Praying for Rain (Praying for Rain Trilogy, #1)(49)

Maybe Rain killed the bastard. I saw her mow down two motherfuckers at Huckabee Foods like it was nothing. She could have killed him too, if it were self-defense.

I want to believe it. I want to picture Rain as the victor in this fucked up situation. I want to find her rocking in a corner somewhere because she’s batshit crazy.

Not because she’s broken.

The song starts over as I approach the last door on the right.

“Rain?” I knock lightly before turning the knob, not wanting to startle whoever might be inside. “It’s Wes. Can I come in?” I crack the door and brace for impact, but the only thing that hits me in the face is that same putrid smell from downstairs.

Fuck.

I pull my shirt over my nose and pray to every fucking god I can think of as I approach the lump on the bed.

Please don’t let it be her. Please don’t let it be her. Please, God. I know you fucking hate me, but just … fuck. Don’t let it be her.

I watch helplessly as the yellow beam from my flashlight slides up the side of a four-poster bed and across the surface of a patchwork quilt covered in flowers. The bedspread has been pulled up over the person’s face—or over the place where it used to be, judging by the size and location of the maroon stain on the fabric—but I don’t pull it down.

I don’t need to. The blonde hair fanned out over the shredded pillow—soaked in blood as thick as tar and sprinkled with fluffy down feathers—tells me everything I need to know.

There’s no saving Mrs. Williams.

I just hope I’m not too late to save her daughter.

My legs are moving and my guts are churning and my hands are gripping the flashlight like a lifeline.

Not because I’m scared.

But because now, I know exactly where she is.

The music is louder at this end of the hall, so the last room on the left has to be the one. I stomp across the carpeted corridor and twist the knob. I don’t knock first. I don’t wait in the hallway and push the door open from a safe distance. All of my survival instincts go out the fucking window as I burst through the last obstacle standing between me and my girl.

The first thing that registers is the smell. It isn’t putrid or coppery, like the rest of the house. It’s as warm and sugary as vanilla cake. I close the door behind me and breathe in like a drowning swimmer breaking the surface of the water. The familiar scent fills my lungs and lifts my spirits. Looking around the room, I find the source of the smell everywhere. Lit candles illuminate every nook and cranny in Rain’s small bedroom. I turn my flashlight off and stick it back in my pocket as I take in the cozy space. Clothes and notebooks cover the floor. Bookcases filled with messily arranged paperbacks and trinkets line the left wall. A daybed and side table take up most of the right. And there, on that bed, is my very own Sleeping Beauty.

Rain is lying on her stomach on top of the covers, a vision of perfection in a house of fucking horrors.

I cross the room in two steps. The first thing I do is grab Rain’s glowing cell phone off the nightstand and jam my finger against the pause symbol on the screen. I set it back down and exhale in relief as that fucking song stops, and silence settles around us.

Rain is facing the wall, so I sit on the edge of her bed and run my hand over her shiny black hair. It feels smooth beneath my palm. Smooth and real. Nothing matters outside of these four walls. The chaos, the danger, the festering death. It doesn’t exist. It’s just me, my sleeping angel, and a glowing, silent sense of peace.

“Rain,” I whisper, leaning over to kiss her temple. But, when my lips meet her flesh, my illusion of happiness comes crashing down.

Her skin is cold. Too cold.

“Rain.” I shake her shoulder and watch as her limp body jostles lifelessly.

“Fuck! Rain!” I leap to my feet and roll her toward me so that I can see her face.

And it’s like looking into Lily’s all over again.

Purple lips.

Purple eyelids.

Ashen skin.

I’m too late.

I’m too fucking late.

“Wake up, Rain! Come on, baby! Wake up!”

My eyes and hands search every inch of her body for a bullet wound, a slit wrist, something that would explain why she’s not fucking waking up. But there’s nothing. No blood. No injuries. It’s not until I rip open her flannel shirt that I find my answer.

Or rather don’t find it.

Rain’s precious bottle of hydrocodone is gone.

“Goddamn it, Rain!” My voice breaks on her name like a tidal wave against a seawall as I jam my fingers against her jugular, searching for a pulse I know I won’t find.

“Goddamn it,” I whisper, pulling her lifeless body into my arms.

I drape her long arms over my shoulders and hug her to my chest.

“I’m so sorry.” The words come out as voiceless sobs.

I grip her body tighter and bury my face in her neck. Her toes barely touch the carpet as I rock her back and forth. She used to like that. It made her feel better.

“I’m so fucking sorry.”

I coil my arms around her ribs, hugging her like I hugged that lying fucking pillow.

You are loved, it said.

I cough out a bitter, sorrowed laugh, tasting my own tears on her cold, clammy skin.

I was loved.

And here’s the fucking proof.

Rain survived the murder-suicide of her parents, the loss of her friends and boyfriend, and the disintegration of her whole fucking town, but it was my neglect that finally broke her.