Page 16 of Unmasked Rivalry
After the truck disappears down the lane, I go back inside, find a cold Diet Coke, and stand in the kitchen, staring at my bruise-purple spider bite and wondering if it’s weird to be more nervous about a stranger with good teeth than about the nest I need to remove today.
Exhaling, I leave the house, needing to figure out my next move. I sit on the porch, drink my Diet Coke, and make my weekly phone call to the prison to find out how my brother is. As always, I am trying to make contact with Ruger, and as always, he is refusing contact or visitors. I haven’t seen him for years, but I still call every single week to check in, write letters, and hope that one day, he will let me in.
He is the only person I have left, and I miss him so much.
He might not answer the calls I make, but it won’t stop me from trying.
The people I speak to on the phone can only tell me he is okay, and that’s basically it, but it’s all I need to know. When I hang up, I put my phone down and exhale. Leaning back in the chair, I know I need to get to the store and gather a few items, then I need to get back to work on this house.
I sit for half an hour or so when my phone rings.
Staring down at the screen, I am surprised to see it’s the prison calling. My stomach twists, fear clutching my throat as I reach down, answering it quickly. It tells me that I am receiving a call from Ruger before asking me if I will accept. My fingers have never moved so fast in my life as I accept the call, shocked at the gravelly sound of my brother's voice saying his name on the prerecorded message.
“Ruger,” I say, so quickly my voice comes out as almost a hiss.
There is silence.
Not a single word, but I can hear him breathing.
“Ruger, please say something. Are you okay? Tell me you’re okay.”
“Someone wants me dead.”
That’s all he says, not a single word more, and the phone is disconnected.
What the hell was that?
My heart breaks and tears burn under my eyelids as I try to process what just happened.
What does he mean someone wants him dead?
Who?
Why?
And what do I do about it?
BY THE TIME THE SUNsets on the horizon, I’m one-quarter deep into a cheap whiskey bottle, staring up at the roof of the porch, trying to work out if I can die of heartbreak before the bottle kills me. The world has gone all shimmery around the edges, or maybe that’s the unshed tears I am trying to force back.
I’m still clutching my phone like it might ring again—like my brother could cut through all the nonsense and speak to me without riddles, without the threat of death. But I know Ruger. If he’s calling me, it’s already bad and there’s no fixing it over a phone. I just don’t understand what that means for me. How do I help?
I take a gulp straight from the bottle and nearly choke. At some point, I kicked my boots off and just slumped down into this old chair, which is comfortable, if I dare to admit it. There’s a moth the size of a tortilla chip dive-bombing the porch light. It looks like it wants to die on my watch. I consider joining it, but figure there are better ways to die.
A truck rumbles up the drive, and I lift my head slowly. Headlights flare across the porch, and I’m momentarily blinded. I flinch, clutching the bottle to my chest as if someone is going to come and snatch it right out of my hands. The engine cuts, a door slams, and then my eyes adjust enough to see him. Knox. He stands at the edge of the porch steps, staring at me with a look that is a mixture of disgust and concern.
“You drunk?” he asks, voice low, as he moves up the steps towards me.
I try to smirk, but it lands somewhere between a grimace and a sob. “No, I’m just conducting a scientific experiment to see if you can die from feelings.”
He snorts.
Then he sits down beside me on the chair, way too close, his jean-clad knee brushing against mine.
“You want to talk about it?” he asks.
“Not even a little bit,” I mumble.
He takes the bottle from my hands without asking and drinks. Reese is not with him, and I wonder if she is still upset with her Daisy encounter.
