Page 21 of The Spider & the Storm

I swept my gaze around the living room as my heartbeat sped up to a frantic, out-of-control gallop.

Just four days ago, Mom and Dad had been here. Laughing and happy.Alive. Now, they were cold and concealed in their caskets, and I was never going to see them again. For the rest of my life, I would be an orphan, and, Jesus Christ, that felt like such a long time right now when I was still only fifteen, and, oh my freakin’ God, what the hell would I do without Luke?

Where is he? Where did he go? What is he doing, and why isn’t he with me?

I abruptly stood up, nearly knocking the drink out of some guy’s hand.

“Hey, watch where you’re going,” he scolded, but was quickly reminded by the woman with him that I was one of the grieving sons.

Grieving sons.

My parents are dead.

I’m all alone.

Oh my God.

I’m alone.

My palms were sticky with a thick coating of sweat as I hurried blindly from the living room and stumbled up the stairs. I ran down the hall, passing my parents’ room—closed and sealed off to everyone—to Luke’s open doorway, only to find it empty, and I was certain my heart would explode.

“Luke!” I cried as I hurried past his gigantic laundry pile and back out the door, not caring who heard.

The bathroom was empty, he wasn’t in my room, and I wouldn’t dare check Mom and Dad’s bedroom. I wasn’t ready—not yet, maybe not ever—and I seriously doubted Luke would be either. He had even made Nana go in to grab some clothes for their bodies to wear. So, I ran back down the stairs, clumsily weaving my way through the crowded living room to the dining room, not bothering to apologize to the people I bumped into as I went.

“Luke!”

I shoved my sticky, shaking hands into my hair, gripping the strands as the panic quickly made it harder to breathe. Igulped for air, struggled to calm the nausea building in my gut. Everyone was staring at me—I knew they were—but panic didn’t leave much room for self-consciousness, and I didn’t freakin’ care.

“God, where are you?!” My voice cracked as I made my way to the kitchen, only to find he wasn’t there either.

There were so many people. So many eyes. So many bodies taking up the space and air in a house that used to hold a family and now only had room for two orphaned kids. And not a single one of these people was the one person I needed, and where the fuck was he?!

Nana spotted me from the sink. She didn’t understand me or my panic attacks—I had heard her talking to my parents once or twice before about how I needed help and what the hell were they doing to fix it. But I guessed she had some compassion this time—maybe because my parents were dead, who knows—and she came over to me with a rare look of affection and sympathy in her eyes.

“Charlie, sweetie, what is it?”

“I-I-I-I … I c-can’t find L-Luke,” I managed to say, my voice barely carried by a terrible tremor that would be humiliating later, but not now.

She nodded and gestured toward the basement door. “I saw him go downstairs with his friends a little while ago.”

My lips parted with my heavy exhale, and my lungs began to find their rhythm. The basement—of course. Why hadn’t I thought to go down there? Luke hung out downstairs a lot, especially when his friends and Melanie were around.

It had seemed to be a mutual understanding that as long as he was safe, none of us—Mom, Dad, or me—really questioned what he did in the confines of the basement. I’d overheard Dad say that it was better he did shit at home than on the streets, and although I wasn’t always sure what he’d meant by that, I had never disagreed.

Luke was always better off at home.

Now, even though I seldom went downstairs myself, I hurried for the door. The hinges creaked as I pulled it open and closed it behind me. The stairs groaned beneath my feet as I made my way down, listening as the older teens talked.

“Hey, Zero,” I heard Ritchie say. “Grab me a beer, will you?”

Zero. I rolled my eyes.

I had always hated that stupid nickname. So did Mom.

“Zero?” she had asked a couple of years ago when Luke demanded we all call him that—even though we never listened. “Why the hell would you want anyone to call you Zero?”

“Because he gives zero fucks,” Tommy had replied before high-fiving my brother.

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