RILEY
Acold breeze slaps my face a second before rain splatters my forehead. A curse slips free before I can stop it. Luckily, I’m the only one on the sidewalk. Not that it matters. The wind and rain are already making too much noise for my voice to be audible.
Quickening my steps, I glance up at the dark gray sky and wish I’d thought to bring an umbrella. Although I can’t hold one up with both hands full of grocery bags.
I’d planned to be home before the weather closed in. And I would be if I hadn’t dilly-dallied in the chocolate aisle only to decide I couldn’t afford to waste money on something I don’tneed. Now I can only hope I make it home before the worst of the storm hits.
I’m still two blocks from the house and each hurried step has the bag handles digging into my fingers, slowly numbing the tips. I wish I’d brought the garden cart. It would be so much easier—and faster—to lug this weight home if I was pulling it.
Better yet, I should have taken the car.
Except the car needs gas, and the account I use to fill the tank and buy groceries was closed weeks ago. The only reason I canafford to buy food so I can eat this next week is because I had a few dollars socked away.
I try not to let the worry of dipping into my savings take hold. Instead, I concentrate on moving as quickly as I can down the sidewalk through the wind and rain without dropping the bags.
By the time I reach the house next to Aunt Bethany’s, I’m drenched. The thin layers I’m wearing are no barrier to the rain pouring from the sky. Water plasters my hair to my head, drips down my face, and blurs my vision. It runs down my arms and pools in my palms, threatening my grip on the grocery bags.
The last thing I need is to drop food all over the ground.
“Only a few more steps.” Head down in an attempt to keep the worst of the rain out of my eyes, I keep moving. “Only a few more steps.”
Forging on, I make it to Aunt Bethany’s front gate only to stumble to a stop. Staring at the closed gate then my hands full of grocery bags I sigh.
“Why didn’t I just leave it open? It’s not like Aunt Bethany can get mad at me now.”
Juggling the bags from one hand to the other, I fumble with the latch on the gate, mad at the rain.
Mad at Aunt Bethany.
Mad at myself.
When the latch finally clicks open, I shove the gate with my foot only to have my ears assaulted by screeching metal. Since Aunt Bethany died, I haven’t done any of my daily chores. I’ve had other things to worry about. Like how I’m going to take care of myself now that I don’t have access to money.
Not even my pittance of an allowance has dropped into my account in weeks.
“Where the hell have you been?” The raspy smoke-ravaged voice, not unlike the screech of rusty metal hinges, assaults my ears, snapping me from my thoughts and my gaze up.
Standing under the cover of the porch, hands on hips, glare on his jowly face, is Warren.
Aunt Bethany’s only son.
He’s never been nice, and since his mother died, he’s only gotten meaner.
I don’t answer to him, I never have, but I can’t stop the compulsion to explain myself anyway. “Shopping for food. We’re out of groceries.”
“And who paid for those?” His tone is accusing, his scowl thunderous, making my hands clench the bag handles tighter. “You better not be using my mother’s money!”
The last is yelled and I’m pretty sure it isn’t rain flying from his lips in my direction. In spite of my resolve not to cower to anyone anymore I hunch in on myself. “I didn’t.”
“What? Speak up, you stupid girl.”
I flinch. It’s not the first time he’s called me a name, and I hate myself for letting him make me feel small. Again.
I’m not stupid. Just because I wasn’t able to go to college doesn’t mean I’m not smart. Walking closer, I raise my voice over the now howling wind and pounding rain. “I didn’t use Aunt Bethany’s money.”
He huffs, his arms crossing on top of his protruding stomach. “Just as well. Now hurry up. I don’t have all day to cart your scrawny ass around.”
I try not to, but I find myself rushing the rest of the way up the path to the house. “Where do we need to go?” I ask as I top the steps and duck under the cover of the porch roof. The urge to shake the water from my face and hair is something I can’t give in to. Not without spraying Warren, and he seems madder than a wet hen already.
