The Rules of Survival (Mercer #1)

RoS Chapter Three

Chapter Three

By the time I made it to my front door I was gasping for breath, soaked to the bone, and probably in danger of catching hypothermia. I'd jogged halfway, slowing to walk when the stitch in my side burned relentlessly. The rain had eased up to a fine drizzle, not that it mattered at this point.

Flower beds lining the front of the house were flooded, the dead rose bushes swimming in muddy pools of water. The new look was almost a complement. Having once been white, the two bedroom cottage was currently a mottled grey with entire sections stripped down to bare wood courtesy of the harsh Chicago weather.

I fished my key out of my pants pocket with frozen fingers, only the door swung open before I could wriggle it into the stiff lock. Mycha yanked me over the threshold, slamming the door shut behind me.

"Where have you been?" he demanded, tugging me into our tiny living room and throwing a towel around my shoulders. Grabbing another, he started scrubbing at my head.

"And what the hell happened to you?" He pulled a stray twig from my tangled hair.

"Nothing happened to me." I worked fast to absorb as much excess water as possible. A small puddle was already forming at my feet. It was times like this I wished we had enough money for a heater.

"I just slipped on my way home."

The lie came smoothly, though it wasn't one of my best. Mycha eyed me dubiously, extracting part of an acorn from my tangle of hair. "What, did you fall into a ditch full of angry squirrels?"

I offered him a wan smile while he tugged at a tear in the arm of my ruined blouse. "If I say yes, will you drop it?"

"Depends. If I say I don't believe you, will you tell me the truth?"

"No."

"Consider it dropped then."

Something crunched beneath his foot, and it was only then I noticed the state of our house. The towel I was clutching slipped from my slack fingers.

Broken plates and mugs littered the living room floor, along with the contents of our cutlery draw. The navy sheets Kalen and I hung in one corner of the room to create a third bedroom had been torn down, ripped to shreds and strewn across the threadbare carpet, the mattress they usually concealed tossed halfway across the room. Two second-hand chairs and a sofa had been rearranged, like someone had gone on a rampage and bulldozed them out of the way.

Gaping, I stepped over a plate fragment and into the kitchen. The linoleum floor hadn't been spared the carnage, shards of glass and a tipped over trash can forcing me to watch where I tread. Above the sink, cupboards hung open to reveal empty shelves, two of the doors hanging precariously from snapped hinges.

I glanced at Mycha, eyebrows raised. Though I knew better, I had to ask. "What happened?"

"Mom." Disbelief colored his tone and expression. He gestured at the liquor bottles sitting unharmed on the counter between us; Jack Daniels, cheap vodka, and Teresa's personal favorite, Hendrick's Gin. All cracked open and partially consumed.

"When did she get those, and with what?" I asked sharply. I could have sworn I'd just used the last of our money on the cab ride home.

Shrugging, Mycha used the toe of his sneaker to sweep some of the mess into a pile.

"After she found her car keys you hid in the freezer she left. Returned half an hour later with the booze. The diner paid her salary in advance, right up until she's due back there in a couple of weeks."