Page 56 of Corrupting Ivy

She walked towards the kitchen, then put the food down on the counter. Pulling the Styrofoam containers out, she opened one up and handed it to me. “I didn’t know what you liked, but Walter said he had a good idea from all the times you’d been in over the years.”

I stared down at my chicken fried steak and double mashed potatoes, minus the green beans. “Spot on.” I hated vegetables.

Living with a woman that battled psychosis daily, she prepared our meals in phases. I always knew that it was going to get bad when we started prepping. I’m not talking about getting canned goods and rice, I’m talking, slaughtering animals, canning, water storage, gardening.

She’d keep all the meat for a rainy day, and we lived off lettuce and beets for weeks at a time. Once I left, I swore off vegetables. I’ll have them on a few occasions, but that was it.

Ivy smiled, then pulled hers out of the bag with the same thing. I raised my brows with surprise. I didn’t expect her to be a meat and potatoes kind of girl.

“So your cock…” she blurted.

I choked on my potatoes, pounding on my chest to remove the food lodged in my throat.

She laughed. “Sorry. I wanted to know why you pierced it?”

I grabbed a drink from the fridge, then took a sip and cleared my throat. That was some way to bring things up. I stabbed my steak with a plastic fork. “It was a way to take back the control of pain. Then I started getting tattoos.”

She nodded, and silence filled the room like the humidity outside while we finished our food. “I have some things I need to take care of. I’ll be back to pick you up for your shift tonight.”

There wasn’t a chance in hell that I would let her walk in the dark again, especially after what happened today. Leaving her alone in a locked apartment brought a veil of comfort. But I still hadn’t found Doug’s foot, even though I scoured the property, freezer, and the barn. She could have put it in any number of places on the property. And I couldn’t leave this pit of hell until I found it.

I couldn’t leave this disgusting town until I found it.

She shook her head, swallowing the bit of food she had left. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

I reached into my wallet and pulled out two u-shaped one-hundred-dollar bills, then placed them on the counter standing on their sides.

“What’s this for?”

“The food.”

She picked it up as I walked away, and she ran up behind me, then cut me off at the door. “I can’t take this.”

“You can and will. I’ve got to go.” I skirted around her. “Make sure you lock the door. I’ll have someone come and change the locks tomorrow.”

“Randall,” she said as I closed the door behind me, then walked to my truck.

I started the vehicle while looking at her last search on my phone. Did she want to see what they said about her departed husband? I put my phone away and drove down the road when I noticed the cashier from the country store, his hands tucked in his pockets. He turned the corner with his head tilted down, watching his step as he went. I still wanted to wring his neck for asking her to lunch.

Ma’s truck sat in the driveway, the farm giving off an eerie feeling that scratched down my spine. It was quiet. There is always a rooster crowing in the distance, or birds chirping. But not today. It was as though nature anticipated something disastrous.

I slammed the truck door shut and waited for someone to come out the door to greet me with a shotgun or a smile. Either worked for me. But nothing happened. No one stalked outside, no shouts or things breaking—silence.

My footsteps on the rotting wood creaked as I barged in, my fists clenched, my jaw set. Why did my interactions with her feel like going into battle? Ma sat in her brown chair. A man I didn’t recognize sat on the wooden chair from the table across from her, having a quiet conversation.

His blue jeans and white button-down shirt made him look official, along with his blond hair parted to the side and slightly darker beard. But my guess is this was how the pretty boy dressed every day.

“Spence, this is Patrick,” Ma said, rocking in her chair.

I tipped my head.

Patrick stood and held out his hand to shake. “Hi.”

I glanced down, noting the perfectly trimmed nails and cuticles, not even a callous, blemished his palm. A musty, scented cologne rose off of him, stinging my nose.

He pulled his hand away when he realized I wouldn’t shake it, then turned to sit back down. “I was just sitting with your mother as we went over her day. She was telling me about the incident at the—”

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