Page 8 of Almost Ravaged (Men of Evercrisp Orchard #1)
Chapter eight
Sawyer
S eventy-eight.
Seventy-nine.
Eighty.
I’m giving them until the count of one hundred, then I’m going in.
Eighty-one.
Eighty-two.
Eighty-three.
The silence is eerie. I’m desperate to call to them, to demand they come out here. To insist they tell me what the hell is going on inside, even though, ninety seconds ago, I was certain I didn’t want to know.
If it was nothing, they would tell me.
If it was okay, they would have assured me by now.
Eyes closed, I push my head back, grinding the back of my skull into the vinyl siding until it buckles slightly from the force.
Courage evades me as I get closer to one hundred.
Ninety-two .
Ninety-three.
Ninety-four.
Useless tears cloud my vision. I blink rapidly, scrubbing at my cheeks so I can see clearly.
Whatever’s happening, crying won’t do me any good.
They’re not coming back for me.
Whether it’s because they’ve forgotten or because they really don’t want me in there doesn’t matter. I hate when they leave me out or leave me behind. I deserve to be there. I can help.
With a deep inhale, I wiggle my toes.
I can do this. I’m going in.
Ninety-eight.
Ninety-nine.
I shove off the wall and rush to the door before I lose the shaky courage I’ve mustered.
My toe catches on the threshold, and I tumble through the doorway. I right myself without falling, then take a moment to close the door behind me.
“Atty?”
I pad quietly through the foyer, heading deeper into the house.
“Ty?”
A pained, muffled cry carries down the hall, urging me toward the kitchen.
I squint, caught in the light streaming in from the bay window. Only after I’ve shielded my eyes can I truly see the scene before me.
With a few slow blinks, my brain catches up, and everything comes into high definition.
The kitchen is a mess, with globs of what looks like chocolate frosting on the lower cabinets and splattered on the floor. There’s a mixing bowl upside down on the hardwood, and the hand mixer is still whirring, turned on its side and vibrating against the counter.
My mother lies on the floor as well, her body positioned at the oddest angle. Her apron is soaked with blood in the front, the color matching the crimson puddle surrounding her.
The blood will undoubtedly stain the floor.
That’s the first thought that enters my mind.
I’m numb as I stand above her. My instinct is to help her, to comfort her, to stop the bleeding. But the connection from my brain to my arms and legs has been severed .
She’s going to be so upset about the floor.
“She’s not breathing,” Atty sobs.
I turn toward his voice. He’s on his knees with the heels of his hands pressed into his eyes.
Like he can’t bear to look at her.
Like he knows the floor is ruined, too.
“Atty!”
Ty’s scream jolts me out of my stupor.
“Fuck. Get in here!”
Atty jumps to his feet and takes off toward my dad’s study.
Focus locked on the thick pool of blood, I inch closer toward my mother’s lifeless body. There’s a sheen to the puddle. A reflective quality. If I stood directly over it, could I see my own reflection?
A resounding thud snaps me back to the present.
Heart stuttering, I pivot. Then I take off like a shot, following the noises coming from down the hall.