by Aubrey Cara
“Get sexed up by two brothers at the same time?” she deadpans.
I cough. “Yeah.”
“We really don’t have to talk.”
“Fine by me. But if it makes you feel any better—”
“It probably won’t—”
“You’re not the first chick we’ve bagged together.”
“Oh, thank you for that.”
I glance over my shoulder to find Madeline staring at me in horror. “I’m just saying—”
“I wish you wouldn’t—”
“No reason to feel guilty. We all had a good time.”
“I don’t feel guilty.”
“Really? Cause you were kind of creepin’ on my brother.”
“With you!”
“But he didn’t know that.”
“You just told me it was fine.”
“I was trying to make you feel better, not absolve all your guilt. You should probably feel a little bad about stepping out on Jess. And with his own brother. That’s cold, honey.”
“I didn’t step out. There is no me and Jess—” Her face is red and blotchy, and I tense, waiting to get punched. She puts up a hand as if to stop me, even though she’s the one talking. “I’m not engaging,” she tells me, turning her nose up all haughty.
Fuck she’s easy to rile.
“Sure, baby. Whatever you say.”
“Not. Engaging.” Pursing her lips, she goes back to silently scowling out the passenger-side window.
We’ve reached the Lake House District, where Madeline’s house is. I haven’t been out here in years, but I remember exactly where it is. Most of the houses are set back far from the road; wrought iron fencing runs alongside the stretch we’re driving on. It’s dark out here, the only light emanating from fancy lampposts marking the entry of most driveways.
A flash of headlights up ahead precedes the roar of a pickup truck engine and the whooping hoots and hollers of some kids cutting up.
They whip past us, some of the kids half hanging out the windows. Plenty more in the truck bed. I know I’m getting old because all I can think is they’re going to get themselves killed. Stupid kids.
I shake my head. “I remember those days.”
“I don’t think it’s considered, those days, if it was just last week.”
“I thought you weren’t engaging.” Damn woman, can’t help herself.
“I’m not.”
“Yeah, right,” I mutter.
We’re almost to Madeline’s driveway, and she sits up in her seat, frowning as she leans forward.
“What the hell?” she says, but I’m trying see what has her hackles raised.
I notice the familiar bricked-in mailbox with a sign embedded on the side with the address done up in pretentious black scroll, 402 Woodruff Lane, with Fitzpatrick underneath. Then I see it. The light posts at the end of her driveaway are dark. The tops have been bashed.
“Those little shits.” Probably took a baseball bat to it while they were joy riding.
I turn into the driveway at a crawl, hoping to avoid driving over broken glass.
“The outside lights are all on a timer,” she says. “They should be on.”
The driveway is about a quarter mile long and on a slope, so we’re halfway down before we get a good visual of the two-story white brick home. It’s the kind of driveway that curves in front of the house and loops around. I know from my previous visit there’s a brick path that goes from the driveway to the front door.
At first everything appears fine until we get closer and our headlights illuminate the front of the house. I stop there to get a good look.
The front door is wide open, and the glass on the lampposts by the driveway and house are shattered.
Before I can do or say anything, Madeline jumps out of the car.
“Mads, wait!” I call out, shoving my door open and racing in behind her.
It’s doubtful anyone is still here. We saw the likely culprits drive away, but panic grips me seeing her run into the house.
I get to the wide entry hall and come to a complete stop. “Madeline?” It’s pitch black, and I slap the wall looking for a light switch. Every step I take causes shit to crunch under my boots.
What the fuck did those little jagoffs do?
“Mads?” I call again and take out my phone to use the flashlight setting. It illuminates the area as Jess runs in and halts next to me.
“Holy shit,” he curses.
The place has been ransacked. More than that. The entry table is smashed, along with whatever knickknacks and pottery were on it. Long gouge marks run along the walls. Red spray paint is everywhere.
