Dead Silence
Page 69

That was on the days when she actually came back outside.
The other days she just left him there, out on the street by himself. He would wait and wait for her, too afraid to creep to the door and ask for her. Mostly, he would hide in the bushes and watch, hoping that the next time the door opened, it would be her . . . that other mom.
Eventually, night would fall, and he’d get tired and scared. He was old enough to know he shouldn’t be out that late, and the people who came and went from the dirty house where his mother was became louder and more boisterous and more daring if they saw him, hidden among the shrubs. When he wandered home, he’d sneak inside as quietly as he possible, hoping he wouldn’t disturb his dad, who was already passed out in front of the television.
But he wasn’t that same frightened little boy anymore.
And unlike his mother, he knew Colton would come out. This wasn’t the kind of place that took kindly to junkies crashing on their couch. This was a place of business, and they couldn’t have tweakers littering their floors. No, Colton would get his fix and leave.
He ducked when he saw the boy emerge from beneath the neon sign that cast a blue pallor over his skin. It was that familiar shit-eating grin plastered on Colton’s face that nearly made him reveal himself too soon. He knew that look, it told him that he’d already used. He was already high.
Good for him. Bad for Colton.
Colton never even glanced his way. Of course he didn’t. He had no reason to suspect he was being followed. He had no reason to suspect he’d overstepped his boundaries and needed to be taught a lesson.
Sauntering down the sidewalk, taking wide, zigzagging steps, Colton didn’t bother to hide that he was stoned. Yet another strike against him. How many times had Evan warned them, those in his family, that they needed to be discreet? That drawing unwanted attention would only cause trouble, would only bring them one step closer to getting caught?
Colton was a liability.
He tamped down the urge to strike now, right here in the open. To beat the stupid grin off Colton’s face.
A couple walking hand in hand saw Colton coming their way and crossed to the other side of the street to avoid him altogether. Smart. Apparently they could see what he had, the lack of inhibition, that wasted-ness about him that said he didn’t care what anyone else thought, and decided they didn’t want to tangle with him.
Colton called after them, “S’matter with you? Where ya goin . . . ?” His words were slurred as he listed toward them, nearly staggering off the curb before catching himself and shaking his fist in their direction.
The woman dropped her gaze and they both sped up their pace. It didn’t matter really, Colton could never catch up with them, not in the state he was in.
He yelled again, but it was almost impossible to tell exactly what he’d said. It sounded something like, “You think you’re too good for me?” But it might have been, “Y’fin yer two goo fer me?” It was that distorted.
He didn’t exactly feel sorry for the couple; they had no business being out here, not in this neighborhood at night. This wasn’t the kind of place people went out for a casual midnight stroll.
Once they were past though, Evan sped up, closing the distance between him and Colton. He could feel his blood pounding, could hear it pulsing in his own ears now.
It was the same way he’d felt the night they’d gone into Butterfly’s house, the same rush of adrenaline that had taken him over . . . taken them all over when he’d set his plans in motion . . . when he’d set his children loose. As they stabbed and sliced and drew messages with the blood of that other family. Butterfly’s family.
Yet even then it had been Colton who’d escalated things when he cut the boy’s chest open.
But like any good father, he’d cleaned up after them, positioning the bodies just so, setting the scene. Creating the image of the ideal family.
And now he had to clean up again, a different sort of mess.
He waited until Colton turned the corner, just past a house with boards across the windows and front door. Like so many houses in this neighborhood it was either condemned or had been foreclosed on. Something about seeing this particular house though, here and now, made him move faster, made his rage almost unbearable. He might have waited a few more blocks if he hadn’t remembered what it had been like, all those years ago, waiting behind those very bushes for a mother who might, or might not, come out to retrieve him.
“Colton,” he ground out. “Colton, wait!”
The boy in front of him swayed. It might have been comical to watch, except this was no laughing matter. “S’up, man?” Colton’s words were sluggish as he turned and saw who it was who’d called out to him. “Wha’re you do’n ou’ here?” He backtracked, taking long, lopsided steps over the cracked sidewalk.
“We need to talk.” He didn’t wait for Colton to respond, as he looped his arm around Colton’s waist and dragged him toward the bushes. The same ones where he’d once taken cover. The same ones that would hide them now.
But that smile was still there. Stupid and cocky and . . . there.
“We shoul’ go out,” Colton drawled and then poked him in the chest, as if emphasizing his point. “We shoul’ stay out all night, jus’ like the ol’ days.”
He wanted to hit him, to unleash all of his pent-up fury on him now. Instead he grabbed a handful of the other boy’s shirt, trying to make him understand. Hoping there was still a chance for reason. “No, we shouldn’t. That’s exactly why I’m here. You can’t do this shit. You can’t stumble all over town, just waitin’ for the cops to come and pick you up. Stop acting like an idiot, Colton. This isn’t just about you anymore.” Spittle flew from his lips as he shrieked in Colton’s face. He would’ve worried that someone might overhear them, that he might be the one drawing attention, but this wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where others paid attention. This was a place where people kept to themselves.