Page 113 of Gather the Storm

A second later I realized I’d been thinking of it all wrong. Without realizing it, I’d been thinking like Blake: where would Blake hide his cell phone? But if the police had returned it, if it had been returned to Blake’s room after his death, it would have been returned by my dad.

I crossed the room to Blake's nightstand, the one where his stuff was still piled like he might walk in to claim it at any second: a black water bottle, a world history textbook, a pack of gum, his phone charger.

I opened the drawer and there it was: his phone, sitting neatly at the front of the drawer.

I picked it up and tried to turn it on, but of course it was dead, so I unplugged the charger and slipped it into my bag with the phone, then headed for the door, hoping my dad wouldn’t miss the charger the next time he came into Blake’s room, assuming he still did that.

I turned around at the door and took one last look: Blake’s bed neatly made (by someone other than Blake, who’d never made his bed), the books and trophies, the computer and sports equipment. Like the rec room down the hall, Blake’s bedroom was a relic of my childhood, and I would have given anything to hear him say, one more time, “Close the door, brat,” after I’dcome in to bug him about something, when really all I’d wanted was to be close to him.

There were a million moments like that one I wanted back. A million stupid meaningless moments that meant everything when you couldn’t have them anymore.

I wished someone had told me. I wish I’d known.

“Bye, Blake,” I said around the lump in my throat.

I closed the door and was heading back to the stairs when I heard voices from down the hall. A soft murmur, stifled laughter, a gasp.

What the fuck?

I changed direction and headed for the sound, then realized it was coming from Ruth’s room.

I stopped outside the door and listened. Ruth was inside talking to someone. And then, doing more than talking judging by the soft moan that drifted from inside the room.

Shit. Was I stumbling on my little sister having surreptitious sex?

I hesitated. No one wanted to walk in on their sibling having sex. Plus, I wasn’t Ruth’s mom. Was it even my job to keep her in line? Just because I’d been a virgin until I’d turned twenty didn’t mean Ruth had to follow in my footsteps. Cassie and Sarai had both lost their virginity in high school and it had worked out fine for them.

On the other hand, Ruth was only fifteen, and she was supposed to be in school, was clearly skipping class to do… whatever it was she was doing in there. What if it wasn’t the first time? What if she’d skipped school before to hang out with some guy? Was my dad even paying attention?

It was my mom who got to me in the end. I could hear her voice in my head:Go talk to your sister.

I reached for the knob.

Chapter 61

Daisy

Ihad to fight the impulse to close my eyes as I opened the door.

But there was Ruth, wrapped around someone on the bed, her bare legs flung over some dude’s hips while he pawed at her like a hungry bear.

There was a lot going on — Ruth gasping, both of the bodies writhing on the bed — but it was the guy’s arms that held my attention.

Because these were not the arms of some high school dweeb looking to get laid. They were big and muscular and covered in ink.

A man’s arms. A man with a Blades tattoo.

“What the fuck, Ruth?” I was glad my subconscious provided the opening because it might have taken me a while to come up with the best way to break up the little tryst.

Ruth tore away from the guy, both of them sitting up in a hurry and staring at me in the doorway, Ruth covering her tits like some kind of ingenue in a movie.

“Oh my god, Daisy! What are you doing here?” she shouted. “Get out of here!”

Trust me, there was nothing I wanted more than to get out of there, but I could still hear my mom’s voice in my head —talk to your sister— so no can do.

And now I had a look at the man in Ruth’s bed. And hewasa man, one of the Blades I recognized from Summer Shit. He was way too old for Ruth. Not Mac old — Mac was probably in his forties — but definitely nearing thirty.

I glared at him. “She’s fifteen!”

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