“Madeline,” Jess yells as we shuffle past broken debris spilling out of an office on one side of the entry hall and a living room on the other. He’s got the phone up to his ear.
A light flips on at the back of the house. We head in that direction, and I listen to with half an ear to Jess’s phone call.
“Hey, Donna, this is Jess Wallace. I’m at 402 Woodruff Lane. There’s been a break-in…Yeah it’s the Lake House District…Yeah, Fitzpatrick’s old place…No, his daughter is in town…No, she wasn’t here when it happened…Okay…Well damn. Thanks, Donna.”
We find her at the back of the house in a room completely surrounded by windows. Devastation lines her regal features as she stares blankly at the shredded couch. There’s only one small lamp on in the corner, but moonlight shines through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting her already pale skin a ghostly white.
Every piece of furniture in the room is upturned, smashed. The couch and chairs are in tatters. There’s a huge red X encircled by a black circle spray painted on one wall. The other walls are marked, but with no particular design.
“This is great.” She turns to us, her eyes kind of wild, and thrusts her arms out wide. “Of course, this—this would happen today. Why won’t this place let me leave?” Her arms go limp, her hands slapping against her thighs. But then she punches the air, tears shimmering in her eyes.
“I’ve lived in New York for over a fucking decade without so much as getting my wallet stolen. This is Clover fucking Creek. Since when does this happen in Clover Creek?”
Jess clears his throat and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I just got off the phone with the sheriff’s department. I guess this is the fourth lake house to be hit in the last few weeks. There’s some challenge or trend going around. Kids trash a place and put the pictures up on social media.”
“Well, isn’t that fun for them?” Mads says in a murderously calm voice. It’s evil and kind of hot.
I don’t blame her. With the shock wearing off, I’d like to hunt down the little fucks who did this and make them eat my fucking boots.
“I’m sorry, Maddie,” Jess says, his voice gruff. He’s likely as pissed off as I am. “The sheriff’s on his way.”
Madeline nods, her arms crossed over her chest, but she’s gone back to staring at the torn-up couch. Jess looks at me, and for the first time in a long time, we’re on the same page. Somehow, someway, we’re going to fix this.
“I’m going to go check out upstairs,” I tell him. “Make sure nobody’s still here.”
“Probably a good idea…do you think it was those kids who drove by?”
“I fucking know it was them. Why, did you see the license plate or anything?”
He makes an iffy sign with his hand. “I didn’t recognize the truck. I don’t think they were Clover Creek kids.”
“Wishful thinking?”
“Maybe. Can you imagine if we did something like this in high school?”
I scoff. “We wouldn’t be here no more. Dad would have strung us up by our balls and killed us slowly.”
Madeline
“Maddie. Madeline.” Jess’s voice comes as if through a tunnel, but he’s right by my side. “I think the police are here.”
“This was her favorite couch,” I tell him. The overstuffed cushions are slashed open, the fluffy white innards spi
lling out.
“Who?” Jess asks.
“My mother. This was her favorite couch.” It had a pink, green, and white floral pattern. I always thought it was hideous, but it was extremely comfortable, and it was her favorite.
I cover my mouth and stifle an unexpected sob. My mother’s lake house is destroyed. Her Lladro porcelain figurines that lined every surface of the sunroom are smashed to pieces. The remnants of a painted face stare accusingly up at me from the floor. I couldn’t bring myself to pack away any of my mother’s things. Boxing up my father’s stuff had been easy. The memory of him hadn’t been encapsulated in every fiber of this house for the past fifteen years.
This was her house. Every inch of it.
Now it was all destroyed.
“Shit.” Jess grabs my shoulders to pull me into his arms, and I push him off. He holds his hands up. “Sorry.”
I blow out a breath. “I’m sorry.” I take in big gasps of air and fan my face, blinking back tears. “I can’t—” Be comforted. Allow myself to be vulnerable. Have him hold me… I’ll fall the fuck apart. “I just can’t right now.”
“It’s cool. I understand.”
