Page 17 of Getting It Twisted

Nathan’s inquiring voice jars me back to the present. He sways his head toward me, slouching drunkenly in the car seat.

“Are you just gonna sit there, or are we going?”

I shove the key into the ignition, heart pounding and head full of memories I’ve tried hard to suppress.

Wayward Road is as quiet and eerily dark as I remember, with only a few streetlights illuminating the thick pine-tree forest on either side.

Gravel crunches under the wheels as I pull over. Now that we’re here, I should drop Nathan off and be on my way. He’s sober enough to walk on his own. But for whatever reason, I fumble with my phone to light our way through the unkept yard.

Knee-high grass brushes my ankles, and the ground underneath is uneven and muddy from the recent rainfall. The house might have been nice and quaint once upon a time, but now it’s little more than a run-down shack in the middle of nowhere.

Nathan makes no move to unlock the door, and I turn to him expectantly.

“Well?”

“Don’t have a key.”

“Then how’d you get in?”

He shoves his hands in his pockets and rounds the side of the house. “It’s not exactly Fort Knox.”

I scramble to keep up with him and light his way. My flashlight catches a glimmer of broken glass below a naked window.

“Don’t tell me that’s it.”

Before I can stop him, Nathan steps onto an old chopping block and grabs the windowsill.

“Hey!” I reach out for him, but he’s already heaving himself up and into the house. Even sober, this is hardly ideal. How hasn’t he sliced his hands up already?

“It’s fine,” he says. “Come on.”

Left with no other option, I put my phone in my pocket and take leverage on the chopping block to heave myself into the hallway. Nathan’s eyes find me in the dark. He’s grinning.

“Home sweet home.” He opens his arms out wide in an exaggerated gesture.

I fumble for the light switch, but nothing happens.

“There’s no use,” he says. “Bills are late.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’ve been out here all week without electricity?”

“No water either. There’s a well further into the woods though.”

So he hasn’t changed at all, huh? He’d rather live like this than bother doing stuff he finds troublesome or boring. I try the front door, but there’s no lock to twist. Strange.

“It’s double keyed,” he says. “Grandpa liked to keep Mom and me inside, if you know what I mean.”

I send him a look, but he just shrugs, as if there’s nothing odd about what he said at all. In the kitchen, he flicks his lighter over an array of candles while I lean against the doorway, crossing my arms.

“So where’s the key at?”

He sends me a glance. “Cops have it.”

“And?”

“I haven’t felt like dealing with old Wayne Hastings just yet.”

I scoff. “Really? All this just because you don’t want to confront my uncle?”

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