Governor Steele.
My heart sinks. They’re probably all gathered around the TV, watching today’s execution.
And tomorrow, they could be watching Wes’s.
No! The thought practically pushes me through the door into the kitchen. My guilt over what I just did to Mrs. Renshaw dissipates when I see what she’s done to the place.
Mama’s watercolor landscapes that used to hang on the wall in the breakfast nook, the stained-glass sun catchers I made as a kid that she had propped up in the window, her collection of fridge magnets from places other people had visited—all gone. Now, it’s nothing but roosters. Everywhere. A metal rooster crossing sign, stained black from the flames that destroyed her own kitchen. Ceramic rooster cookie jars with the glaze all melted off. Glass rooster salt and pepper shakers that are so cracked they couldn’t hold a grain of either one. Mrs. Renshaw must have dug every damn rooster she could find out of the ashes of her kitchen and shoved them all in here.
A hate I have never felt before begins to swirl inside of me. I exhale it through my nose like dragon smoke. It seeps through my pores like steam from a hot sidewalk. It clouds my vision, turning everything I see as red as the comb on a rooster’s head.
It takes all of my self-control to stay silent as I walk over to the breakfast table. I want to stomp and growl and rip that metal sign off the wall so that I can use it to smash every other rooster in this room. But I breathe through my mouth and avoid the squeakiest floorboards as I tiptoe over to Mrs. Renshaw’s purse on the kitchen counter. It’s a big, ugly sack of a thing with rhinestones all over it, but when I lift the flap and look inside, a crystal rooster keychain stares back at me … along with a key fob that says GMC on the back of it.
I close my eyes and say, Thank you, but I don’t know who I think is listening.
Mama maybe?
It can’t be God. He deserted us months ago.
Opening the drawer next to the oven as quietly as possible, I reach in and take out the can opener.
“Bailiff! Bring out the accused!”
Crap!
The execution’s almost over. I have to hurry. I close the drawer and slide the can opener into Mrs. Renshaw’s purse, and then I slowly lift the bag off the counter. I make sure that nothing inside jingles or rattles as I drape the strap over my neck and across my body. Then, I turn.
And find Sophia Elizabeth Renshaw staring at me from five feet away.
“How did you—”
I dart forward and wrap my hand around her mouth, peeking into the dining room and up the few stairs to the living room where her dad and brother are staring with wide eyes at the glowing screen.
POW!
They both jump in their seats as I pull my head back into the kitchen.
“Sweetie …” I scramble to come up with an explanation that will make sense to a ten-year-old, but as I stare into her deep brown eyes, wide with fear and confusion and blind trust, all I can think to say is, “I love you. So much. Don’t ever forget that.”
Sophie blinks twice and then nods a little into my hand.
“I have to go now. Do me a favor and don’t tell the guys you saw me, okay? They’ll be mad.”
Sophie nods again, pulling her eyebrows together, and I drop to my knees to hug her.
“Once again, I’m Michelle Ling, reporting live from Plaza Park. Today’s Green Mile execution event was brought to you by Garden Warehouse. On behalf of Governor Steele and the great state of Georgia, stay safe out there, and may the fittest survive.”
“Dude,” Carter groans from the living room. “They have got to start making those holes bigger. Did you see the way that guy smacked his head on the way down? Ugh.” I hear the squeak of my couch cushions and know my time is up.
“Don’t s’pose it matters now, does it?” Mr. Renshaw replies as I give Sophie one last squeeze.
I can’t leave through the back door in the dining room because they’ll see me, so I turn and tiptoe back over to the garage, pressing my finger to my lips as Sophie watches me go.
I slide through the door and close it behind me with the quietest click, relieved to see that Mrs. Renshaw’s body is right where I left it.
But horrified to see a spot of blood forming on the concrete next to her head.
My stomach lurches violently, but there’s nothing in it to throw up.
I realize that if I hit the garage door button, Jimbo and Carter will hear that rusty old motor and come running, and I need more time if I’m gonna grab my supplies out of the tree house.
That only leaves me with one choice.
I have to open it myself.
Pressing my vanilla-scented hoodie sleeve to my mouth and nose, I tiptoe over to the chair where I spent most of the day restrained in the dark and climb up onto it.
Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Don’t look down, I think as I teeter over Mrs. Renshaw’s lifeless body and reach for the emergency release cord hanging from the metal track above my head. I tug on it, like Wes did on April 23 when we had no power and needed to get Mama’s motorcycle out of the garage, but it’s stuck. So, using both hands, I yank on the cord as hard as I can.
The release mechanism pops open, knocking me off-balance and causing my feet—and the chair—to come out from under me. I swing from the cord wildly, legs flailing and teeth gritted as I
