The Girl in the Rain (Deep Waters Book 1)
Table of Contents
Book Description
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
The Girl in the Rain
Deep Waters Book 1
L.G. Davis
L.G. Davis
Contents
Book Description
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
About the Author
Copyright © 2017 by L.G. Davis
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Editing: Mitzi Carroll
Book Description
Some nightmares are impossible to awaken from...
Two years ago, Paige Wilson made what she thought was the right decision. That decision was the gunshot that cracked through the silent night air and sent her brother, Ryan, sinking to the ground in a pool of blood. The gunshot that darkened both their worlds.
Now Ryan is stuck in a wheelchair but refuses to accept the life of a paraplegic. His idea of fun is coming up with new ways to torment Paige. She’s responsible for what happened to him that night, and he will not let her live her life when his is on pause.
Pushed to her limits, Paige wants to walk away, to turn her back on the evil that lurks behind her brother's gunmetal eyes, but when she takes steps toward getting her life back, bad things happen.
Even if she manages to break away, how far can she possibly run before guilt stabs her in the back?
*The Girl in the Rain is book 1 in a two-book serial.*
Prologue
The man on the other side of the door resembles a stranger. With greasy, disheveled chestnut hair and an unkempt beard, he could be older than his twenty-two years. But the unusual gunmetal gray eyes are the same as my late mother’s.
My brother, Ryan, is back in Corlake, Florida, bringing with him feelings of disappointment and hurt, but also relief.
He never stays in one place for long. When he disappears, it’s often out of the blue. One minute he’ll be heading out to buy eggs for breakfast at Simple Joe’s down the road; the next, he calls me from a pay phone in some unknown town in Mexico. When he returns, it’s usually because he needs more money than what I wire to his account every month.
Shortly before he left town six months ago, we had a major blowout, when I discovered he stole money from me, minutes after I’d given him most of what I had left for the month.
But he’s my brother, my responsibility. I’d rather give him the money than have him get it elsewhere illegally and ending up in prison like our father.
I’m five years older than Ryan, and I’d just turned nineteen when Mom died. The day of the funeral, I promised Ryan I would take care of him, and do a better job than our parents ever did.
The first years were tough as I worked multiple part-time jobs to care for my depressed brother while pursuing a distance, scholarship-financed degree in education and mathematics, determined to build a solid future for us.
I never once wavered on my promises to him. But it hurts when Ryan now uses those very promises to take advantage of me.
I force air into my lungs, my hand tight around the door handle. Then I allow a smile to curl my lips.
Six months is a long time. Maybe he’s changed. If he hasn’t, he’s in for a great surprise. Things are no longer the way he left them.
In the time he was away, I did a lot of thinking that led me to decide I no longer want to be his personal cash cow.
I swing open the door.
Ryan’s dilated eyes sparkle as he opens his arms wide. I fight the urge to gag when the stench of stale alcohol and cigarettes plugs my nostrils. “Long time no see, Sis. Did you miss me?” He draws me into a tight hug, pressing my cheek to the hardware attached to his rough leather jacket.
I squeeze him back. As much as I dread having him around, he’s the only family I’ve got, and I love him so much it hurts sometimes. Beneath the layers of disappointment at the direction he’s chosen to go with his life, relief washes over me that he’s alive and not rotting in a ditch or a prison somewhere.
He pulls back and grins down at me from his towering height that he inherited from our father.
When I look into his eyes, I see my mother—images of a wasted life. In the depths of his gaze, I detect broken shards of glass floating in pools of gray.
My mother never tired of telling me that I inherited my grandmother’s plain looks, including her china-blue eyes. It disappointed her that I didn’t inherit her supermodel good looks that earned her the title of Miss Florida, before everything came crashing down. Her words never bothered me. I decided then that I’d rather be plain than fall into a bottle of booze to drown my sorrows brought on by the fear of aging and fading looks.
I wish I could reach into Ryan’s eyes and pick up the shards of glass and piece them back together.
“Ryan, of course I missed you. I …” I glance past his left shoulder at the white Toyota parked on the curb outside the gate of our small townhouse that our mother had won years ago, along with the Miss Florida title. A man with a full beard and a mohawk hairstyle leans out of the driver’s side, plumes of cigarette smoke distorting his features. The end of the cigarette glows as he drags on it. In the passenger’s seat is another guy. Both are staring in our direction. They make me feel uneasy somehow.
“Who are those people?” My eyebrows draw together. “And where have you been for six months?”
“Where have I been? Here and there.”
“Who are those men, Ryan? They look … They look dangerous.”
