Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 75720 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75720 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Fine, but I’ll go first,” Eric insisted, his tone taking on an authoritative edge. I stepped aside. It would probably be smart to let the tattooed and muscular ex-cop take the lead on this.
The night air was exceptionally warm and sticky, especially for the very beginning of spring, foreshadowing an even hotter summer in Atlanta. The street was flooded with light coming from an open door, where Noah’s neighbor currently stood, haloed by the white light as he clamped a hand over his mouth. He must have heard the same shout we had.
The shout that came from the older gentleman standing on Noah’s front steps, his head turned downward toward what appeared to be a cardboard box at his feet.
Eric moved forward, Noah and I right behind him. The rest of the book club stayed inside the house, Tristan already calling the police.
“What happened?” Eric asked the man, “We heard the shout from next door. Are you okay?”
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” he said, shock filtering through his voice.
“Mason, you’re paper pale. What the hell happened?” Noah asked. His side was pressed against mine, our fingertips brushing together. I had the urge to reach for his hand and give him a comforting squeeze. Not sure where that came from, but instead, I settled for a gentle nudge against his side. He looked up at me and offered a shaky smile.
You’re okay. We’re good. No reason to be scared.
“That happened,” Mason answered, pointing at the box at his feet. It appeared like the sides were soaked through with some sort of liquid. The flaps were open but angled so that I couldn’t see what was inside without leaning over Eric. Mason had a plate covered with aluminum foil in his hands. “I was just bringing over some of this cake I baked and, well this package was here, the flap was open. I took a peek inside…”
“Oh, fuck,” Eric said. He took a step to the side, allowing me to see into the box.
“Holy shit.”
Oh no, we do have a reason to be scared.
It registered immediately. I was looking down at a severed chicken head, upturned so that it looked up at us with empty eyes, its bloody beak opened in a silent shout. Inside of the beak was a Pride flag, the stick impaled through whatever was left of the chicken’s throat. The cardboard box was colored crimson red, the blood still fresh enough to drip through and color the steps underneath it. But it wasn’t just the chicken head and Pride flag in the box. There appeared to be a necklace around it, blood staining the beads but the rainbow pattern still coming through.
I tried to stop Noah from seeing it, but it was too late. He leaned around me and peered into the box, seconds later turning around and running down the steps, where he reached a bush and threw up everything that was in his stomach. I hurried down to be at his side, putting a hand square in the center of his back and rubbing in slow circles. When he was done, he wiped his mouth and kept his eyes down to the floor, apologizing. His next door neighbor ran hurried down to offer his help with anything, but Noah could barely even get the words out to explain what had happened.
“No need for that,” I said, hand now on his elbow. I couldn’t explain exactly why, but I was beginning to grow more concerned about Noah’s safety and comfort than I was about what was in that box. “You’re good. I was seconds away from doing the same thing.”
Noah looked up at me with big, doe-like eyes, fear beginning to dissipate from them. I realized I was still holding his elbow. I let go, stuffing my hands in my pockets.
“It was addressed to you,” Mason said from the top of the stairs, causing me to whip around and face him.
“Huh?” I asked.
“It was addressed to you, Noah. Look.” He crouched down and touched one of the flaps of the box with the edges of his fingertips.
“Whoa, whoa, don’t get your fingerprints on this,” Eric said, but it was too late. Mason had already moved the flap downward so that Noah’s name and address were clearly visible, written in a thick black marker.
“What? What happened?” His neighbor asked.
Noah turned back to the bushes, but nothing came up this time. I rubbed his back again, but I knew nothing I’d say or do right now would likely help. This was way outside of my accounts payable scope. I really didn’t have much of an idea on how to handle this. A blood-soaked threat sent to a new friend who I really didn’t know all that much about? Yeah, I wasn’t prepared for this at all.
“Robby,” Noah said, “did you see anyone leave that package at my house? Anyone walking down the street that seemed a little off?”