not her Al Gates. He’d said his game was in final testing stages and she had no idea how that industry worked, so it was possible no news about him didn’t mean anything. The house at the top of the hill sure said money. She just wasn’t sure everything added up. There was something off about him, but she wasn’t giving up. Not yet. Nerdy, genius types were bound to be weird. That’s what made them nerdy and genius.
Carrie Ann cranked the car engine and glanced at her phone. At least Drew hadn’t called with an emergency. She needed to get to the house before the movers left. She turned the AC full blast and drove to her old house, the place Drew and she grew up in, the home he’d never left.
She arrived in time to see the movers unloading the last of the boxes under Drew’s supervision. After giving them a generous tip, she closed the door and looked around the house. It didn’t matter that Carrie Ann had updated the place with recessed lighting, new floors and appliances, because more and more often, Drew closed all the curtains and blinds, giving the house a dank, depressing quality.
She didn’t know how to help him. Had no clue what to do to pull him out of his funk and as each day went by, he seemed to get farther and farther away from her. She’d promised her mother she’d take of him, but she was falling tremendously short.
Carrie Ann sighed at the stacks of boxes in the kitchen. This whole termite thing had been way more trouble than she’d bargained for. All the boxes had been labeled so now it was just a matter of unpacking and restocking the kitchen and bathrooms. She left Drew to set up his new video game, and went down the hallway. Tripping over the edge of a box in the first doorway had her anger spiking, and she bent to shove the thing out of the way. The label read Guestroom, which didn’t make sense since nothing in the guestroom had been boxed up. She hefted the box and entered the spare room. Drew must have packed this because she certainly hadn’t.
Setting the box on the bed, Carrie Ann opened it up and found three towels rolled up lengthwise. She picked up one and felt something solid within. Before she even unwrapped it, the Ruger Ranch rifle slid out and landed on the blanket. Her skin prickled. She pulled out a second towel and unwrapped the AR 15. The Colt 1911 .45 caliber slid out of the last towel. The weapons should’ve been locked in the gun cabinet. Every few months she took Drew out to the shooting range for target practice. It had been one of those things he’d done with their dad, and she’d hoped it would spark fond memories and keep his depression at bay. Their father had taught both of them to be marksmen, and hitting those red bull’s-eyes gave Drew the boost of self-esteem he needed. Most of the time. On occasion the idea backfired when all Drew could think about was finding his father dead after eating a bullet for dinner.
Carrie Ann picked up the first rifle. She checked the barrel. Dirty. What the hell? She always cleaned the weapons after every use. It was Drew who didn’t like to clean them. When had Drew used either weapon without her?
A creepy feeling prickled her neck and she spun to find Drew in the doorway, his face hard, his eyes cold.
“What are you doing?” he asked in the flat tone she rarely heard. He usually waffled between the sad, pitiful boy and the happy-go-lucky brother she’d grown up with and wanted to see more of. “I thought you were unpacking the bathroom.” He slowly moved into the room, nothing boyish about him now. His body language hummed with intention.
“I had planned to until I tripped over this in the hallway. I didn’t know you’d packed anything from one of the bedrooms.” She tapped the box. “You want to tell me why these guns aren’t clean?” Deep down, she had the terrifying suspicion she knew the answer.
Drew’s hard gaze cracked and his brows bunched together as he clenched his jaw. “Don’t be mad at me, Carrie Ann.”
Every hair stood on end. “Andrew, what did you do?” she whispered as chills streaked down her back. She only called him Andrew when he was in trouble.