Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 80689 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80689 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“He needs to dress those cuts,” I say, not for the first time since the outburst; although, despite my concern about his physical wounds, I’m just as concerned about the psychological ones.
As Jonas tugs me close, I lean into his hold.
“Was that the first time you two talked about that?”
With all we’ve had to navigate, there hasn’t been much time to chat about what came up in the library. Or maybe I’ve been repressing.
“I assumed neither of us wanted to discuss it. And though I hated him for not helping me with Kieran, he was the only one I had left. I thought he felt guilty for not stepping in. I never would have guessed he held that wild perspective. I’m having a hard time understanding how much of it he believes and how much is some sick lie to protect himself from acknowledging who our brother really was.”
Jonas kisses my forehead.
There’s something nice about having him here, just listening. Being present for me in a way no one else has ever been.
“I’m almost done,” I say. “Then we can get to your stuff, and book the motel, and you should call and check in about Charity. And—”
“How about I go ahead and knock some of these things out now while you finish packing?”
I appreciate that Jonas has headed off my steadily intensifying anxiety. “That’s not a bad idea. Why don’t you pack too?”
He cringes. “Ryan, if you think I’m leaving you alone after what I just witnessed, you are even more far gone than your brother.”
For the first time since that epic meltdown, I laugh. “I’ll be fine. This isn’t a horror movie, Jonas. He’s my brother. And you saw him; he’s more interested in hurting himself than anyone else.”
“I wasn’t worried about you. I’m scared of the dark.” He hunches beside me and leans close, kissing my neck.
His playfulness and his warm mouth are welcome distractions from everything that happened. I turn to him and kiss him a few more times. “It’ll be fine.”
“I’m staying right here. I’ll go ahead and call the motel and Charity, and while I’m doing that, you wrap this up. Then we head over there together.”
“I like the sound of that.”
As I gaze into his eyes, they disarm me, enough that when I hear a knock at the door, I’m startled, and we both jump together.
The cops? No. How the hell would they know what room we’re in?
The knock comes again.
“Ryan?” With the door between us, it sounds like a whisper, in a higher register than Simon usually speaks. More like him when he was seven or eight.
Neither Jonas nor I speak before the gentle knock comes again. “Ryan, it’s me, open up!”
I thought I’d been overly cautious to lock my door while packing, but given the weapon he left with and how he cut the lights, I figured better safe than sorry.
“What do we do?” I whisper to Jonas.
“I’ll text that cop.”
As he keys away on his phone, Simon knocks again. It’s the faintest of knocks, as though he’s barely trying to make a sound, and there’s something unsettling about it. Eerie. “Come on, Ryan. Let me in!”
I approach the door, but Jonas says, “Ryan, just stay back.”
“I’ve got this.” When I reach the door, I ask, “Simon, are you okay?”
The doorknob rattles, startling me as it shakes furiously with the door. Then it comes to an abrupt halt.
“Come on, Ryan. I have something to show you,” he says in a suspiciously gentle voice, as though trying to lull me into a false sense of security.
“Why do you sound like that, Simon? What’s wrong?”
He giggles—fucking giggles. What is going on?
There’s a loud thud, followed by another, rattling the entire door, and I step back as the knob continues trembling. “I said let me in!” Simon shouts from the other side. “Let. Me. In.” After each word, there’s a bang like he’s thrusting himself against the door, and considering how old these doors are, I’m not surprised when the frame snaps and it swings open.
I jump back so it doesn’t hit me, and just as soon, there’s a tight grip on my arm, and Jonas pulls me back to him.
Simon stumbles in, stepping into the soft room light.
“Oh my God,” Jonas says.
Simon is paler than I’ve ever seen him. There’s a patch of blood where he stabbed himself in the shoulder, and more blood around the wounds on his arm, but now there are even more punctures and dozens of deep, crimson scratches across his face and arms, as though he’s spent this time slicing into his flesh. Even his jeans are ripped to reveal lengthy gashes. With dirt just as spread out across his body, particularly focused on the knees of his jeans, he looks like he crawled out of his own grave.