Page 15 of Blood Ties

Kai

T hrowing Riley in the basement was an act of desperation. The only way to keep her alive. But I’m ashamed to realize I didn’t think about what to do with her afterward. I can’t expect her to keep sleeping on that bare mattress in clothes stained by her friends’ blood.

I should’ve brought her backpack right away. But... where is it? I think back to the stuff I burned or crushed in the scrapyard. There was a giant suitcase in the car, which I got rid of, but I don’t remember a backpack. Who would’ve taken it? Knox? Doesn’t seem like his style.

Which means... fuck. Time to pay a visit to my uncle.

*

U NCLE FRANK’S SHACK is out on the edge of our property, closer to the chicken coop and the pigsty than it is to the main house.

I trudge along the dirt road with some freshly cooked bacon and a couple of leftover beers as a peace offering.

My shirt is sticky with sweat by the time I reach his door, and my stomach roils with anxiety.

The shack is a tiny, sagging building, leaning so heavily to one side that it’s a wonder it’s still standing.

The roof is caved in at one corner, and the paint has all peeled away in the humidity to reveal bare wood and metal beneath.

I swallow hard before knocking on the door.

When there’s no answer, I peel through the filth-streaked window.

All I can see inside are the usual piles of junk and garbage.

I nudge the door with my shoulder, take one step inside, and gag at the stink.

Sweat, old food, beer, and decay. The place is rancid, but at least Frank isn’t here.

I look around for a clean surface to set my offerings, and settle for the couch, which sags in the middle where he usually sits.

Aside from the path from the door to the couch, and from there to the bed, the room is utterly covered in piles of junk.

Old beer cans and whiskey bottles, cardboard boxes and trash bags, dirty clothes and God knows what else.

It’s overwhelming to look at it all, especially with my eyes watering from the stink.

Is something dead in here? Sure smells like it.

Minutes trickle by as I search through the trash piles, terrified that one wrong move will send everything toppling over and crush me beneath the garbage. The smell gets worse, as do my nerves. Any minute now, Frank could come back, and he might be in one of his violent moods. I have to hurry.

Finally, my gaze falls on the bed. The one place I haven’t checked yet. I drop to my knees on the creaking floorboards, and lean down to peek beneath it.

My heart surges as I see a blue denim backpack. And behind it, pushed against the wall, is...

Blonde hair. Tan skin gone greenish and bloated. The source of the stink.

I gag, pressing a hand to my mouth as I recoil. Fuck . I assumed Frank would get rid of May’s corpse when he was done doing... what he does with the bodies. Instead he seems to be letting it rot.

I stay on my knees for a second, breathing through my mouth, working up my willpower. Then I go back under the bed, pull out the backpack while trying to avoid looking at the body. I drag the bag toward the door, gagging again.

I step backwards into blessedly fresh air — and then I slam into a wall of flesh. The impact sends me stumbling, but a meaty fist grabs me by the hair and wrenches me upright.

I grit my teeth. “H...Hey, Uncle Frank.”

He just stares at me with those tiny, dead eyes.

“I brought you some bacon,” I say, “and some beer.”

His gaze drops to the bag at my feet. His fingers clench tighter around my hair.

It feels like he’s going to rip it right out of my scalp, but I know better than to try to fight him.

“I h-have to get rid of this,” I gasp out, standing on my tip-toes.

“You know it’s my job. This bag wasn’t even hers, Frank, it’s Riley’s. ”

He scowls at me. I breathe through the pain.

“I can take care of the body too,” I say. “My... my dad told me to. You want me to go get him?”

After a moment’s consideration, Frank grunts and lets me go. I settle back onto my heels with a small sigh of relief, and he bangs through the door to his shack. As I bend down to gather the backpack, he emerges again, tosses May’s body out at my feet, and then slams the door shut in my face.

I stare down at the bloated corpse, swallowing bile.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Thanks.”

*

W HEN I’M DONE GETTING rid of May’s body, I scrub myself raw in the shower. It feels like the stink will never come out of my skin. It’s gotten into Riley’s backpack, too, especially the clothes. I wash them as well as I can, and hang them out to dry.

Nothing else I can do. It’s not like I can go into town and buy women’s clothing.

I don’t have any money, and even if I did, people will notice, in a town this small.

They’ll ask questions. Or think about those strangers who came in to get their car fixed and disappeared overnight.

I know it’s selfish of me, but I’m not ready to get the police involved.

Dad, Uncle Frank, Knox, me... We all deserve to be locked up. I’ve got no delusions about that.

