Cygnet by Season Butler

Author:Season Butler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harper
Published: 2019-03-26T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

Out of the green and into the dim stillness that hangs in my house, almost the color of smoke. The blue light from my laptop seems to make the living room chilly rather than any brighter. Or maybe I’m just still shaking from the garden. Fuming even. I was just trying to help and that fucking septic hemorrhoid . . . And over nothing, seriously nothing at all . . .

I could break his nose. I close my eyes and picture it; my mouth is watering to smash my forehead right into the middle of his fat, wrinkly face. Then he’d shut the fuck up and listen to me. I didn’t even touch them. I could have stabbed him with the pitchfork, I could burn his fucking house down . . . Why wouldn’t anybody let me explain, not one of them?

“Fuck! Fuck them all!”

I squeeze out a few more tears, practically force them, while I scream, heave, breathe, open a new window, type into the address bar. Enter.

The tool I need takes a few minutes to download onto a memory stick. Meanwhile I try to do some calculations: I probably walk twice as fast as Nick. He’s in good shape, but he’s pushing a hundred. So even if he left the garden just after me, I’d still have a few minutes on him. His house is about ten minutes from here, less if I run, though I’d run the risk of him seeing me on the way back. But if he’s still at the garden and doesn’t leave for another half an hour or so, and if I really bolt . . .

The finder bings and I eject the stick—run out of the house, climb the hill up to the road, run hard against the swelling cramp in my belly until I find my hips square with his front door.

His house is just like mine but further from the cliff. Two stories, simple shingled roof, wooden siding painted white, gray door, and big windows like the neighborhood watch. I keep reminding myself that he’s not home. He might be right behind me, though, so I can’t afford to hesitate.

Inside it’s not what I expected. Chalky beige walls instead of blue-gray. No desk, no bookcases. He must keep his computer in the small room upstairs. The word for his living room is handsome. Long brown leather sofa with a pattern made out of tightly sewn-on buttons, matching armchairs, two lamps like the ones in fancier public libraries. No pictures of family, just one long painting of a ye olde nautical battle. It’s not so much that it looks clean, but that it doesn’t seem like it could ever get dirty or messy, or like the furniture could possibly be arranged any other way. But the smell is disturbing, like when a stranger’s car is a little too nice and you regret getting in.

I head upstairs and it’s just where I suspected—across the landing from the master bedroom, a newish Dell with a monitor that’s older than the computer.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.