Ryan glances over his shoulder at the car. When he returns his gaze to me, the smile has melted from his face. He shrugs. “Just people I hang out with.” He jams his hands into his jeans pockets. “They gave me a ride here.”
“Why are they still here?” I whisper.
“I owe them a little money, that’s all. As soon as I give it to them, they’ll be gone.”
I cross my arms in front of my chest. “Ryan, when will you stop owing people money?”
“Don’t be like that, Sis.” He leans against the doorframe. “I’ve had a long day, and I’m not in the mood for a lecture.”
“I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable to hear some truths,” I
say between clenched teeth. “But you’re here because you want money, aren’t you?”
“Are you saying you won’t give it to me?”
“Not if you’re going to give it to those guys.” I’m talking to him, but my eyes are on the Mohawk Guy. “When I give you money, it’s for you, not for anyone else. And not for spending on booze.” My shoulders sag. “I can’t do it anymore, Ryan. What about all the money I send you every month?”
“Look, I know we parted on bad terms last time. I’m sorry, okay? You have to forgive me. We’re family. Each other is all we’ve got.” His mouth stretches into a thin line. “Help me out one last time. I really need your help, Sis.”
Unable to stand the creepy stares from the Toyota, I wrap my hand around one of Ryan’s firm biceps and pull him into the house. The door slams behind us as I turn on him. “How much do you owe them?”
“Don’t look at me that way.” He touches my cheek with the tip of a calloused finger. “You know I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”
“Every time you ask me for money you claim it’s important. It’s my money. I deserve answers. How much, Ryan?”
He throws his hands into the air and drops them at his sides. “Way to go, Sis. Rub it in my face. You just have to make me feel bad, don’t you? How many times have I thanked you for everything you do for me?”
“Let me think.” I tap my lips with a forefinger. “That would be never.”
“I may not have said it in words, but you know I’m thankful. You know that, don’t you?” He scratches one side of his face. “Will you give me the money or not?”
“This has to stop. You’re twenty-two years old.” I form a steeple with my hands, my fingertips touching the place under my chin. “You’re old enough to get a job and look after yourself. I don’t mind financing a better future for you. If you tell me you want money to go back to school, I’d do everything in my power to help you. I’d take on extra jobs if I have to. But I can’t finance this dangerous lifestyle you’re leading. I barely make enough on my salary to pay the bills and the debts Mom left behind.”
“You know what?” His upper lip curls as the words shoot out of his mouth. “Forget it. I’ll get the money from someplace else.” He grabs the door handle, but instead of opening the door, he leans forward, pressing his forehead against the slab of wood.
I blink away tears and place a hand on his shoulder.
He shrugs me off. “Get your hands off me.”
“Ryan, I’m just trying to help you. I’m doing this because I love you.”
“To hell with your love and money.” With that, he yanks the door open and stomps out, his boots thudding against the cobblestone path all the way to the rusty gate.
I remain in the doorway, watching as he kicks the gate open and bends down to exchange words with Mohawk Guy. The guy tosses out his cigarette and bares his teeth at Ryan.
In response, Ryan slams a hand on the hood of the car, then turns his back to him. He walks back through the gate and glances back at Mohawk Guy in time to see him draw a finger across his throat.
A shudder ripples through me as I watch my brother walk toward me.
Thank God, Ryan won’t be leaving with them.
When Ryan makes it to the middle of the path, a sharp crack splits the night air.
Ryan sinks to the ground as if in slow motion. I never even saw Mohawk Guy pull out the gun.
My scream is drowned out by the grunt of the car engine as the Toyota peels away from the curb and shoots out of sight in a screech of tires. As it disappears into the night, I run to Ryan. The pit of my stomach falls at the same time I drop to his side, small stones digging through the thin fabric of my satin pajamas and into my knees.
A pool of blood spreads around him. Its surface glints in the moonlight like that of a stunning Burmese ruby’s. But nothing could be uglier than this moment.
Chapter 1
At two p.m. my students gather their belongings and jump to their feet. Backpacks are zipped shut, chairs scrape the floor, and sneakers squeak in the rush to escape the classroom. In the hallway, their murmurs merge with the sounds of lockers slamming shut.
Swept away by a wave of excitement that accompanies the end of a school day, they don’t wait for me to wish them a good day. All that stays behind as a sign of their earlier presence are the fading scents of smelly shoes, sweet lip gloss, and hairspray.
As usual, I stroll down the desk aisles, picking up crumpled papers and abandoned stationary, pushing in chairs and straightening desks. I pick up an abandoned algebra textbook and stare at it for a moment. My mind drifts to the past.
