Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Hi there,” she says, her voice chipper and welcoming.
She has less control of the dog at the end of her leash than she should have because the damn thing is sniffing around my feet.
“Will you be having a garage sale?”
I stare at her in disbelief.
“Excuse me?” I ask, because surely I hadn’t heard her correctly.
“A garage sale. Janice has that lovely Christmas tree in her window every year. Well, not this past year, but every one prior since she moved in, and I was hoping to snag it if she still had it.”
“Janet.”
“I’m sorry, dear?”
“Her name was fucking Janet,” I seethe.
This woman has the audacity to press her hand flat against her throat as if I’ve offended her.
“You’re not getting her fucking Christmas tree.” The words are a growl from my lips. I think this is the first time I’ve considered violence against an elderly person.
Without a word, she huffs and tugs on the dog’s leash, looking over her shoulder back at me as if she’s appalled, before making her way back down the sidewalk.
The anger I was trying to walk off multiplies, and if it weren’t for my responsibilities, I’d burn the world down right where I stand.
Unable to go inside, but not wanting to run into another vulture neighbor, I make my way around the side of the house, only pausing for a second at the bottom of the stairs before climbing them. I wish I could say that I haven’t been back up to this little above-garage apartment that Carlen thought he could make money off of renting it out. Maybe that was a hint that they were in trouble then and I wasn’t mature enough to understand.
I’ve been up here a handful of times since that night I spent with Vincent. I’ve used this single room as a landing space when I needed to make some pretty big decisions in my life.
I’m hit with the worst smell as I make it to the landing at the top of the stairs. It’s a mix of chemicals I’m unable to recognize, but it’s strong enough that my stomach starts to turn before I even reach for the doorhandle.
A million thoughts race through my mind as I step inside. The first being that the door wasn’t locked. The bed is no longer where it always was. Now the mattress is on its side, leaning against the far wall. The rest of the furniture, including the cute matching side table Janet spent an ungodly amount of time attempting to restore before painting them all to match the décor in here, are stacked on top of each other in the corner. All of these changes were made to make room for the apparent drug manufacturing equipment. There are empty bulk containers of hydrogen peroxide and drain cleaner tossed into a pile. Glass cookware and other pans litter nearly every available surface.
I press my nose into the crook of my arm, taking a step back toward the door.
This should make everything make more sense, but it doesn’t. If anything, it only makes things worse.
Our father battled addiction for many years of my childhood before losing that battle when I was about Jace’s age. My memories of him are more from stories I was told rather than things I recalled experiencing myself. Janet was always adamant about not doing drugs or anything that could harm you. I thought she was going to resort to violence the time she caught me smoking a cigarette outside of Mom’s house when I was a teen. Her concern was so heartfelt that I never touched another after that.
This makes no sense.
Were they doing this to make money or did they need money because they were doing drugs and thought making them for themselves would be more beneficial? Were they drug dealers? Did they die buying drugs or attempting to sell them? Did their lives end because they encroached on someone else’s turf?
I back out of the apartment, making sure to turn the lock on the doorknob before closing it behind me. The very last thing I need is for that nosy old lady to come over here or for a neighborhood kid to find all this shit.
My mind is racing as I go back down to my car, questioning my own morals. I know I should disclose exactly what I found when it gets to the stage where I have to sell the house, but at the same time, I know how hard that would make the sale.
My struggle continues across the driveway, my attention not where it should be when I run into a brick wall.
“Fuck,” I hiss when I notice the scent of him first.
I’m not one to really believe in core memories having much control over a person, but the familiar spice on his skin threatens to take me right back to that night.