Page 85 of Five Brothers

But he suddenly stops, and I watch him as he stares at the riding lawn mower left outside with a couple of beer cans sitting in the holders. Trace was supposed to mow the lawn a week ago. I look around at the growth of weeds and grass. If he did, I can’t tell.

And he didn’t put the mower away. Macon runs his hand through the rainwater that’s pooled in the seat.

Damn Trace.

Macon stalks for the garage, yanking the rope off the hook near the side of the door, and disappears inside.

Something doesn’t sit right. Macon’s going to strangle him.

I start after him. I peer into the shop, seeing him hit the switch, closing the garage door, and head up the three steps into the house and into the kitchen. He still carries the rope.

I hesitate.

Trace isn’t home. There weren’t any trucks in front of the house. What is he doing?

I shoot off, heading into the house, and immediately hear footfalls upstairs. I start up slowly, listening as I go.

Their mother stares at me from photos as I climb. She hanged herself eight years ago, two months after her husband died.

But from what I understand, it wasn’t his death that drove herto finally do it. He was simply what kept her alive until then, and when he was gone, she just couldn’t stay. Trysta Jaeger.

Macon’s been drinking a lot the past few months. Not eating. Rarely ever leaves the house. I don’t care if it seems normal to everyone else. It’s not.

Why the hell couldn’t Trace finish the lawn? Or put the mower away? He’s almost twenty-one now. Macon shouldn’t have to stay on his ass over everything.

I reach the top of the landing, seeing steam seep through the crack in the bathroom door, and I hear the shower going.

But he doesn’t have the lights on. What’s he doing in the dark?

I glance one door down, at his closed bedroom door. His parents’ old room.

She did it in there. In the room where he now sleeps every night.

I approach the bathroom.

He’s okay. He’s always been moody. Kind of scary. He’s never been happy. Or smiley. Or conversational.

I lean in, trying to hear a change in the fall of water. Something signaling he’s washing or shampooing, but there’s no change.

I place my hand against the wooden door, debating if I should push it open enough to see, but just then, it swings open, and I pop up straight. Macon walks out, stalking right up to me.

I back up. “Sorry,” I say. “Sorry.”

He stares down at me, wearing only a towel around his waist, but he’s not wet yet. The shower still runs.Shit.Does he know I was following him?

“Just making sure you’re here.” I try to swallow, but my mouth is like sandpaper. “Your food is—”

I point off somewhere as I look up at him, but I lose my train of thought at his hard gaze. He takes a step closer, and fear grips me. I’m alone in the house with him.

And he has someone he kidnapped locked in the storage container behind his house.

I drop my eyes, his glare hammering me into the ground.

But then … the pulse between my thighs thumps hard once, and I expel every ounce of breath in my lungs, nearly groaning.

Spinning around, I run, trying not to stumble down the stairs as his eyes burn my back. I get to the bottom, grab the handle, and yank open the front door, dashing out into the yard.

I take a few steps and glance behind me, relieved he’s not on my tail with that rope, ready to strangle me and drag my body back inside, because I’ve seen too much.

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