Bad Wolf (Wild Men 4)

Okay, I did wake up every couple of hours, my heart pounding, thinking I’d heard something, fear clogging my throat, but I fell asleep quickly every time, my endurance having reached its breaking point.

And now it’s morning time.

No, that’s a lie, it’s past midday, but who the hell cares? It’s a brand new day. I’m rested, I’m alive, and I can think straight again.

Which is a problem. Last night I was too exhausted to care. More precisely, too exhausted to be scared—of everything. Of the men coming after me, of the trouble I’m in, of leaving behind everything I’ve ever known again and of having no money left to escape a second time.

Because I’m not going to rob this house. I won’t. Funny how break

ing in doesn’t seem like that much of a huge deal if I don’t steal. Like it’s not a crime anymore.

I doubt a judge would be amused by my special brand of ethics. Or by any other aspect of my life, for that matter.

Shivering, I descend into the kitchen, intent on raiding the cupboards for something to eat. It’s all metal and glass in there, and although clean, the counters and sink are covered in a fine layer of dust. A long mahogany table and tall-backed chairs are covered in dead moths.

Nobody has been in here for weeks or months, and I can’t decide if that’s good or bad news. Because it doesn’t tell me whether the owners are about to return any moment now, or not. Best would be if they’d just left. Then I’d be more relaxed.

Wishful thinking. You gotta sleep in the bed you made, Raylin, and all that jazz.

And if I’d really made my own bed, if I’d brought this mess on my head, then that would be fair, I guess, but it’s not like that.

Not exactly. Not like I had much of a choice.

Heat rises in my face and I bang the stupid cupboards. I lean back against a counter and shake my head. Who cares now anyway? Too late for angry tears and what ifs. This is my life, and if I can’t seem to outrun my pursuers, well then…

Then I’ll live for now and not care if tomorrow never comes.

That of course makes for a pitiful start to the day, but I’m way too hungry to lose my appetite over this dark thought. There’s not much to eat in this abandoned kitchen, but a thorough investigation coughs up a few things I can munch on.

Gathering up my provisions, I go to sit out on the terrace overlooking the sea and have my brunch. Crackers, a jar of peanut butter and grape jelly, a can of party sausages and three bags of wasabi peanuts. Random, but hey, it’s food, and right now it feels as if my stomach is trying to consume itself from hunger.

Three wide steps lead from the terracotta paved terrace down to the beach, and I sit on the top one, spreading the pots and cans next to me. Having thought of a plate and a knife—go, Raylin!—I stuff myself silly.

As silly as one can stuff oneself with crackers, peanut butter and cocktail sausages.

The day is too hot, clouds darkening overhead, a storm brewing, so I don’t last long on the steps. Not used to this heat. I retreat to the cool shade of the house, where I spend my time hunting through the rooms, trying to imagine who lives there, what sort of life they lead, what makes their world go round.

Not much to see inside the bedrooms. It’s as if nobody has lived in them—no posters, no funny bedspreads, nothing on the bedside tables, dressers and shelves. Maybe the owners want to sell the house. Or rent it.

Unsettled, and somehow relieved at the lack of evidence of the owners, I explore the bathrooms—where I score a few open bottles of shampoo and shower gel, then a pantry where I find some more cans and crackers and noodles, and finally an empty office, the dark mahogany desk bare and dusty. Paintings or framed certifications must have hung on its walls in the past because they’ve left their ghostly shape on the wallpaper.

The basement boasts a billiard room, its table ruined with stains and cigarette burns, and what probably was a TV room, the TV missing from its stand.

So odd. But there’s no “for sale” sign outside. What gives? Maybe they were going to redecorate? Rich people like to do that at least once a year, don’t they?

Jesus Christ.

I decide to take a walk on the beach. It’s been ages since I’ve done that—probably since those faded memories of childhood I can’t seem to let go. Those were happy, innocent times, when I thought Mom would live forever and Dad was a good guy who loved us more than his own life. And Ben… Yeah, I thought my brother loved me, too.

Yeah.

The houses lined up on my right are the stock of architecture magazines and millionaire gossip press. Colonnades, palm trees, enormous French windows, white filigree balconies with view to the ocean. The waves roll up the white sand, leaving white embroideries of foam behind as they retreat, wetting my feet. Ghost crabs run up and down, waving their claws. A fish jumps in the water, glistening silver in the sun.

God, it’s warm here. I’m used to the north with its biting wind. I miss the wind, miss its force. But there’s an ex-con waiting for me up north, set on my trail like a hound, and I’m not going back. Not willingly, anyway. There’s nothing for me there but pain and probably death.

I’m safe here. Must be. A place I’d never have chosen to hide in. Too far from my usual haunts. Seeing this in broad daylight, after a good night’s sleep and with food in my stomach, it doesn’t look so bad. I could stay here for a while, lick my wounds and catch my breath. And truth is, this is the best place I’ve been so far in my life. No roaches—at least that I saw—in the rooms, nice bathrooms, space and quiet, and the beach.

I’d forgotten how much I love the sea. Its color. Its scent. Its vastness. Its power.