I open the door just a crack and listen for people inside. Footsteps, drawers opening, anything to help me figure out whether or not the coast is clear. The house is eerily still other than the sound of a man’s muffled voice in the distance. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but his Southern drawl and grandstanding tone make me think it must be Mr. Renshaw … until the phrase, “violatin’ the laws of Mutha Naychuh,” rises above the white noise.
Governor Steele.
My heart sinks. They’re probably all gathered around the TV, watching today’s execution.
And tomorrow, they could be watching Wes’s.
No! The thought practically pushes me through the door into the kitchen. My guilt over what I just did to Mrs. Renshaw dissipates when I see what she’s done to the place.
Mama’s watercolor landscapes that used to hang on the wall in the breakfast nook, the stained-glass sun catchers I made as a kid that she had propped up in the window, her collection of fridge magnets from places other people had visited—all gone. Now, it’s nothing but roosters. Everywhere. A metal rooster crossing sign, stained black from the flames that destroyed her own kitchen. Ceramic rooster cookie jars with the glaze all melted off. Glass rooster salt and pepper shakers that are so cracked they couldn’t hold a grain of either one. Mrs. Renshaw must have dug every damn rooster she could find out of the ashes of her kitchen and shoved them all in here.
A hate I have never felt before begins to swirl inside of me. I exhale it through my nose like dragon smoke. It seeps through my pores like steam from a hot sidewalk. It clouds my vision, turning everything I see as red as the comb on a rooster’s head.
It takes all of my self-control to stay silent as I walk over to the breakfast table. I want to stomp and growl and rip that metal sign off the wall so that I can use it to smash every other rooster in this room. But I breathe through my mouth and avoid the squeakiest floorboards as I tiptoe over to Mrs. Renshaw’s purse on the kitchen counter. It’s a big, ugly sack of a thing with rhinestones all over it, but when I lift the flap and look inside, a crystal rooster keychain stares back at me … along with a key fob that says GMC on the back of it.
I close my eyes and say, Thank you, but I don’t know who I think is listening.
Mama maybe?
It can’t be God. He deserted us months ago.
Opening the drawer next to the oven as quietly as possible, I reach in and take out the can opener.
“Bailiff! Bring out the accused!”
Crap!
The execution’s almost over. I have to hurry. I close the drawer and slide the can opener into Mrs. Renshaw’s purse, and then I slowly lift the bag off the counter. I make sure that nothing inside jingles or rattles as I drape the strap over my neck and across my body. Then, I turn.
And find Sophia Elizabeth Renshaw staring at me from five feet away.
“How did you—”
I dart forward and wrap my hand around her mouth, peeking into the dining room and up the few stairs to the living room where her dad and brother are staring with wide eyes at the glowing screen.
POW!
They both jump in their seats as I pull my head back into the kitchen.
“Sweetie …” I scramble to come up with an explanation that will make sense to a ten-year-old, but as I stare into her deep brown eyes, wide with fear and confusion and blind trust, all I can think to say is, “I love you. So much. Don’t ever forget that.”
Sophie blinks twice and then nods a little into my hand.
“I have to go now. Do me a favor and don’t tell the guys you saw me, okay? They’ll be mad.”
Sophie nods again, pulling her eyebrows together, and I drop to my knees to hug her.
“Once again, I’m Michelle Ling, reporting live from Plaza Park. Today’s Green Mile execution event was brought to you by Garden Warehouse. On behalf of Governor Steele and the great state of Georgia, stay safe out there, and may the fittest survive.”
“Dude,” Carter groans from the living room. “They have got to start making those holes bigger. Did you see the way that guy smacked his head on the way down? Ugh.” I hear the squeak of my couch cushions and know my time is up.
“Don’t s’pose it matters now, does it?” Mr. Renshaw replies as I give Sophie one last squeeze.
I can’t leave through the back door in the dining room because they’ll see me, so I turn and tiptoe back over to the garage, pressing my finger to my lips as Sophie watches me go.
