House of Fire (Unraveled Series) (25 page)

Delaney sat in the
passenger seat, unmoving as the sweat began to drip down her face. With the A/C
off and their windows sealed tight, the air became instantly simmering. She
didn’t want to give up the feeling of safety - the feeling that she could
actually, just maybe, protect herself.

“You know I’ll use
it,” Evie answered Delaney’s thought.

Delaney sighed,
reaching underneath her shirt to unsnap the button of the holster that was
secured around her bra. She slid the gun and holster into Evie’s waiting hand.
They both knew that Evie had a better shot. Evie wasn’t afraid to use it,
either, but it still didn’t comfort Delaney’s sudden feeling of nakedness. She
was unarmed and had no way of protecting herself.

“How many rounds?”

“Five.”

Evie nodded in
approval as she tore off the holster and slid the chamber open. She clicked off
the safety and gripped it firmly in her hand. Evie wasn’t going to conceal it
like Delaney had. Evie intended on using it.

“What am I supposed
to do?” Delaney continued as she opened up the car, the air just as stifling
outside as it had been in the tiny car. “No gun. No knife. Nothing.”

“Stay behind me.”

“Great, thanks. I
totally feel safe doing that. Don’t forget who saved you in the barn,” Delaney
said as she stepped into the clumpy dirt of the field.

“I never thanked you
for that, did I?” A smile spread across Evie’s face, the first genuine smile
that Delaney had ever seen from her. It felt odd, not overly comforting. A real
smile seemed awkward on Evie’s face, her muscles so engrained to keep a tight
and steady face. She had been trained young by her only mentor. The sadistic
Holston.

Delaney felt a sudden
pang of loss. Her only sister was the result of a twisted, sick man who didn’t
love her. Evie had spent her entire life trying to live up to a murderer, a man
who lacked any amount of moral decency. Evie had never had a chance.

The black dress
disappeared into the woods, leaving Delaney hesitating at the edge. She glanced
one last time at the Focus in its final resting spot, inches deep in the ruts
of the dirt. The field with its straight rows of green, leafy new growth, the
corn stalks emerging just inches from the ground. She exhaled, pulling her
wedged phone out of her pocket to silence her phone before trudging forward
after Evie.

Delaney stepped into
the brush, the leaves and broken branches crunching beneath her feet. They would
hear them coming, tramping through the woods like this. Delaney stopped,
listening to Evie’s light footsteps, barely making a sound as she weaved in and
out of trees.
She’s good. Real good
. Delaney had to stay close to her.
Her feet were heavy against the ground, getting stuck at every possible rut and
branch that hadn’t been flattened.

She paused, wanting
to call out to Evie when Evie suddenly stopped and snapped her head back. Evie
put her index finger up to her mouth and waved the gun ahead. Delaney leapt up
from the branches and stepped closer, trying to avoid the vines and twigs
snapping beneath her feet.

Real stealth
. She sounded like a bull
clamoring through the forest. She finally caught up to Evie about halfway
through the woods, and they pushed forward together, Evie just a step ahead of
Delaney.

Evie’s black dress
bounced with each step, fluttering to her thighs, revealing just the tip of the
knife that rested against her leg. It was dangerously close to piercing her
skin, the blade tipping just the exact amount of pressure before letting up
with her movement. It was almost as if her body knew the exact mold of the
weapon. Her body was fully aware of how to move; the knife a part of her body.
Evie was skilled, born to be a fighter.

Delaney wondered what
she would have been like had Evie had a “normal” life like Delaney. If Holston
hadn’t taken her. Her body and habits had evolved out of necessity against
Holston. Would she be as light and fleeting? Would she have long, flowing hair
like her own and Ann’s? Would she be quick to throw a punch like she was now?

Delaney followed the
dress, weaving under the low hanging branches and the brush before Evie stopped
again. Evie held out her arm, the soccer mom driving save, stopping Delaney in
her tracks. Delaney held her breath, listening to the sounds of their
surroundings. A squirrel scampered in front of them. A bird tweeted high above.
A woodpecker drummed its incessant beak along a truck, sounding a barrage of
short, quick snaps into the woods. Delaney ducked, the adrenaline coursing
through her body, reacting to the woodpecker beats that resonated like shots.
Evie shook her head, pointing the gun to the silver trap just to their right.
Rusted silver shone through the thick brush, but there was no way that Evie
could have seen it without knowing it was there.

