Page 15 of The Overnight Guest

“Kara Turner’s father called again,” William said, lowering his voice, but it was impossible not to hear him.

Kara Turner was a girl that Ethan dated for a while. She was a pretty, quiet fifteen-year-old, but the romance didn’t last long. Kara’s father didn’t like Ethan. Didn’t like his attitude, didn’t like the things he heard about the sixteen-year-old who kept calling, kept showing up at his door. But Ethan persisted. Making an appearance in the rare moments William allowed Ethan to run an errand into town. The girl’s father called the house, telling them he wanted Ethan to stay away.

“You need to leave Kara alone, Ethan,” Lynne said, her voice filled with weariness.

“It’s none of your business,” Ethan yelled. “Why can’t you just leave me alone.”

“We can’t leave you alone. We can’t,” William said in exasperation. “This is serious. Stay away from her. Now the Turners are getting hang-up calls.”

“That’s not me,” Ethan insisted.

“Someone is doing it, and the Turners think it’s you,” William shot back. “They’re threatening to call the police.”

“That’s bullshit,” Ethan hissed. “And you know it.”

“What I know is you have had a serious lack of judgment lately,” Lynne said. “Kara, driving on the baseball field...”

“That was Cutter,” Ethan interrupted. “I wasn’t even driving.”

“And until you can show me you’ve grown up,” William continued, “there are going to be some changes around here. Give me the gun.”

“What? You think I’m going to shoot someone?” Ethan scoffed. “It’s my gun. Grandpa gave it to me,” Ethan countered.

“That’s not even funny,” Lynne said. “Don’t joke about things like that.”

“When you can show me that you can handle it responsibly, I’ll give it back to you. Until then, it’s mine.”

“No,” Ethan said defiantly.

“Give it to me,” William said, and there was the rustle of a struggle.

“Get off,” Ethan snarled, and the picture above Josie’s bed shook with the impact of bodies striking the wall. “Don’t touch me,” Ethan said, breathing heavily. “It’s my gun.” There was the slam of a door. The quiet click of another. The hushed voices of William and Lynne arguing.

“I’m sorry,” Josie whispered.

“That’s okay,” Becky said. “My parents fight too.”

Outside the window, fireflies blinked and cicadas roared. She heard her mother calling for Roscoe. Josie thought of Ethan in his bedroom, seething with anger. She wondered what he had been up to all evening, why he had been so secretive as of late. What did her brother have to hide?

8

Present Day

Wylie pounded up the steps and did a cursory search of each of the rooms. As she threw back the shower curtain, a horrible thought hit her. “Shit,” she hissed and rushed back down the stairs. She threw open the front door and cold air and a swirl of snow swept in. She squinted into the wall of white. The storm had increased its fury. She couldn’t see beyond the front step. “Oh, Jesus,” she whispered. The child would never survive out there for very long.

Wylie took a deep breath and tried to get her wits about her. He had to be somewhere around here. She started over and retraced her steps, rechecking the closets and behind doors. Finally, she peered behind the sofa and wedged next to the wall was the boy. Dressed in the sweatshirt she had given him, he was fast asleep, thumb in his mouth. On the floor next to him was his pile of wet clothes.

Wylie strode over to the front door and flipped the dead bolt. She pulled the sofa a few feet away from the wall, giving the boy a little more space, and knelt down next to him.

His head rested at an awkward angle on the hardwood floor. Wylie reached for a throw pillow and slid it beneath his head. He barely stirred. His skin was alarmingly pale, and a strange, angry red rash encircled his mouth and crept toward his cheeks. The cut at his temple had stopped bleeding but was a bit bruised and swollen. The tips of his toes that peeked out from beneath the blanket looked waxy and hard. Small blisters had erupted on the curved edges of his ears. Frostbite.

He shivered in his sleep, and Wylie pulled the comforter from the sofa and tucked it around his small body. He was thin. Too thin.

Wylie still had so many questions. How did he end up here? Who did he belong to? She had to wait for those answers. At any rate it looked like she was going to have an overnight guest.

Wylie gathered up the boy’s wet clothing. She winced at the musty, moldy smell that emanated from them. She checked his pockets in hopes of finding something that might help identify him. There was nothing but a small figure of an action hero. She set the toy on the kitchen counter and then tossed the clothes into the washing machine.

Wylie added a few more logs to the fireplace. The wood crackled and popped and the flames danced. The wind howled and buffeted the house; the lights dimmed and then brightened again.

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