Free House at the End of the Street by Lily Blake, David Loucka, Jonathan Mostow Page A

didn’t respond. He shook her by the shoulders, but she still didn’t move. “Carrie Anne,” he said, breathless. He was starting to shake, he was so nervous. “Please?”
    Then he noticed the pink and blue marks around her neck from where he was holding her. How long had he been pressing his forearm to her throat? He’d just been trying to keep her still. He hadn’t wanted anyone to discover them. He leaned down, listening for her breath, but no air came out of her nose or mouth. She was dead. After all this time, trying to keep her safe—to keep everyone safe—Carrie Anne was dead.
    He pounded his fists into the ground, punching over and over until his knuckles bled. What had he done? He had killed her, he had killed his own sister. What would his parents think of him now? He started to cry, heavy choked sobs. Tears squeezed out of the corner of his eyes. What was he to do?
    Every moment from their childhood came rushing back to him. The first time he’d held her, when she was just a baby. That picture still hung on the wall in his bedroom. How they’d made forts in the backyard, covering themselves with the old tarp from the garage. Then he remembered his parents’ faces when they’d discovered CarrieAnne lying on the ground by the swing set, the bloody spit that covered her lips.
You did this
, his mother had said, a low fury rising in her voice.
You did this to your sister.
    He hunched over, feeling as though everyone in his life had left him. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He just kept muttering her name:
Carrie Anne, Carrie Anne, Carrie Anne.
    I t was 2 AM . Ryan sat at the counter of an old coffee shop off the highway. His fingernails were still caked with dirt. He couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. He couldn’t eat, couldn’t drink. He wasn’t sure he could even hold down a sip of water.
    He’d found a stretch of woods off the highway and spent an hour digging the hole, making sure it was deep enough. He carefully set her body down inside it, laying a soft blanket over her. He tucked the teddy bear beside her and then covered her with dirt. He had to stop several times when he was overcome. The sadness of it doubled him over. Every muscle was tense and aching.
    He hunched over, pushing the glass of water around in front of him. The waitress behind the counter was tall and thin, a blond girl in a Penn State sweatshirt. She couldn’t have been more than twenty. She kept watching him, adding to his uneasiness.
    “Boy, you’re really working that
Rebel Without a Cause
thing pretty hard over there,” she said as she poured a cup of coffee for another customer.
    Ryan didn’t respond. She went to the rotating glass case, where an assortment of pies and cakes spun around under fluorescent bulbs. She pulled out a chocolate frosted cake with cookie crumbs on top of it, then cut a massive piece. “Here—on the house.” She slid the plate in front of him.
    “That’s okay. I’m not hungry.” He pushed it away.
    The girl leaned forward, studying him. “You gonna turn down Mrs. Hodges’ mud cake? Don’t let her hear you. She’ll get real offended.” She glanced across the diner, where a stocky woman with huge biceps was mopping the floor.
    Ryan pulled the cake back, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the girl. She looked about Carrie Anne’s height, with dirty blond hair that fell midway down her back. She had light brown eyes and thin, delicate hands. He felt a pull to her, but he wasn’t sure why. Even as she turned away, clearing a few plates off the counter, his eyes lingered on her.
    For a brief moment he felt nothing about what had happened that night. He wasn’t fixated on the way his arm had pressed down on Carrie Anne’s neck, or how she’d looked when she fell off of him, her brilliant blue eyes still open, watching.

“I don’t get it,” Jillian said, folding her legs underneath her. “Maybe it’s his PTSD.”
    “He basically threw me out of his house,”