My love for math started in childhood. On rare occasions when my father was not high or drunk, we’d spent hours doing sums and completing Sudoku puzzles.
Who would have thought my love for numbers would keep me going when things got tough, that it would be a shield I’d use to protect myself from pain, disappointment, rejection, and loss. Math is the only constant in my life—the one thing I can count on to remain the same.
The thrill of taking on complicated equations always leaves me excited. I try to instill that same excitement into my students. I want them to embrace math instead of letting it intimidate them.
Back at my desk, I drop into my cushioned chair and cradle my head in my hands, my loose caramel locks falling to the table in waves.
Most of the teaching staff will leave the school grounds by four p.m. Not me. I’m often the last one to leave, no earlier than six on most days.
At the mere thought of going home to face Ryan, a suffocating sensation tightens my throat. Work is my escape, my chance to breathe again when the air at home is just too thick.
My head snaps up when the door to my classroom swings open and Thalia Norman walks in, her long, shiny braids swinging from side to side as she approaches my desk. As usual, she carries with her the scent of ripe peaches and bergamot.
She’s two years older than me—a history teacher—and my friend since my first day of work at Baxter Junior High School or BJHS, as most call it.
It never ceases to surprise me how she continues to be my friend, even during times when I’m incapable of being the friend she deserves, which is most of the time. But she’s always there, always ready to listen, even when I don’t say a word.
She perches on the edge of my desk, crosses her long, jean-clad legs, and observes me for a moment, eyes narrowed. “You look like hell.”
“Thank you.” I don’t feel the smile I give her.
“I mean it, Paige. You’re in need of a little pampering.”
Thalia is the true definition of a girly girl. She treats herself to manicures and pedicures and getting a massage and a facial at least once a month.
It’s not that I don’t like those things; it’s just that I don’t have the money for it, and even if I did, I can’t stand the stab of guilt that accompanies my indulgence.
On the other hand, Thalia doesn’t have the kinds of responsibilities I do. She can afford to treat herself, to enjoy the money she makes, to do what feels good to her. Unmarried, and without kids or mounting debts, what she earns is hers to splurge on what she wants.
“You’re right. Getting pampered would probably do me good, but I can’t afford it.” I occupy myself with tidying my desk, picking up the pens and dropping them into my black mug, emptying the plastic homework tray.
The topic of money makes me uncomfortable. It’s the one thing that tortures me on a daily basis.
“Who said you have to pay for it?” Thalia jumps off the desk and removes a cream envelope from her back pocket. She waves it in the space between us. “Look what I’ve got here.”
“What’s that?”
The palm of her hand meets her smooth, chocolate forehead. “Don’t tell me you forgot your birthday again.”
“Oh, that.” I shrug. “Actually, I didn’t forget. I just don’t think it’s a big deal.”
“Stop that.” She throws me a stern look. “You hav
e to quit putting your needs on the back burner. I get that Ryan needs you, but it’s okay and healthy to think about yourself once in a while.”
“You know I don’t make a big deal about my birthday,” I say. “What’s the point of celebrating it when the life I’m given sucks?” I throw my hands in the air. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to vent.” I take the envelope from her, one of many she’d given me in the last five years. “Thank you for this. I mean it.”
“I hope things get better for you, sweetie.” Thalia lays a hand on my shoulder. “If it’s too overwhelming to care for Ryan, maybe you should consider getting him help.”
“I can’t do that.” I square my tense shoulders. “He’s my brother. I can’t discard him just like that.”
“It won’t be just like that.” Thalia crosses her arms, wrinkling her violet silk shirt. “The truth is, I don’t think he’d be so reliant on you if he didn’t drink so much.”
“He drinks because he’s miserable, and I’m responsible for making him that way.”
“But he drank even before he got into that wheelchair.”
I lower the envelope she just gave me in one of my desk drawers before locking it. I lean back in my chair. “He’ll feel as though I’m pushing him out of my life, and I don’t want him to ever feel abandoned. This is the life I signed up for, Thalia.”
“But there are so many wheelchair-bound people living normal, happy lives. Ryan can have that if he wants. But does he really?”
“I just don’t want to lose him. I almost did when that bullet hit his head.” It’s been two years, and in my moments of stillness, I still hear the crack in the air as the bullet that changed our lives sliced through it to get to Ryan. I still see my brother sinking to the ground like a rag doll. For a few terrifying seconds at the hospital that night, his heart had stopped beating. The doctors said he’s lucky to be alive. He doesn’t feel that way.
I didn’t care whether he survived with a spinal cord injury, I was just glad to have him back. And I promised myself I would do everything to take care of him, to make it all better. I’d never have forgiven myself if he’d died.