I nod my head and chastise him a bit more. “Sure, you will. Big, strong Sheriff Walker Maddox. Nothing gets past him.”
He slams his hands down, causing a loud boom to ring out. I’m not sure how, but I don’t flinch. Maybe it’s because I know he’d never hurt me.
“I don’t have time for your childish games. I have a job to do, and you following me around is keeping me from doing that job,” he seethes. “Whatever delusion you’re under, let it go. Stopfollowing me and go back to the life you built far away from here.”
Walker pushes off my car door and stomps away. He heads straight for his truck, hops in, and speeds away.
My chest feels tight as I feel tears line my eyes, but I will them to stay put.
Maybe I should just tell him. Rip off the band-aid. But at this point, would he even believe me?
Resigning myself to my mission once again, I shift into drive and steer my car in the opposite direction of Walker.
I wish I could say, “fuck this,” and get the hell out of here, but I can’t leave any of them to face the threat on their own—a threat they don’t even know exists.
Staringat the off-white rusted metal door, I lift my fist for the fifth time and lower it once more. I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing here, but a good indicator is the loss of feeling in my fingers.
You can do this, Blake.
Taking a deep breath, I finally knock. Footsteps thud on the other side, and the metallic latch clicks. The hinges creak as a withered face comes into view.
She removes the cigarette from her mouth and expels the smoke from her lungs in my face. I hold my breath as I wait for the smoke to disperse.
This close, I can see the new wrinkles all over her face. Her skin looks thin and lifeless. The pink undertone she used to have isn’t there anymore.
"Hi, Mama,” I say, interrupting the silence.
“What do you want?” Her expression remains empty as she takes another puff.
Is that all she has to say? I’m her only child, and we haven’t seen each other in years, let alone spoken.
“What?” Mama’s disinterest is like a slap to the face.
“I don’t have any money,” she says.
I keep the hurt off my expression. “That’s not why I’m here.”
She rolls her eyes and walks back inside, leaving the door open. Assuming it’s the only invitation I’ll get, I follow.
The moment I step over the threshold, the smell hits me.
Cigarette smoke mixed with stale whiskey and dust.
Underneath lingers a faint scent of something floral, reminding me that Mama once tried to make this place feel like home.
But that didn’t last.
The front door opens directly into a cramped kitchen. Yellow linoleum stretches beneath my snow boots, the pattern worn thin in places people have walked over often. To the right, the kitchen gives way to a small living room, and to the left, a narrow hallway leads toward the bathroom and two bedrooms.
Just like the outside, not much has changed in here. The recliner is different, but everything else is the same.
A floral couch that should’ve been replaced years ago sags in the middle. An afghan blanket is draped over one armrest. The recliner sits near one end of the couch, and the TV remains at the other end.
The only difference is that everything is more worn down.
The TV has a small crack in the corner of the screen, the couch fabric is frayed in random spots, and the carpet has a black path from the edge of the tile to Mama’s chair that has a mote of glass bottles and other trash. The coffee table in the center of the room is cluttered with remotes, pill bottles, unopened mail, and water rings from forgotten drinks.
There’s a pile of dishes in the sink that looks like they haven’t been touched for months. Maybe longer. The laminate countertops are scratched and faded. One cabinet hangs slightly crooked on its hinges. The refrigerator hums loudly in the silence, covered in old magnets and fast-food coupons.
