Page 21 of Devil's Riches

He picked up a large knife and waved it in the air. I gulped and nodded.

After he’d untied me, he led me out of the shed and pushed me into the backyard. It was dark and windy outside, and a fine drizzle hung in the air, leaving a cold spray on my skin as I walked through it.

As I cast my gaze around the yard, I spied my old treehouse in an old oak by the fence. When I thought about playing in there with my sister when we were kids, all the sounds and aromas I associated with those days came flooding into my brain. Damp cedar and old books. High-pitched giggles and ridiculous accents as we gave our dolls and teddy bears their own distinct voices and personalities.

A lump appeared in my throat. I wished I could return to those days. Wished I could have it all back—the freedom, the happiness, the love.

“Hurry up.” Greg pushed me, dragging my mind back to the present.

He directed me to the back door. The glass above the handle had been broken, presumably by him in order to gain access earlier.

He opened the door and shoved me inside. Then he pulled out a small flashlight and used it to guide us through the dark house.

It smelled of dust and faint traces of mold, but it looked a lot better than I expected. The walls seemed clean and the floors looked polished, and the old furniture we’d left behind was all in one piece. Each room seemed ready to spring to life as soon as someone brought in some fresh-cut flowers and a broom to displace the spiderwebs hanging in the corners.

Tears welled up in my eyes as memory after memory flooded back, making my mind whirl like it was stuck on a carousel. On my left was the exact spot in the living room where Sascha and I used to help our mom wrap Christmas presents, and further up the hall was the doorway to our old playroom where we kept our dress-ups, teddy bears, and books. In the opposite direction lay the kitchen, which always used to smell like fresh bread and spiced cookies.

The memories turned into whispers and laughter, filling my head and drowning out the sound of the wind whistling through the trees outside. It made me feel warm and cozy for a while, like I was truly at home, but somewhere along the way the nice recollections began to turn dark, and I started remembering the last few days I spent in this house. My mother cried constantly then, and there was always a faint clicking sound from outside as journalists stood in the yard and snapped photos of the ‘House of Horrors’.

I was jittering by the time we reached the doorway to my dad’s old study, with anger, sadness and fear twisting and turning inside me. I wished I’d never begged Greg to let me come in here. I thought it would make me feel better for a while, bring me a little peace, but it had done the complete opposite in the end. I felt fucking awful.

“There’s no electricity in here, but the water is still connected,” Greg said in a matter-of-fact tone as he led me past a dusty accent table. “So if you need to use the bathroom, tell me now. I don’t want to deal with you pissing yourself on the table later.”

As soon as he mentioned it, I felt a pressure in my bladder. “I need to go.”

“Okay. Be quick.”

He led me to the downstairs bathroom and waited outside for me to relieve myself. I looked up at the narrow highlight window on the right wall as I washed my hands a moment later, wondering if I could quietly open it up and fit myself through.

Before I could check, Greg whipped the door open and glared at me. “I told you to be quick,” he said, dragging me out before I could even dry my sopping hands on the musty old towel that lay on the vanity.

He yanked me down the hall, leading me toward the foot of the stairs. “I found something you might like,” he said, dipping his chin at the wall on our left.

Another lump appeared in my throat as I glanced over and saw what he was talking about. Hanging on the wall was an old family photo my mother had left behind when we moved away. In it, we were all grinning madly with Santa hats atop our heads. Our old dog was sitting by Sascha’s feet in the center, pink tongue lolling out of his mouth and one paw resting on top of a flat giftwrapped box.

“Cute, isn’t it?” Greg said in a mocking tone. “Brings back some nice memories, I bet.”

“No,” I muttered, turning away. I didn’t want to be reminded of anything anymore. I just wanted to curl up and cry.

Greg grabbed me and pulled me back around, gripping my arm like a vise. His eyes had narrowed to slits. “I want you to look,” he hissed, pushing his face close to mine. “I want you to see.”

“See what?” I asked, voice quavering.

He held up the knife. For a second I thought he was going to stab me, but he lifted the blade to the photo instead and etched a cross on the glass that covered it, right over my dad’s face. Then he scratched out another one on my face.

“You’re next,” he said, turning to me with a thin smile.

I took a faltering step backward. “You killed my father,” I said. It wasn’t a question. Just a statement.

Greg let out a dark chuckle. “Of course I fucking did,” he said. “Christ, did you really think that story I told Nate was actually true? That we rescued your daddy from jail and faked his death?”

I didn’t respond. I simply lowered my gaze and stared into space, wishing a sinkhole would open beneath my feet and suck me down into the darkness.

“Sorry, sweetheart, but we needed someone to pin the murders on,” Greg said. “And he wasn’t going to take it lying down, was he? The only way to make it work was to—” He stopped and pretended to drag the blade across his own throat.

“We?” I murmured, brows rising. “There was more than one of you?”

His lips tightened. “Never mind that. You don’t need to know every single detail.”

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