“When were you here?”
Delaney hissed a foot ahead of her.

Evie’s head snapped
back again with her finger to her mouth. She was scolding a child, an amateur.
Delaney felt a twinge of shame before she opened her eyes wider, waiting for an
answer. She needed to know what they were in for. What was on the other side of
the woods? Delaney was exhausted with the half-truths, the skimping of
information that they were willing to share with each other.

“So I had a gun and
didn’t tell you. So what. Tell me what’s on the other side,” Delaney whispered.

“You don’t want to
know.” Evie snapped her head back, her shoulders curling in a hunch as she
crept forward. She held the gun out, pointing to the scattered, hunting traps
Delaney was supposed to avoid.

They crept forward
until Delaney began to make out the outlines of two buildings, both red, one
set further away from the road than the other. Evie stopped again, listening to
the same sounds they’d heard before. The woodpecker was still going at it, its
beak resilient against the bark of the wood. A flutter of wings sounded above
them. Added to the sounds were the faint clucking of chickens. A loud squawk
sounded ahead of them. Evie motioned her forward, staying behind the thick
trunks as they moved toward the edge of the woods. The buildings were becoming
evident now, the front building clearly a single-story ranch. The building
behind was some sort of shed or outhouse building.

Delaney’s eyes
scanned the rest of the property until they fell on the shiny glean of gray; a
disgustingly sleek and polished sheen that glowed in the driveway against the
dirt and grime of the aged property. Delaney caught her breath, her chest
tightening as her eyes focused on the Mercedes. He didn’t deserve the luxury or
the plush ride that the expensive sedan provided. It was a sheer mockery of the
world that a murderer sat on tightly bonded leather, gliding across the
pavement in smoothness while throwing his money high in the air.

Her legs burned
beneath her body, aching to run to the car, when she saw Ann Jones’s green
shirt appear from the back door of the house. Ann’s shirt filtered through the
trees, disappearing momentarily as she moved down the concrete stairs. She
stood on the gravel below before turning back to the door. Holston emerged, his
black hair glistening in the sun, dressed in pressed khaki trousers and a white
oxford shirt. He looked like he was about to swing the clubs for a round of
golf at a prestigious country club. Delaney held her breath, the anger flooding
her body when she felt a small prick on her neck. The sudden rancid smell of
something festering wafted through the air. Intuitively, her hand fled to her
neck, swatting at the threat, but it was gone; the small prick had been too
fleeting. She pulled her hand back down, concentrating on the blurred movement
that was Holston.

Delaney fluttered her
eyes, moving her hands forward to lean against the trunk of the tree ahead of
her when she heard the snap of a small twig. Her neck twisted slowly, not
obeying the commands to turn quickly to respond to the sound. Her legs became
heavy beneath her, a tingling sensation coursing through her body as she
blinked again. Darkness began to flood her head when she saw the outline of an
elderly woman holding a needle in the air. Beside her was an elderly man, a
shovel raised high in the air as he lunged over Delaney’s body.

Evie’s perfectly
rounded head flinched just a moment too late. Delaney’s legs crumbled to the ground
as she watched the shovel make contact with Evie’s head, sending Evie flat into
the brush. Delaney opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She scratched at the
ground, feeling the leaves crunch in her hand. The heaviness drew her in, until
finally, it was black.

***

Delaney’s nose
twitched as her neck cranked back, her eyes popping open to a stream of bright
light. She squinted, letting out a soft moan as her head nodded forward, her
brown strands scattering across her cheeks. The yellow linoleum blurred, the
diamonds moving back and forth until they finally fixed in a pattern on the
floor. She looked down to see her feet tied tight against the wooden chair
legs, the twine wound several times over each ankle. The room spun beneath her while
the nausea rolling in her stomach threatened to lurch out of her throat. She
inhaled, trying to abate the feeling of getting hit by a truck, every inch of
her body aching, but the smell overwhelmed her. Moth balls. Mold. The smell of
unclean flesh. She tried to swallow, but her tongue and throat refused. It felt
like her mouth was swabbed with cotton, traces of its lint still coating every
inch.

