unForgivable (An inCapable World Novel Book 2) by Sara Hubbard

I cringe when I glance at Mickey and worry I’ve gone and woken him up. He moans in his sleep but continues to snore, puffing air out through his pursed lips. I tense and hold my breath while I try to turn my phone on, like it will make the action quieter. I don’t know why. It doesn’t surprise me when the screen remains blank.
    Fantastic. Cursing under my breath, I toss it on top of my folded, dirty clothes and bite my nails as I search the room and find no landline. There isn’t one in the living room either, or the kitchen, or his bedroom.
    He must have a cell phone. But he didn’t look for it before he left or have it in hand. It’s got to be here somewhere. I search the kitchen countertops and the coffee table and end tables. I come up empty and have to widen my search. Then it dawns on me. Why am I looking for just his phone? Why do I need information from Carrie? I mean, blood is thicker than water and if Damien’s her blood, she might hold out on me when I drill her about him. No. I need to do some digging on my own.
    I return to the kitchen, yanking on every door and moving around junk and utensils and random lighters from like fifty states, looking for… I really don’t know what, but I’ll know it when I see it. Another drawer searched and nothing stands out. Keys, lots and lots of keys. Some loose change, some rank insignia. A faded black case with a trio of medals inside. I hold the open case in my hand, guess what each one is for, but in truth I know nothing about that stuff so I can only imagine he was good at his job. Though I have no idea why he left the military. For all I know, he could have been dishonorably discharged.
    Time ticks away on the digital clock above the stove and I begin to panic, unsure when I’ll get another opportunity like this. I all but jog down the hall, desperate to go through his room before he gets back. He never said where he was going or how long he’d be gone, but something tells me my time is limited. He’s left strangers in his home after all—but then I’m not exactly a stranger to him.
    His room is practically bare. Some clothes in the closet, some underwear in the drawer—boxers, not briefs—and socks. All his other drawers are empty. He did say he just moved here, so I guess that makes sense, or maybe he’s a liar and I can’t check his story. Maybe he doesn’t really live here at all. Maybe it’s a cover. My nerves are firing; panic is building inside of me. What will he do if he catches me? I’ve already discovered how easily he can overpower me.
    What if he has a temper like Uncle Ralph?
    The thought takes me away, back to the last night I saw Mona’s husband. He and Mona were yelling at each other, as they often did. I was in my room, trying to get through my homework, and not very successfully. Their angry voices were like an awful song stuck on repeat, one that I could tune out after a while no matter how much I didn’t like it. Monotonous. I guess that’s how I’d describe it. It was only when it got quiet that I stilled and worried about my aunt. She was a strong woman with one hell of a right hook, but when it got quiet, I knew Ralph was trying to assert his dominance. I debated creeping out of my room to check on her, knowing that as awful as Ralph was, he never put his hands on me. Perhaps even he had his limits and that meant at fourteen I was somehow safe from him.
    When I got to the stairs, I peeked down and saw his hands tightening around Mona’s neck while she tried to slap them away. I wanted to scream and run and get the phone and dial 911. But I was paralyzed. When she finally broke free from his chokehold, she fell forward, coughing and sputtering. Ralph looked up and met my eyes. The coldness inside of him shined through. He was a devil if I ever saw one. I believe it to this day. This image of him is permanently etched in my brain—the look of evil. The look of hatred, of unchecked rage.
    This is the image that haunts me