Dying for Rain (The Rain Trilog - BB Easton Page 0,22

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