Page 58 of Praying for Rain

The color of the blood and the stench in the fucking air also tell me that this shit did not just happen. I’d say this guy’s been sitting here for …

My guts twist, and this time, no amount of teeth-clenching will keep me from hurling all over the carpet as the last two and a half days scream by in reverse.

The drugs. The secrecy. The mood swings.

The way she refused to let me come inside the house.

The way she said he wouldn’t hear her knocking, wouldn’t see her at the door.

The way she came running out of here that night like she’d seen a …

I brace myself on my knees and puke again.

Oh God.

Fuck.

He’s been here this whole fucking time.

The song starts over.

And now she’s in here with him.

Wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, I walk over to the stairs by the open front door. As much as I hate to trap in the smell, I kick it shut. The last thing we need is wild dogs sniffing out the body.

The beam from my flashlight leads the way as I trudge up the stairs, listening for movement, crying, anything. But there’s nothing. Nothing but that goddamn song and the sound of my own rushing pulse as I finally reach the upstairs hallway.

Five doors.

Three closed.

Here we go.

“Rain?” I call again, but I know she won’t answer. I try not to consider why as I shine my flashlight into the first open door on the right.

The sight of a black braid makes my breath catch, but I exhale in relief when I realize that it’s sitting on top of an overflowing trash can. Next to a toilet. Beside a sink.

There’s no one inside. It’s just an empty bathroom.

A thought occurs to me as I throw open the next door and find nothing but towels and sheets.

Maybe Rain killed the bastard. I saw her mow down two motherfuckers at Huckabee Foods like it was nothing. She could have killed him too, if it were self-defense.

I want to believe it. I want to picture Rain as the victor in this fucked up situation. I want to find her rocking in a corner somewhere because she’s batshit crazy.

Not because she’s broken.

The song starts over as I approach the last door on the right.

“Rain?” I knock lightly before turning the knob, not wanting to startle whoever might be inside. “It’s Wes. Can I come in?” I crack the door and brace for impact, but the only thing that hits me in the face is that same putrid smell from downstairs.

Fuck.

I pull my shirt over my nose and pray to every fucking god I can think of as I approach the lump on the bed.

Please don’t let it be her. Please don’t let it be her. Please, God. I know you fucking hate me, but just … fuck. Don’t let it be her.

I watch helplessly as the yellow beam from my flashlight slides up the side of a four-poster bed and across the surface of a patchwork quilt covered in flowers. The bedspread has been pulled up over the person’s face—or over the place where it used to be, judging by the size and location of the maroon stain on the fabric—but I don’t pull it down.

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