But Momma? I can’t leave her alone. Who’s going to take care of her if we’re gone?

My stomach twists with guilt as I realize I’ve barely visited her since all of this began. Has anyone been feeding her? I quickly fix up some canned soup in the microwave, head up the second floor, and knock on the attic hatch before pulling down the ladder.

“Momma? It’s Kai. I’m coming up.”

As always, she’s sitting in bed, staring out the window with a blank sort of smile on her face. She looks peaceful, but there’s a disconcerting emptiness in her eyes. She’s thinner than ever, her skin so pale and papery it’s nearly translucent, her hair nothing more than fine wisps around her head.

“Hi, Momma.” I crouch at her bedside. “Sorry I haven’t been by much. Knox been feeding you?”

No answer. Not that I expect one.

“You hungry?” I ask. “Here, eat something. You need your strength.”

She accepts a spoonful of soup when I coax her, but it soon starts dribbling down her chin.

I bite my lip, lowering the bowl. “Momma, you gotta eat.”

But she’s gone again, her eyes somewhere far away, someplace I can’t reach her.

*

A FTER THE VISIT WITH Momma, I rifle through Riley’s bag to make sure there isn’t anything she can use as a weapon.

It’s all day-to-day stuff. A toothbrush, a comb, books, deodorant.

There’s a container of pills I’m not sure what to make of, but it must be some kind of medicine.

Plus her clothes, which are dry now. Once I’m satisfied, I grab a clean towel and an extra pillow and blanket from the closet before carrying it all down to the basement.

Riley’s eyes light up when she sees me, and my stomach flip-flops. I try to ignore it. It’s not like she’s excited to see me, the person who trapped her here. She’s probably just thrilled at the prospect of clean underwear.

“Thank you,” Riley says. She pulls the backpack onto her lap and hugs it. “Seriously. This is really kind of you.”

I look down. Kind is not a word I would use to describe myself, and it makes me feel guilty to be called it now. I’m ready to retreat, but she calls my name before I can head out.

“I’m sorry to ask more of you, but with these handcuffs, um...” She pauses, her cheeks pinking. “I don’t know how I’m going to change my clothes. Without, um, help.”

I pause for a second. “...Right.” I clear my throat. It feels dangerous to get so close to her. I’m terrified some part of me will awaken and I won’t be able to control myself around her. That I’ll become the same kind of monster that my brother is.

But it would be cruel to leave her with fresh clothes and no way to change into them. So I make my way over to Riley, step by slow step. With every inch closer, my heart pounds louder in my ears. Once we’re face to face, I’m hot all over.

“I guess I’m going to have to pull the shirt over my head and through the cuff,” she says, sounding a little breathless, but maybe that’s my imagination. “And then pass the clean shirt through the same way?”

I swallow. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Okay, well.” A moment’s hesitation, and she reaches down to grab the hem of her shirt.

She peels it off of her torso, revealing an expanse of flat stomach.

She pulls the shirt free of her un-cuffed arm and over her head, and then all I can see is skin, skin, skin.

The swell of her breasts, the curve of her waist and hips.

She’s not even wearing a bra. I avert my gaze and try to suppress the stirring in my pants.

It’s fucking awful of me, but — I can’t help it.

“A hand?” she asks, and my eyes dart back to her.

“Right.” I grab the shirt and help tug it through the cuff around her wrist. There’s just enough space between her skin and the metal to feed the fabric through, bit by bit.

Then I grab a clean shirt from her bag and pass it through in the same way.

It’s awkward, and requires me standing very close, practically pressed up against her.

I help her tug the shirt over her head and her other arm, and pull it down over her torso, my fingers grazing her skin.

“Thanks.” She bites her lip, looks up at me from under her eyelashes. “As for the rest...”

I make the mistake of glancing down at her bare feet, her legs, the lace of her panties.

I imagine tugging the fabric down over her thighs and sliding a fresh pair on.

Or maybe I’d leave them off. It would be so easy to grab her by the hips and pull her against me.

I could kiss her against the wall. Lay her down on the mattress, spread her legs. ..

I rip myself away from the mental image. I’m painfully hard and sure she must be aware of it. But as she shifts, the chains on her wrist clink, and guilt forces me back a step.

“I think I should be able to manage it on my own,” she says.

I am both relieved and agonized. “I’ll...” I grab her dirty, discarded shirt. “I’ll get rid of this.”

A few minutes later I’m in my bedroom, one hand gripping her dirty shirt and the other wrapped around my cock. I stroke myself so hard and fast it almost hurts. When I come with a whisper of her name, I hate myself more than ever.