Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Am I really afraid he’s going to do something to himself? I could be way off. His brothers don’t seem worried enough to intervene, and they’ve known him a lot longer.
But his mother suffered from depression, and it can be hereditary.
If I’m right, what then? He won’t accept help.
I look around, knowing the signs won’t be obvious. There won’t be a pile of crumbled-up drafts of a suicide note, but I am looking for signs that he’s drinking and hiding it. Empty liquor bottles. Pills. Drugs.
My throat tightens. Or objects to cause himself harm. I’ve never seen deadly weapons in the house, though.
I look in his bathroom first, seeing clothes on the floor and a pile of towels. I inspect them for blood, and then I check his sink and shower, looking for anything that raises alarm.
Heading into his bedroom, I find unmarked boxes on the top shelf of his closet. I reach up to look inside one, finding it full of pictures. I smile a little, immediately recognizing the Jaegers long before I knew them. A very young Army, his arm around Macon, who’s dressed in camouflage pants and a T-shirt, his hair so short.
More pics of the family, but I force myself to put the lid back on and stack it back on the shelf. I’m only invading his privacy for his safety.
I open his dresser drawers, feeling around just enough for anything hidden, and then look under the bed and pillows. I whip open the drawer of his bedside table, spotting some money, a watch, and a …
My heart pumps hard, seeing it and knowing what it is without even pulling the drawer all the way out. I reach in and take the handgun by the grip, holding it up.
My hand shakes, looking down at it and curling my finger around the trigger but not pressing. I don’t even know how to check for bullets, much less take them out. I swallow hard.
This is the Bay. I guess I should’ve known they’d have weapons. It’s not uncalled for and no reason to worry. Especially given how many people Macon pisses off. I would probably think it odd if he didn’t have one. Careless, even.
And also, he was in the Marines. He was trained how to use it. I don’t think they’re allowed to keep their service weapons, but it’s entirely possible he’s had his own for years.
But the mess in the room …
I look around at all the clothes, the shit piled on his dresser.
Macon’s not like this.
Keeping the gun in my hand, I close the drawer and turn to walk out, but I see the rafter in the corner of the room, posted between the two walls. A small, thin groove dents the wood, the color stain worn away to reveal the natural tone underneath. That’s where the rope was. From his mom.
I flex my jaw. My God, why does he sleep in here? I run from the room, scanning the hallway as I dash into Liv’s room and stash the weapon in the back of her closet.
But I pause, my hand still wrapped around the grip. What if the gun really is for self-defense? Should I be hiding it? What if he needs it?
I hide it anyway, just for now. Just a day or two until I know he’s okay.
I put the towels back where I got them and head downstairs. I don’t bother getting dressed, still in my sleep shorts and T-shirt as I enter the kitchen.
Breathing in and out, I force my heart rate to slow down, and lift the window to my left. I draw in the fresh air. The curtains blow, and I push the images from my mind, and all the questions I can’t answer, or that he won’t answer if I ask. He sleeps in that room where she did it. He sees that rafter every day.
I open all the windows downstairs, letting in the warm breeze and the smell of the trees as I put on some music. “Take the World” plays on low volume. Moving around the house, I decide to pitch in on a few things, not really because I want to but because it’ll give me an excuse to be in the house.
Like throwing out the slimy green onions in the fridge.
But then I find expired milk, green sausage (that’s not green because it contains spinach), and three opened bottles of ketchup that should be bled into one. Before I know it, I’m tearing the whole refrigerator apart and cleaning it. Then I move on to the freezer and toss out the expired food in the pantry.
I arrange an extra disposal can for recycling, which they’ve just started to take part in. I’ll break that news to them tonight. Then I vacuum out all the spilled rice from the kitchen drawers and cabinets.