Does he?
The way he’s giving me space but sticking close in case I change my mind and need him hints maybe he does.
“Hello?” a male voice calls from the entryway.
“Back here,” Jess replies and leaves to meet whoever it is in the hall.
At the moment, I can’t move. Maybe this is shock. Or maybe I’m having another nervous breakdown. The buzzing in my ears is back. That can’t be a good sign.
I wander into the kitchen, which hasn’t been touched in any way I can tell. I laugh in a high-pitched crazy way. The house has been destroyed, but the kitchen with its high end, yet terribly outdated cabinets and countertops are all perfectly fine.
“Ms. Fitzpatrick?”
“In the kitchen.” My voice comes out in a croak, and I clear my throat, giving myself a mental shake.
The heavy tread of footfalls precedes the entrance of Jess along with two officers who look about our age. Both are clean cut. One with sandy blonde hair has a terribly cliché mustache. The other is traditionally good looking, with dark hair and eyes.
They stare at me, frowns forming.
“Ms. Fitzpatrick?”
“Yes. Hello,” I hold my hand out, and he looks at the appendage like it’s a foreign object before delicately taking it.
“Ah, I’m Sheriff Terry Malone. This is my deputy, Jay.” He pauses. “Um, I was told you weren’t here when the break-in happened.”
“That’s right.”
“Uhh…” He scans down my body, his brows wrinkled. “If you’d like me to call in a female deputy. Maybe get you to the hospital for to get checked over and a…rape kit,” he says the last in a hushed tone. “I can arrange that.” His gaze is gentle, full of pity and worry.
That’s when it hits me. How I must look. Oh, dear God.
I fold my blouse closed over my chest, holding it that way with my crossed arms. “This”— I wave one hand over myself, while holding my blouse closed—“has nothing to do with this.” I gesture widely to the house.
“Right.” He drags out the word. “I’m here for you, Ms. Fitzpatrick. If anything happened, you can tell me. Is there anything you need to report?”
“Other than my house being broken into and seriously vandalized?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
“We had a consensual evening, Terry,” Jess says, coming to stand beside me with his hand on the small of my back.
Oh. God. I scowl up at him. “Really?”
He shrugs. “We did.”
“Did you?” the sheriff hedges.
“Yes! It was consensual, and now I look like this. And it has nothing to do with this.” I throw my arms out to indicate the state of the house.
“All right, Ms. Fitzpatrick,” the sheriff says. “Jay is going to dust for fingerprints on the doors and such. I know you’ve been living here, but have you two touched anything? Moved anything since you arrived?”
“Not since the break-in.”
“I haven’t,” Jess says. “Jace is upstairs.”
Sheriff Malone’s gaze jerks to Jess. “Your brother, Jace?”
“Yeah.”
His dark eyebrows rise so high they’re going to kiss his hairline. His gaze falls back to me. Slides to Jess. Then back to me with a very unprofessional smirk I do not appreciate. “Is there anyone else here?”
“Just the three of us,” I grit out.
Sheriff Terry nods, the corner of his mouth still pulled up knowingly. “Did you three arrive together, or apart?”
“Jace was driving me in my rental, and Jess followed.”
“Okay, so you and Jace were together…and Jess was meeting you here?”
“Does it matter? We were all somewhere, and we ended up here at the same time.”
He coughs. “Okay. Right. I’m going to need your statements. Do you feel comfortable giving it now?”
Do I feel comfortable? That question is laughable.
“About a mile or so down the road, we passed a truck full of teenagers,” Jess says. “From what I could see, I’d say it was an older Chevy. It was bigger, probably a Silverado. King cab. Darker color. Hard to tell more in my headlights. I’m not sure if there were girls and boys or just boys. They were hanging out the windows, hooting and hollering. It seemed like some dumb high school kids out for a joyride.”
I nod my head in agreement. “Then we got closer to the house, and I noticed all the outdoor lights were off when they should have been on. The front door was open when we got here.”
