Secrets Never Die (Morgan Dane #5)(45)

Hope gave him a little strength, but it didn’t make him stupid. He walked the rear perimeter, looking for wires or cameras, but saw nothing that suggested the owner had installed a security system. Evan tried the back door. Locked. He went from window to window, testing each one. The sixth, on the side of the house, gave instantly. The latch seemed broken.

As much as he wanted to climb through, first he went back to the canoe. He dragged it up the bank and into the trees. The farther he got from the shore, the easier the boat became to pull. Closer to the house, dried pine needles covered the ground and the boat stopped leaving a track. When he’d reached the other boats tied to the trees, he turned his canoe so the Camp Deer Lake emblem faced away from the river. Then he tossed leaves and needles inside to make it appear as if it had been in the same place for a while.

Dragging the canoe had left a gully in the muddy riverbank, like a crocodile’s slide. Evan used two downed branches to cover the boat’s track. Satisfied that a casual glance wouldn’t detect his exit from the river, he trudged back to the house. He fell more than climbed over the sill, banging his injured arm. Pain paralyzed him. He sat on the floor, cradling his arm to his chest and panting until the agony became bearable again.

Hugging his arm tightly, he staggered to his feet. He was in the middle of the family room. A faded blue couch and matching recliner faced a small TV. He stood still for at least three minutes, just listening. But he heard nothing. The house was weirdly silent.

Evan closed the window and crept from room to room until he was sure the place was vacant. It seemed to be partially cleared out. A formal living room at the front of the house was empty. He positioned himself out of sight behind a window frame. He looked around the blinds out the front window onto the porch and lawn. A FOR SALE sign had been driven into the lawn. Dead leaves piled on the front porch. It didn’t look like anyone had opened the front door since before the big storm.

This was the best Evan could do, at least for now. He needed a couple of hours to get his shit together. He crossed his fingers that no one showed up.

He turned and walked to the back of the house. In the kitchen, he tried the faucet, relieved when water ran. He leaned over. Putting his mouth under the stream, he drank until the water felt cold and sloshy in his belly. Next to the kitchen was a laundry room and bath. He flipped the light switch. The room brightened. The electricity was on. He turned it off again. The house might not have any close neighbors, but it was visible from the river and road. No one could suspect he was inside.

Time to clean the wound. He needed a first aid kit.

Evan opened a cabinet under the sink, but all he found were cleaning supplies. He went through the kitchen cabinets and found dishes and canned goods. He opened the fridge. A single box of baking soda sat on a shelf. He opened the freezer. A bottle of Grey Goose vodka stared back at him. He grabbed it.

Upstairs, there were two bedrooms and a bathroom. One bedroom was completely empty. The other held a dresser and a bed. The dresser had some clothes in it. Evan grabbed a T-shirt, a flannel shirt, a pair of nylon sweatpants, and clean socks. The style looked like something an old man might wear, but they were clean. Goose bumps rose on his clammy skin.

In a narrow closet behind the bathroom door, he found a first aid kit, towels, and more cleaning supplies. Teeth chattering, he turned on the water in the shower and stepped out of his wet shoes and jeans. His shirt stuck to the wound. Tears welled in his eyes as he worked the fabric free.

He stuck his hand in the spray and almost cried when he felt the warm water. The only soap he could find was a dispenser of hand soap next to the sink. He took it into the shower with him. Under the spray, the water hit his arm like flames. Agony weakened his legs. Dizzy, he slid to the tile floor and rested his head on his knees until the light-headedness passed. Then Evan gritted his teeth and washed the wound. The edges were red, the surrounding skin hot and swollen.

It was definitely infected.

When he’d finished with the soap and water, he washed the rest of his body. Turning off the water, he reached outside the shower for the bottle of vodka he’d brought up with him.

Without letting himself think about it, he exhaled and dumped the liquid over his wound. It felt like someone had poured gasoline on his arm and set it on fire. Tears poured from his eyes, and he threw up all the water he’d drunk. Too weak to stand, he opened the shower door, grabbed the towel, and wrapped it around himself.

He didn’t know how long he lay there, shivering and retching. Maybe he even passed out. But eventually, he was able to crawl out of the shower. Sitting on the bathroom floor, he slathered antibiotic ointment on both the entry and exit wound and covered them with gauze pads. Then he wrapped an ACE bandage around his arm to hold them in place.

Now he needed to get off the floor.

The house was for sale. Someone could show up at any moment. He needed to be ready to run.

Slowly, moving his arm as little as possible, he dressed in the sweatpants and T-shirt. Pulling the socks on one-handed took time.

He needed to thoroughly search the house for useful items. He didn’t like stealing, but he was desperate. On shaky legs, he went through the medicine cabinet. He’d been right about the house probably belonging to an old dude. If the old guy had died, it would explain why half his shit was gone.

The shelves were filled with prescription bottles and over-the-counter meds. His mom talked about medical stuff all the time. He should have listened more. He didn’t recognize any of the medications.