I slide through the door and close it behind me with the quietest click, relieved to see that Mrs. Renshaw’s body is right where I left it.
But horrified to see a spot of blood forming on the concrete next to her head.
My stomach lurches violently, but there’s nothing in it to throw up.
I realize that if I hit the garage door button, Jimbo and Carter will hear that rusty old motor and come running, and I need more time if I’m gonna grab my supplies out of the tree house.
That only leaves me with one choice.
I have to open it myself.
Pressing my vanilla-scented hoodie sleeve to my mouth and nose, I tiptoe over to the chair where I spent most of the day restrained in the dark and climb up onto it.
Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Don’t look down, I think as I teeter over Mrs. Renshaw’s lifeless body and reach for the emergency release cord hanging from the metal track above my head. I tug on it, like Wes did on April 23 when we had no power and needed to get Mama’s motorcycle out of the garage, but it’s stuck. So, using both hands, I yank on the cord as hard as I can.
The release mechanism pops open, knocking me off-balance and causing my feet—and the chair—to come out from under me. I swing from the cord wildly, legs flailing and teeth gritted as I wait for the crash, but it never comes. Just a soft thud. I realize before I even drop to my feet what must have broken my chair’s fall.
Agnes Renshaw.
I don’t even look as I dart past her and hoist the heavy garage door up by hand. Then, once I duck underneath and slide it back down, I tear around the side of the house and through the backyard. The sun is setting behind the trees, but there’s enough light left that anybody who happens to be looking out a window right now would see me dashing up my tree house ladder. All I can do is hurry and pray that they don’t.
I chuck all of the cans and vitamin bottles back into the Huckabee’s Foods bags and give my parents one last glance as I sprint through the knee-high grass toward the front yard. The wind chimes on the back porch tell me goodbye as I round the side of the house. I pass my daddy’s rusted old truck and Mama’s motorcycle—that hopefully no one here knows how to drive—and set my sights on the silver GMC at the top of the driveway.
With my heart in my throat, I reach out and grab the driver’s side door handle, seconds away from being home free, but instead of feeling the door unlatch and swing open, I feel resistance followed by sheer terror when the headlights begin to blink, and the horn begins to blare.
Shit, shit, shit!
I scramble to shift all the bags I’m carrying to one hand as I dig in Mrs. Renshaw’s purse for the car key with my other. I glance at the window next to the front door where I can see Carter and Jimbo on the other side, sitting on the couch, facing the TV. Both of their heads turn in my direction, and Carter shoots to his feet.
Come on!
My thumb grazes the jagged comb on the crystal rooster’s head as the front door swings wide open. Carter’s furious gaze lands on me as I yank the keychain out and frantically begin mashing buttons. I tug on the door handle and push and push and push every rubbery square as Carter leaps down my front porch stairs and runs at full speed up my driveway. The door finally flies open, and I dive inside, slamming it shut just as Carter’s fingers wrap around the edge of it. He screams as I pull harder and harder, trying to get the door to latch. The moment it does, I hit the lock button and jam the key into the ignition.
“You bitch!” Carter screams, cradling his smashed fingers while he kicks the side of the truck, but I don’t look at him.
I shift into reverse and peel out of there, feeling a bump under my tire just before Carter screams again.
I risk one last glance at the house as I shift into drive. Mrs. Renshaw is in the garage, facedown under a wooden chair. Carter is hopping on one foot in the driveway, screaming every swear word he knows at the top of his lungs. Mr. Renshaw is standing on the front porch, using the railing as a crutch while he shakes his head in disappointment. And above the garage, where the blinds on my bedroom window are spread apart, I’m sure two big brown eyes are watching me go.
I tear my gaze away from that house of horrors and focus solely on the double yellow line stretching out before me.
“I ain’t sorry for what I done.”
Well, Agnes, that makes two of us.