Page 23 of Bake the Town Red

I had it. I could convince Dahlia it was time.

From that moment, I moved on autopilot. One bowl for Grandma. Pot in my grasp. Three floors down and one lock later, I was standing inside the bloody, stinking scene.

My heart sunk to the floor. Dahlia hadn’t moved an inch since I’d left her. Wearing the same clothes. Dunk in the same blood. She hardly cared that I barged inside. Her eyes fleeted to me, then back to her dead uncle.

Any conscious thought I had vanished at that moment. I placed the pot on the kitchen counter. My boots stepped on the puddle of dried blood as I moved to stand in front of her.

Hair messy. Knees hugged to her chest. Chin on top of her knees. Every part of her was covered in blood. Every part other than her face, the part she’d let me wipe clean that damned night.

I’d changed my clothes since then. Three times, to be exact.

I was clean. My light jeans, white Henley, and a jade-green hoodie still smelled of the laundry detergent. Dahlia was filthy. The girl deserved better. She deserved the world after what she’d gone through.

My sense of responsibility for her warred with the guilt and brotherly love I’d had for her.

Fuck. I messed everything up.

It was my job to fix it. Fix her. I came down here to take care of Dahlia. I’d die before letting her turn me away.

“We’re going to take a shower.”

“No.” She frowned, refusing to stare at anything other than her decomposing uncle. “He might wake up.”

Any other argument would’ve been fine. Preserving the integrity of the scene and what the hell not—I could understand that.

Insanity, I wouldn’t stand for. Losing her mind was not an option for Dahlia.

Not as long as I had something to do with it.

“Up.” I beckoned her with my index finger.

“Might wake up.”

“On your feet, little savage. You have to shower. Then we’re calling the cops.”

She didn’t gaze up at me as she growled.

She’d been beaten up for the past six months ever since her parents died. Now, she’d been staring at a rotting corpse for two days.

The irrevocable damage to her psyche could be happening if I wouldn’t act, and fast.

“Up. I’m not asking, Dahlia.”

“No.”

“Little savage.” I dropped to my knees. “Living up to your name, aren’t you?”

A scream tore from her throat as soon as I scooped her in my arms. A scream the neighbors would hear.

As if they’d care.

Just in case one of them grew a conscience overnight…

I put her back on the floor, went to the kitchen. While I was opening and shutting drawers, she screamed some more.

When I finally found a duct tape roll, Dahlia was on her hands and knees, digging her fingers into the floor. Glaring at her uncle. She had her ass in my face, and I could smell days’ old pee. Nothing else, since their monster of an uncle had gotten a kick out of starving her and Ian.

And even if she defecated on herself, I wouldn’t have been grossed out. I wasn’t grossed out.

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