Page 87 of Forged in Rain

Her shoulders slump, and she wipes her face before grabbing up the shovel again. “Maybe I just wanted to feel free for a little while longer.”

“I don’t understand,” I whisper.

“Of course, you don’t. You were living it up in a fucking hippie compound.”

Her shoulders are tight, and ice comes off her in waves. I back away with a silent sigh and head back to my room, but at the top of the stairs, I hesitate and enter Iris’ room.

I’ve searched through her things, but maybe I’m missing something. If John was willing to bury his shit in the yard, what would Iris do?

Glancing around, I run my fingers over her things, a discarded shirt, two pennies on her nightstand, and a schoolbook collecting dust.

Her phone lights up, revealing six text messages, and glancing at the door, I pick up the phone and read the parts of the texts I can see without needing a password.

Jagger texted her five times.

I’m waiting . . .

You better have the fuc

Goddamn it, Ir

Your mother kn

I don’t care abo

Not being able to see the entirety of the messages is maddening, but it’s enough to know Jagger is on her ass. Either about the money or John or both.

Does Jagger not know about Pam?

The final text is from an unknown number, and it’s an image I can’t see. With a sigh, I set the phone down and turn to the window.

When we were kids, we used to climb out onto the roof because Iris loved to gaze at the stars. Feeling nostalgic and really fucking lost, I unlatch it and pull myself onto the slates before sitting down.

The brilliant stars shine overhead, and I lean back to get a better view. Once upon a time, Iris used this spot as a fort of sorts and even hid snacks and drinks under the window beneath an alcove created by the frame.

On impulse, I reach around to see if she’s still got stuff stashed there and fumble over a hard object. With a grin, I pull it out but find a small box wrapped in plastic.

Huh? Unwrapping the plastic, I peer inside and suck in a breath. Pictures. Probably the fucking pictures I’ve been searching all over for. Dammit, Iris.

Ducking down, I peer through the window. Seeing it’s still empty, I hustle through it and out of Iris’ room and into mine. The whole time, my heart pounds heavily in my chest.

Closing my door, I open the lid. Inside are dozens of pictures, but they’re not of Iris or me. They’re of Pam standing before a bed. Behind her is a girl, maybe my age, tied to the posts. The girl’s eyes are bruised, her mouth puffy, and she’s staring dully into space. Pam’s gazing steadily into the camera, but her eyes are dark and she’s frowning.

There’s no description or explanation, but one picture makes me pause, and ice crawls up my spine. John is holding a child, an infant, with an icy smile. More disturbingly, he’s standing before the same damn bed with the girl in the background, but she’s no longer looking into the camera.

What the actual fuck . . .?

Is she dead? Did he impregnate the poor girl? And where is this child?

I don’t know, but fuck, my stomach hurts so damn bad.

“Rainy?” Iris pounds on my door, and I gasp, shoving everything back in the box before hiding it under my bed.

With a thundering pulse, I open the door and step back as she barrels through. “C’mon, let’s go.”

When I give her a blank stare, she sits down beside me and studies me before lowering her gaze. “You can’t mope forever.”

“Why?”

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