Page 3 of Ricochet
“Why do you seem sad, though?” She sobered, her eyes zeroing in on mine. “I thought you wanted this.”
“I did. Trust me, it had to happen.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Wasn’t that the million-dollar question? What was the real problem? What started as a mere crush years ago, turned into a full spectrum of feelings I had no control over. Her brother was the problem, or well, my feelings for him.
“Is it—”
“I don’t want to talk about that, Ava. Today is really not the day.”
Not that I wanted to talk about it ever, at least not with her. She never made me feel weird about the whole situation, but I didn’t want to see that pity in her eyes, both of us knowing that nothing would come of it. I was his sister’s best friend. His friend’s little sister, and no amount of feelings from my side would change that. I just had to get over it.
“You know what?” She suddenly jumped in front of me, hauling me up. “I know what will make you feel better.”
I laughed at her excitement, “What?”
“Sally’s Burgers. And you know what today is?”
I waited expectantly for her to tell me, because truth be told, I only knew it was Thursday.
“It’s Shroom’s Day, and being your best friend—”
“Basically, my only friend,” I chuckled.
“Semantics.” She waved me off, pulling me toward the parking lot. “I know how much you love their mushroom and swiss burger. So, move your ass woman. I am hungry.”
* * *
It was almostnine in the evening when we finally pulled in front of my house, with Ava chattering about the summer days ahead, and her brothers coming back from college. My foul mood had been forgotten as soon as we’d entered Sally’s Burgers, and whoever said that food couldn’t fix anything, obviously didn’t have a nice, juicy burger in their life.
“So, pick you up at seven tomorrow?” she asked, almost yelling over the sound of the music.Doomsdayby Architects was blasting at full force, the car vibrating from the sound.
“Seven-thirty,” I responded. “I need to wash my hair in the morning.”
“Fine, princess.” I smacked her on the arm, her bubbly laughter echoing around the car. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
She slapped my butt as I exited the car, the tires screeching not even a second after I closed the door. One day she would end up in a ditch somewhere with her reckless driving.
Noticing my father’s car in the driveway, the nerves I hadn’t felt for days skyrocketed. I thought he was still on his business trip with Mr. Nightingale? The foyer of our house was dark, not one person in sight. Our main maid, Cassandra, was usually here, greeting me whenever I got home. But she was nowhere in sight tonight.
“Hello.” I walked slowly toward the dining room, hoping to find somebody there. Squinting into the darkness, I could see the table set up, the dinner untouched, and chairs untucked from the table. Did something happen? “Is anybody home?”
Panic started taking over, and I fumbled with my phone, turning the flashlight on. I almost stumbled on a chair, jumping at the piercing scream coming from the back of our house. It sounded like a man, and before I could recover, another scream pierced through the air. With trembling knees, I exited the dining room, slowly inching toward the back area, where the entrance to the basement was.
The screaming grew louder, and I could hear somebody talking. Was that… Was that my father’s voice?
For years these doors were locked. I never asked why, never even tried to check what was inside. For the first time, they were wide open, the light from below illuminating the hallway above. Should I call the police? What if somebody was trying to rob us? No, no, I needed to see what was going on first.
Turning the flashlight off, I slowly descended step by step. From this point, I could see silhouettes, the light casting a shadow on the floor. Finally reaching the bottom, nothing could have prepared me for the sight in front of me.
My mother stood there, her back turned toward me, holding a glass of amber liquid in her hand. My father, whom I hadn’t seen in months, stood behind a man tied to a chair, with a knife pressed against his throat. There was so much blood on his body, cuts and bruises visible on his face. His clothes were disheveled; his shirt ripped across the chest, caked in blood.
Mom laughed at something, and I couldn’t hear exactly what they were talking about because of the buzzing in my ears. Who were these people? My parents or serial killers?
My father inched lower with his knife, slicing the man’s nipple off. The phone slipped from my hand, and as I reached for my face to cover the gasp threatening to escape from my mouth, I felt wetness on my face. I hadn’t even realized I was crying.
Oh God, I was going to be sick.