“Drink this,” a harsh
voice ordered. A shaking glass of water appeared in front of her face. Etched
tiny blue flowers connected with green vines around the tall glass; the rusty
yellow liquid sloshed back and forth. The smell of rotten eggs made her eyes
water and stomach recoil.

A wrinkled hand with
saggy skin and patches of brown strangled the glass, the paling nails scratching
against the surface.
Sunspots.
The brown patches were sunspots. Ann had
a spot on her arm that she loathed. She spread creme on that spot every day,
rubbing the white lotion so deep into her skin that Delaney thought she had a
better chance of actually rubbing it off. Delany followed the hand up to the
wrinkled arm. The same saggy skin disappeared into a floral cotton dress. The
woman’s face finally appeared, pinched and old.
And ugly. So fuckin’ ugly
.
The unfortunate woman never had a chance of being beautiful when she was
younger. There was no hint of possibility.

Delaney studied her
large, purple nose protruding from her face and her squinty eyes, beady and
much too small for her face. Her chin produced a sprout of white hairs, poking
in all directions. Her slack face displayed the same brown patches that stained
her hands, her jowls sagging into an extra neck like a turkey’s gobbler. Then
there was the hair, or lack thereof. The white, sparse strands wove around
black rollers in a feeble and unsuccessful attempt. The woman was trying to
beautify herself by curling her hair, but there was barely anything to curl.
She was holding on to the last nugget of youth that she no longer had. Delaney
steadied her eyes, willing herself not to blink or look away from the hideous
woman before her. A modern day witch from Hansel and Gretel had taken her down.
Had taken them
both
down.

Evie.
She turned to see an unconscious
Evie slumped next to her, tied to a chair like herself. Her arms pulled against
the back, the twine encircling her wrists. A streak of dried blood streamed
down her neck, the dark red vanishing inside the back of her dress.
The
shovel.
The man had hit her with the spade just before Delaney had fallen.
The
prick.
Delaney hadn’t heard them approach in the woods. They had come out
of nowhere.
Janice and Ken Hinske.

Delaney tried to yank
her arms forward, but the twine pulled against her wrists, restraining her from
moving them forward. She wiggled her body and swung her legs forward, but they
stayed in place, tied to the inside of the chair legs. The twine scratched and
clawed at her, digging deep into her skin.

“Drink,” the woman
ordered again, moving the shaking liquid closer to Delaney’s lips. The glass
clanked against her teeth as she turned her head, shaking it violently to avoid
the discolored liquid.

“Just leave it,
Janice,” a hoarse voice sounded somewhere on her side. Delaney turned her head
to the voice, but she couldn’t see him. It was a man’s voice, once deep and
strong, but now croaking and barely audible. The words were pained; it was a
struggle for the man to exert any effort to speak. Janice slammed the glass on
the counter in front of Delaney.

“So be it. You don’t
want a drink. Can’t say I didn’t try,” she muttered with her hunched back to
Delaney, the flowers of the dress curving along her spine and disappearing into
her shoulders. The woman was so severely hunched that Delaney guessed she was a
good six to eight inches shorter than she should have been.
How the hell did
they take us down?

Delaney’s eyes
scanned to the counter behind the woman. An empty syringe.
What was in it?
She
moved her eyes further down the counter. A chrome, single basin sink and faucet
with white crust formed all over the spout was cut into the olive green
laminate.
A kitchen
. Dark brown cabinetry with deep grooves formed the
bottom of the counter, the brass handles dulled. Some of the doors were missing
or cracked, hanging from broken hinges. They were in the kitchen of the red
brick house, the fluorescent light beaming down on them, their chairs against
the back of the wall. The walls were wallpapered a faded floral pattern, green
and yellow with a hint of blue.
Ugly.
Janice apparently had a fondness
for floral. The only window in the room was a cloudy one, yellowed lace draped
to the sides of it. Everything about the room, including the owner, was
decrepit and ugly. For foster parents, Holston had done little if nothing to
help them out. Delaney craned her neck, trying to see out the window.