Page 46 of Catcher

RUBY

By the time I turn off the main road and cut through the quiet neighborhood, the sky has gone black, thick and starless, the clouds pressing low, a sign of a pending storm. I checked the forecast earlier today, and the news had predicted heavy rain and gusty winds throughout the night. My shoulders ache in a way that has me looking forward to a long, hot bath.

The plan was to go straight home, warm up some leftovers, take that much-needed hot bath, and end the day with an hour reading my book before bed. But sometime around three o’clock, when my stomach starts to gnaw at itself, and the teachers’ lounge smells of burned coffee and someone else’s microwave popcorn, I decide I deserve something better than another can of soup.

So, I stopped at the little Thai place tucked between a nail salon and a tax prep office, the one with the neon ‘OPEN’ sign that buzzes. I ordered pad Thai with chicken, extra lime, and spring rolls because I can’t remember the last time I splurged on my favorite takeout. The scent fills my car with sweet tamarind, garlic, and peanuts—comforting, almost homey.

My headlights sweep across my front yard, illuminating my neglected rose bushes and the narrow walkway that leads to my front door. When I pull into the driveway and kill the engine, the sudden quiet makes my ears ring. I sit for a beat, hands still on the wheel. There’s a sudden eeriness to my home that I’ve never felt before. It’s a feeling I can’t quite explain. Shaking the ridiculous thought away, I grab my purse and the takeout bag, step out, balancing it against my hip, letting the muggy spring heat assault my face. Gravel crunches beneath my flats. The air carries the scent of rain.

Normally, the automatic porch light snaps on the moment I get close enough—an abrupt little welcome that annoys me at first but becomes comforting after I move in alone. Tonight it doesn’t. I slow halfway up the walkway, the bag’s paper handles biting into my fingers. I angle my head toward the porch, waiting for the familiar click and the quick flash of light. Nothing. I take another step, then another, as if proximity alone can bully the sensor into doing its job—still nothing. I look back over my shoulder toward the street, scanning up and down, but see nothing out of the ordinary. A small and sharp unease pricks at the base of my throat. I tell myself it’s nothing, just the bulb burnt out or a breaker tripping. I meant to change the batteries in the motion sensor months ago. I’m always meaning to do little things like that. Sometimes, even my dad stops by to take care of those pesky chores for me.

I fumble with my keys anyway, the metal cold against my palm, and pause with the tip of the house key inside the lock, then I listen. There are no footsteps or muffled sounds from inside, just the faint whir of the air conditioning unit kicking on and the rustling of the trees as the wind begins to pick up.

The feeling in my throat sharpens, and I almost laugh at myself for it. I’m tired. That’s all. Tired people imagine things.

Sliding the key into the lock, I turn it and step inside. The small foyer is dim, lit only by the nightlight I keep there. I use my elbow to nudge the door closed behind me, then quickly lock it.

The second I step into the living room, something feels off. A slight movement out of the corner of my eyes gives me pause. My heart gives a violent lurch. A shape sits on my couch, half swallowed by the shadows—long legs, shoulders hunched forward, head turned toward me as if it’s been waiting for the sound of the lock. My fingers go numb. The paper bag slips from my grip and hits the floor with a wet, ugly thump.

The spring roll container skids out, pops open, and one of them rolls free like it’s trying to escape. The aroma of peanut sauce rises sharper, suddenly nauseating. I take an involuntary step back, my shoulder bumping the door, my mind racing ahead to all the terrible options…

Someone is in my house.

The figure jumps up. My throat clenches tight enough that even a scream won’t fit through it. A hand shoots out toward the side table. I hear a faint click followed by light flooding the room in a harsh, familiar yellow.

I stare at the face I haven’t seen in God knows how long. My brother, Robby. The brother I once looked up to. The brother I grew up with—the loud laugh, the easy charm, the grin that used to get him out of trouble. He looks the same yet different. His hair is longer than I remember, dark and greasy at the roots. The stubble on his jaw has grown into something uneven. There’s a split at his lower lip, scabbed over, and his eyes keep flicking toward the window and then the front door as if expecting it to burst open.

My heart is still banging against my ribs. The fear doesn’t vanish so much as it changes, slipping into anger so fast it makes me dizzy.

“What the hell are you doing in my house?” I manage, my voice low and ragged. “Are you out of your mind scaring the crap out of me!”

He lifts his hands in defense. “Ruby, okay. Just don’t start.” His voice has that same familiar edge to it, half defensive, half annoyed, as if I’m the one inconveniencing him. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

I stare at him, then at the mess on the floor—the bag slumped on its side, sauce leaking onto my rug. “Don’t start?” I echo, incredulous. “You’re sitting on my couch in the dark and uninvited. How did you get in here? Did you break in?”

Robby shrugs, too quick, too careless for the way his knee bounces. “It’s not like Fort Knox. I didn’t have to pick the lock or anything.”

“That’s not an answer,” I snap. My pulse thrums in my ears. I keep my back close to the door, because I might need to bolt, even though the person in my living room is my own blood. “How. Did. You. Get. In?”

He drags a hand over his mouth, the gesture smearing the split lip. “I still have the old key,” he finally says. “From when you moved in. You never asked for it back.”

My stomach drops all over again. I remember that day, handing him the key without thinking because I’m hauling boxes, and he actually showed up on time for once, grinning like he’s the helpful big brother from some other family.

“Give it to me,” I say. I hold out my hand, palm up. “Right now. And tell me why you’re here.”

Robby’s eyes narrow as though my boundary is an insult. Then, with a sigh, he reaches into his pocket and tosses the key at my feet.

“How mature of you, Robby.” I bend down and pick it up.

“Still a bitch, I see,” he sneers.

I narrow my eyes. “You broke into my house, but somehow I’m the bitch?”

“Look, I didn’t come here for a lecture. I just need a place to crash for a couple of days. That’s it. I need to lay low.”

I let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. Almost. “Lay low from what, Robby?” My voice sharpens around his name. “From who?”

His jaw ticks. “Just… people.” He waves a hand because he can’t be bothered with my questions. “It’s not a big deal. I need not to be where they think I am.”