream by in reverse.

The drugs. The secrecy. The mood swings.

The way she refused to let me come inside the house.

The way she said he wouldn’t hear her knocking, wouldn’t see her at the door.

The way she came running out of here that night like she’d seen a …

I brace myself on my knees and puke again.

Oh God.

Fuck.

He’s been here this whole fucking time.

The song starts over.

And now she’s in here with him.

Wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, I walk over to the stairs by the open front door. As much as I hate to trap in the smell, I kick it shut. The last thing we need is wild dogs sniffing out the body.

The beam from my flashlight leads the way as I trudge up the stairs, listening for movement, crying, anything. But there’s nothing. Nothing but that goddamn song and the sound of my own rushing pulse as I finally reach the upstairs hallway.

Five doors.

Three closed.

Here we go.

“Rain?” I call again, but I know she won’t answer. I try not to consider why as I shine my flashlight into the first open door on the right.

The sight of a black braid makes my breath catch, but I exhale in relief when I realize that it’s sitting on top of an overflowing trash can. Next to a toilet. Beside a sink.

There’s no one inside. It’s just an empty bathroom.

A thought occurs to me as I throw open the next door and find nothing but towels and sheets.