“There anything else?” Malone asks.
Jess and I look at each other than shake our heads. “That’s it,” I say. “Can I go?”
“Yeah, of course. Jess, can you tell me more about that truck?”
I and the last shreds of my dignity don’t stick around to hear any more.
I want to get my stuff and get the hell out of here.
Part of me wishes the vandals had just burnt this place to the ground.
9
J ace
The upstairs isn’t in much better condition than down. The hallway is marked with spray paint. The mirror in the bathroom off the hall is shattered. I wander from room to room. The blinds in one are half hanging down. Swirls and squiggly lines of black-and-red spray paint are fucking everywhere, the smell noxious in the confined spaces.
I know which room is Mads’ by the scent. Soft floral. Makes my dick twitch inappropriately, like Pavlov’s dog.
The mattress is half off the bed, stripped of bedding. My steps draw up short when I walk into a wall of stench. My gaze sweeps the room for the likely culprit. In the far corner is a pile of what I can only assume is human feces. It’s in the middle of a pillow.
What kind of sick fucks would do that?
A carry-on sized suitcase lies open in the center of the room, surrounded by clothes strewn about. Looks like someone took a knife to most of them.
Without even thinking about it, I start packing up the shredded remains of her clothing and notice there’s no underwear. Not one pair. I check the doors and the closet, but they’re empty.
“What are you doing?” Madeline stands in the doorway her gaze fixed on the open suitcase I’m throwing shit in.
“Packing what’s left of your clothes.” I toss another shirt into her little suitcase.
“What’s left?” She lifts a torn shirt and curses.
“Unless you came here without panties, they took them.”
Madeline’s face goes stormy. “Those little fucks. Those were French silk.” Suddenly her face scrunches. “What’s that smell?” Her eyes land on the pillow, and she gasps. “Is that...?”
“Yeah.”
“Who the fuck would do this?”
So many answers come to mind.
What would have happened to her had she been here when this hap
pened? Would the punks have left or would they have… I can’t think about it. It makes me want to lock her in a saferoom and go scorched earth on somebody.
“You’re coming with us until we get this fixed,” I tell her.
Her brows pull down, and I can practically can see the thoughts spinning in her head. Weighing and assessing the situation.
“There’s nothing to think about or argue,” I tell her. “So save it.”
Her lips thin to a line. “Who says I was going to argue?”
Fuck she’s easy to rile. “I’m just saying, there’s nothing to argue about. You’re coming home with us.”
“That’s fine. Jess’s bed is comfortable enough, and I can check into a hotel tomorrow.”
Over my dead body to all the shit she just said. The little she devil is in for a surprise if she thinks she’s going to play me against my brother. And as far as she’s concerned, our house is about to become Hotel California. She can check in, but her ass ain’t leaving.
“I have no idea how long it’s going to take to find a fucking contractor,” she says. “This is bullshit.”
“I’m sorry, Mads. We could probably fix all this.”
“Like, do the work myself?” She raises her hand to her chest in the perfect picture of a horrified maiden.
“Careful, your snobby princess side is showing.”
“I’m not afraid of hard work. This—” She throws her arms wide. “This I’m happy to contract out.”
“Your money.”
“It is my money. And when I use my money, I stimulate the economy.” She points a thumb at herself. “I’m a good citizen.”
I put my hands up in surrender. “Okay. I was just offering to help.” Like an idiot.
Closing her eyes, she pinches the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry for snapping at you.” Her apology is stilted, like she’s not used to making them.
“Jess and I had a great contractor when we were doing work to our house. If he’s not available, we’ll find you someone else. Someone reliable. We’re here for you, Mads. You’re not alone.”
She looks at me, and my gut clenches at the vulnerability swimming in her beautiful green gaze. I take a step forward to, I don’t know, comfort her somehow. I’m saved from making any awkward and likely unwelcome attempts by the arrival of my brother.