Dying for Rain (The Rain Trilog - BB Easton Page 0,17

bike.

Back when we thought the world was going to end.

Right now, I wish it had.

“Mistuh Parkuh, in the face of such irrefutable evidence, I hereby find you guilty of defying the one true law, the law of natural selection. You shall be sentenced to death by public exe—”

The screen goes black as Mrs. Renshaw yanks the plug out of the wall behind the TV stand.

“There!” she huffs, smiling at her son’s busted face. “Justice is served. Now, let’s all get back to enjoying this beautiful—”

I lunge. One look at Mrs. Renshaw’s painted red lips, spread in a wide smile, and I see red everywhere. I let out a primal, soul-deep scream as we both tumble to the floor, synthetic hair and synthetic pearls flying as I wrap my hands around the neck of the woman who single-handedly took everything from me that April 23 hadn’t already claimed.

“Rainbow! What the fuck?”

“Stop it, Rainbow. You’re hurting her!”

“Gotdamn it, child! Get offa her!”

Mrs. Renshaw’s eyes bulge out of her face, but I only squeeze harder, unable to stop myself even if I wanted to. Her arms flail, slapping, clawing, and tugging at my arms and wrists, but I’m too far gone. All I hear is her voice over and over in my head.

“Justice is served!”

“Justice is served!”

“Justice is served!”

I jerk her neck after every declaration. Just as her arms go limp and her eyes roll back in her head, I feel a pair of hands as big as dinner plates wrap around my waist and lift me off of her lifeless body.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Carter shouts as he jerks my arms behind my back, tangling them in a knot so tight I feel like the slightest move might break my shoulders.

Mrs. Renshaw comes to with a gasp, blinking and panting as she rubs the red marks around her neck.

Sophie picks up her mother’s lost wig and kneels by her side, gently helping her sit up so she can place the nightmarish thing back on her head.

“What in the Sam Hill has gotten into you, child?” Mr. Renshaw asks as he hobbles over to help his wife stand.

Smoothing her dress over her wide hips, Mrs. Renshaw adjusts her wig and levels me with a lethal stare. It’s the same look she saved for the really bad kids back when she was an administrator at our high school.

“Carter, Sophia … tie her up.”

Wes

Keep your posture loose. Stop clenching your fucking jaw. Look bored. More bored.

“Mistuh Parkuh, in the face of such irrefutable evidence, I hereby find you guilty of defying the one true law, the law of natural selection. In the great state of Georgia, those who commit crimes against naychuh shall be returned to naychuh; therefore, I sentence you to death by public execution. This court is adjourned!” Governor Fuckface bangs his gavel and points it at the news crew standing in the back of the courtroom. “Back to you, missy!”

I glance over my shoulder just in time to see the reporter roll her eyes in disgust before turning to face the camera.

“This is Michelle Ling, reporting live from the Fulton County Courthouse. This sentencing was brought to you by Buck’s Hardware … because the buck stops here. We’ll be broadcasting live from Plaza Park this afternoon for another Green Mile execution event. Stay safe out there, and may the fittest survive.”

Her tone is about as shitty as my mood.

I appreciate that.

“All rise,” Elliott says in his most authoritative voice, which is fucking ridiculous—not only because he’s a shit actor, but also because we’re all already standing.

Governor Steele stands and almost knocks his microphone off the podium with his belly when he turns to leave. I can’t believe this piece of shit is the one who decides whether I live or die.

Decided.

Fuck me.

Once the camera crew leaves, Officer Elliott blows out a breath and folds at the waist like he just ran a marathon. “Good Lawd! If I had to suck my stomach in for one more minute, I was gonna fall out on the floor!”

Ramirez and Riggins, the two cops who brought me in yesterday, chuckle as they head past us toward the door.

“You deserve an Emmy for that performance, Elliott,” Ramirez taunts.

“Pssh. Please. I deserve a Oscar!” He flips his nonexistent hair over his shoulder as the two glorified beat cops laugh their way to the exit.

Elliott’s smiling eyes land on me, and suddenly, they’re not so smiley anymore.

“You deserve a Oscar too,” he says, his mouth forming