Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
He grips a man by the collar, the muscles in Macon’s back taut and the veins in his neck visible from here. I step, but foliage crunches under my shoe, and I dart to the left, hiding myself behind a tree.
My pulse races, and I close my mouth, because I’m breathing too hard.
After a moment, I hear Macon growl, “Where’s the food we bought your family?”
“F-Fisher had friends over, and um …” the guy gasps. “No, Macon, please!”
I peek around the tree, seeing him shove the man’s head into an oil drum I hope is filled with just water.
The man struggles, gripping the sides and pushing against Macon’s force.
But Macon doesn’t let him up until he wants to. Pulling his face out of the water, I study the guy, trying to figure out if I know him. There are a lot of people living deeper in the swamp who I haven’t met yet.
“Look at me,” Macon bites out, pulling him up again by the shirt. “Look at me!”
The man breathes hard, his legs limp underneath him.
“You’ve had your chances,” Macon tells him. “I’ve been nice, then I was firm, but this is it. You have another drink, or spend money on anything that takes food off your kids’ table, I’m going to kill you. I’m going to fucking kill you.”
The man sobs. “It’s not just the alcohol, man. I’m … I mean … I’ve got a problem with drugs, too.”
“Shut up.” Macon pushes him back down into the water.
The man is one of them. Not an enemy. Macon’s trying to get him straight. Would he really kill him?
He yanks the man out by the back of his collar, shoves him in the container, and I rush to the next tree and then the next, trying to get a view inside, but all I catch sight of is a futon and some light that must be coming from a lamp or something. Macon slams the door shut and locks it, the guy inside pounding against the other side.
“Please!” he begs. “Please, let me out!”
“Three days,” Macon says. “When that shit is out of your system.”
“I can’t stop.” He sobs hard. “Macon, I wasn’t always like this. You know me. Please, man. I’m scared.”
Macon’s hand rests on the metal door, his head slowly falling. His chest rises and falls in heavy breaths.
“Macon …” the guy goes on. “It hurts!”
My stomach twists in knots, and I watch Macon Jaeger stand there. His shoulders shake a couple of times, his exterior slowly crumbling as his guard comes down.
Because right now, he doesn’t know anyone is watching him.
“Please …” the guy pleads.
I blink, a tear spilling over. I quickly wipe it away.
He has to know a detox not done right can kill someone. Do the others know he’s keeping this guy back here?
The guy hollers and pounds, and Macon turns, starting to walk away. His eyebrows press together, and his mouth hangs open just slightly, like he can’t breathe.
The guy carries on, and Macon closes his eyes again like the only way he’s going to see something good is by not seeing anything at all.
Gripping the side of the barrel, he plunges a hand into the water and splashes it across his face and the back of his neck. He walks toward the house, and I slip around the tree, staying out of sight.
But he suddenly stops, and I watch him as he stares at the riding lawn mower left outside with a couple of beer cans sitting in the holders. Trace was supposed to mow the lawn a week ago. I look around at the growth of weeds and grass. If he did, I can’t tell.
And he didn’t put the mower away. Macon runs his hand through the rainwater that’s pooled in the seat.
Damn Trace.
Macon stalks for the garage, yanking the rope off the hook near the side of the door, and disappears inside.
Something doesn’t sit right. Macon’s going to strangle him.
I start after him. I peer into the shop, seeing him hit the switch, closing the garage door, and head up the three steps into the house and into the kitchen. He still carries the rope.
I hesitate.
Trace isn’t home. There weren’t any trucks in front of the house. What is he doing?
I shoot off, heading into the house, and immediately hear footfalls upstairs. I start up slowly, listening as I go.
Their mother stares at me from photos as I climb. She hanged herself eight years ago, two months after her husband died.
But from what I understand, it wasn’t his death that drove her to finally do it. He was simply what kept her alive until then, and when he was gone, she just couldn’t stay. Trysta Jaeger.
Macon’s been drinking a lot the past few months. Not eating. Rarely ever leaves the house. I don’t care if it seems normal to everyone else. It’s not.