Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Sweeping the light over the interior revealed sagging walls and a water-damaged floor, which almost certainly meant a leaky roof. The walls and floor were all dark wood, making the source impossible to see. When it reached the corner, his flashlight lit on what looked like a mummy, and Charlie took a step backward. Then the form recontextualized in his mind and he realized it was something wrapped in...was that the tarp he’d lent Rye?
Charlie crept closer to it, testing each step before committing his weight. The floor was warped and sagging, but it didn’t seem in immediate danger of splintering.
Yes, it was Charlie’s blue plastic tarp, swaddling a sleeping bag. Next to it was a bag full of clothes, a pair of boots, and a dog-eared paperback copy of—
The attacker hit Charlie from behind with a hiss and the bite of razor-sharp claws in his neck. When Charlie tried to pull the thing off him it scratched at his hands. Charlie pictured something huge and rabid, its gnashing teeth and knifing claws tearing him to pieces. A bear? A wolverine? Some cryptid composed of both?
Charlie sucked in a breath through his nose, then pulled the beast away from his throat and held it at arm’s length.
It was...a cat? A very, very small cat—with teeth and claws bared, yes, but still almost comically tiny.
“Jesus Christ, you almost killed me, you murder cat,” Charlie said. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
He kept the cat at a distance. If it was a stray he didn’t want to pick up any diseases he could pass on to Jane. But, though small, it didn’t seem underfed, and when he ventured a finger to stroke its head, its eyes closed peacefully like it was used to being pet. He’d never seen a cat enjoy a petting with its teeth bared before.
“The fuck are you doing to my cat?”
Charlie spun to face the door. Rye.
“Of course this beast belongs to you. It tried to kill me.”
“C’mere, Marmot,” Rye said tightly, and the second Charlie loosened his grip, the cat jumped silently to the floor, sprang gracefully onto Rye’s shoulder, and nuzzled the side of his head, purring loudly.
“This is breaking and entering, you know,” Rye said blandly.
Charlie absolutely could not take him seriously with the cat perched on his shoulder like a parrot.
“Well, the door wasn’t locked, so it’s really just entering.”
“Trespassing, then,” Rye said with a sniff.
“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t’ve come in. But you seemed really upset and I wanted to help.”
“Fuckin’ savior complex. Told you.” But his voice was without heat. He just sounded tired.
“Is that the same or different than a hero complex, because I think that’s what you said last time.”
“You don’t even know me, man. Why do you care if I’m upset?”
Charlie wasn’t sure what to say to that. He always cared if people were upset. But there was something so vulnerable about Rye beneath all his glares and scowls. Something lost and needy. And, okay, Rye wasn’t the first to point out that Charlie couldn’t resist trying to help people sometimes... Fine, many people...compulsively.
So since Rye clearly didn’t react well to him trying to help, Charlie put it a different way.
“I can’t stand watching people do things badly,” Charlie said. “I’ve worked construction, I’ve built houses, my own included, and you obviously have no idea what you’re doing. You’re lucky I’m offering to help instead of trying to sell you a bunch of shit you don’t need at the store.”
There was an instant when Charlie thought he saw Rye take his words like a fist to the gut, but it was gone so quickly he might’ve imagined it, replaced by a jutting chin and look of grudging respect.
“I don’t believe in luck,” Rye said.
Charlie forced himself to leave. He forced himself to sweep past Rye and the tiny murder cat on his shoulder, looking like an Edgar Allan Poe caricature. Then he forced himself to get in his truck and drive away, only glancing back through his rearview mirror at the derelict house looming behind him. In the open doorway, Rye, now cradling the cat in his arms, looked small and lost.
* * *
Marie said nothing when he got back, but her raised eyebrow spoke volumes, the first of which began with How’d that go?
“The house is a wreck. It’s at the end of Crow Lane, before you’d get to Jack and Simon’s place. Do you know it?”
She narrowed her eyes and shook her head.
“He says he inherited it from a grandfather or something.”
Her eyebrow said, You’re such a gossip.
Charlie shoved his hands in his pockets, trying not to crack his knuckles. Lately his hands had begun aching at the end of a day working on the house or when it was cold. He wasn’t supposed to feel this old at thirty-six.