Page 10 of Almost Ravaged (Men of Evercrisp Orchard #1)

Chapter ten

Sawyer

“ I ’m going to be sick,” Atty groans.

Considering the retching sounds he makes, I worry he’s right.

He’s trying to use Dad’s thumbprint to open the gun safe, but every time he touches his lifeless hand, he gags and drops it.

“You can’t puke,” I hiss. “If…” My heart hammers in my ears, making my vision go blurry, but I breathe through it. “If Ty does this, we can’t leave any evidence that we were here.”

Tytus’s fingers clamp down against mine, pinning me to him. After a handful of seconds, he peels my hands away from his sides and lifts one to his mouth, kissing the tips silently.

As he releases me, I know. It’s not a question of if . His decision has been made.

Swallowing thickly, he refocuses on my brother. “She’s right. Puking would leave too much evidence. Go say goodbye to your mother, both of you. Don’t touch anything. I’ll meet you outside.”

I grasp Tytus’s arm, willing him to look at me.

He doesn’t .

Whether it’s because he can’t or he won’t, I don’t know.

Tears well in my eyes. I don’t want to leave him. I can’t stand the thought of him doing this alone.

“ Go ,” he hollers.

The man on the floor—his dad—grunts and rolls slightly.

Atty takes off like a shot, like he can’t get out of here fast enough. He doesn’t look back. I don’t blame him. I don’t want to be here, but the last thing I want to do is go back out to the kitchen and stare at our mother’s body floating in a crimson pool.

With his back to me, Ty says, “I told you—”

“I’m not leaving you,” I grit out. “You’re not doing this alone.”

His dad coughs, then lurches in an attempt to sit up.

Ty steps back, forcing me back in the process.

“We can’t get our prints on anything,” he says, his voice resigned. “If you think you’ll have better luck getting into the safe, go find a pair of gloves.”

I move through the house on autopilot, unable to think or feel, unwilling to even inhale, fearful that the stench of blood and violence mixed with the smell of the chocolate frosting my mom was no doubt making for Ty’s birthday cake will infiltrate the thousands of memories we’ve created here.

When I come back to the study, Ty is right where I left him.

So is my dad.

My dad.

Closing my eyes, I suck in a breath through my mouth and hold it.

I fetch the gun safe off the floor, then crouch near my dad’s body and grasp his hand.

It’s heavier than I expected.

So heavy. So heavy. So heavy.

The gloves help. Without feeling my dad’s skin, I can avoid fully connecting to the hands that used to hold me, wipe my tears, or turn the pages of my favorite books.

I position his thumb just right, and when the safe opens with a click, I ease his arm to his lap again, then carefully lift out the gun.

Tentatively, I come to stand beside Tytus.

“You did your part, Sawyer,” he murmurs without looking at me. “Please go.”

I let him take the gun out of my hands, but I can’t move. Every cell in my body screams that I can’t leave him to do this alone .

His dad coughs.

“God dammit,” Ty curses, his body shaking. “Just go.”

Tears flood my eyes as I back away, making it almost impossible to get one last glance at my dad. But I scurry to the door as instructed.

He’s sleeping. Just sleeping. That’s what I tell myself. If I don’t, I don’t think I can leave.

Once I’m over the threshold, I pause.

Tytus doesn’t want me in there, and I don’t want to see what he’s about to do. And yet…

I take one step to the left and press my back to the wall, my breaths coming in short pants. Directly across from me is a picture of all five of us, taken at a local park.

The photographer has taken our family pictures for years. She was sweet. Patient and kind. She didn’t bat an eye when one year, our family of four became a family of five, and my dad introduced Tytus as his son.

A shudder rolls through me.

Seconds tick by.

I wait, and I focus on our smiling faces. We’re eleven or twelve in this portrait, I think. My hair is done up in a fancy braid. Atty has braces and Ty’s hands are shoved deep in his pockets. My parents aren’t looking at the camera. They’re looking at each other.

Instinctively, I reach out.

I want to take the photo off the wall. I want to take it out of this house, away from this place.

My fingers are an inch from the edge of the frame when I remember I can’t.

I recoil, pain lancing my chest.

I can’t just yank a framed photo off the wall.

No one can know we were here.

I rest my head back, worrying my bottom lip.

Inside the study, Ty’s dad rambles on, his words unintelligible. I hold my breath, bracing myself for the gunshot.

It doesn’t come.

I’m lightheaded by the time I let myself exhale.

The slurred voice gets louder, his threats clearer. Each one hits me in the solar plexus. I can’t imagine the damage they’re doing to Ty.

What’s taking so long ?

Though my instincts are telling me not to look, my curiosity wins out.

With one hand splayed on the wall for support, I peek around the doorframe.

The sight sends another sharp pain through me.

Tytus stands in profile, holding the gun out with both hands, pointing it at his dad. Tears streak down his cheek and his whole body trembles.

And his dad? He’s no longer lying on the ground. He’s on his hands and knees. He’s trying to get up.

“Ty,” I whisper, my chest constricting.

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even react, as if he doesn’t hear me. As if he’s transfixed, under some sort of spell.

“Tytus,” I try again, louder this time.

“Tytus,” his dad slurs mockingly.

Oh shit.

He’s way more with it than I thought. I have to help. I have to do something .

My feet carry me back into the room. I won’t allow Ty to get hurt.

I pad toward him, staying directly behind him, and wrap my arms around his waist. “I’m here.”

His heart pounds against his ribs, his muscles coiled tight.

With my cheek pressed into the back of his hoodie, I drag my hands up his torso lightly. I stop at his biceps and give them a gentle squeeze, desperate to imbue him with all the support and strength I possess.

I’m here.

I’ve got you.

We can do this.

We have to do this.

I skim the fabric covering his forearms, and when I reach his exposed wrists, my fingertips tingle. As I focus on steadying my breathing, his spicy vanilla and lime scent infiltrates my senses, and I’m shrouded in clarity.

I brace for the both of us, and when he inhales, I do, too, slipping my finger over the one he has positioned on the trigger.

When he exhales, I squeeze, and our world changes forever.