Snow On The Beach // R.C.

1.02

I didn't mean to give into Rafe's demands. But I can't always pretend to agree with my brother when he claims not to need me. Not when he had the shit beat out of him and his lungs flooded with saltwater last night by Topper of all people. Not when JJ—fucking idiot—brought a gun to my fake birthday party and shot it.

Currently, John is in bed, sleeping like the dead. He deserves it. He needs the rest, and the sun did only rise a few hours ago—myself with it. I spent most of my morning staring at the ceiling, thinking about nothing and everything. Thinking about DCS and Ward, the beach party last night, Rafe and his strangely forward behavior. Then, by the time I managed to finally pull myself from the bed and get myself ready for the day, I ended up in John's doorway, watching him sleep. His room was shrouded in shadows, but when the sun slowly started sifting through his blinds, a golden ray illuminating his swollen, black eye, I had to pull myself away. I couldn't stomach the sight of it.

Turning away, I pushed up the sleeves of the blue sweater I stole from my dad's closet. Walking down the hall, I dodged stray ashtrays and cigarette butts, empty beer bottles and weeks old pizza boxes. Flip flops; sopping wet swim trunks; tracks of mud and dirt and grass; used dishes; socks and underwear; fishing gear; empty Altoid tins; small, torn open foil packets that I didn't want to think too much about. Yet here I am, standing at the sink after having cleaned everything up, scrubbing the same—now spotless—plate I've been scrubbing for five minutes, thinking about it.

Suddenly, I feel something tickle my foot and look down to discover a cockroach the size of my head. Screaming, I thrust the plate into the sink, soapy water splashing all over me as I jump, flailing my limbs around. Leaping onto the counter, I pull my knees into my chest, watching wide-eyed as the beast scurries across the tarnished wood floors and hides under the couch in the living room. "Holy shit," I whisper to myself, eyes lingering on the couch before they eventually slide to the hallway. I'm worried I woke John.

When he doesn't appear, I slowly uncurl myself and hop off the counter. Water still gushing from the sink faucet, I go back to cleaning the mountain of dishes like nothing happened.

"I think that boy would probably suffocate in his own filth if it weren't for you."

I nearly jump out of my skin, whirling around and wielding the dish brush as a weapon.

"It's just me," Sheriff Peterkin says, a hint of a smile in her voice. Her short figure takes up the front doorway, her foot keeping the screen door propped. I didn't even hear her open it. I barely hear her boots along the creaking floors when her smile fades and she walks inside. "Sweetheart, what's the matter?"

"Nothing," I'm quick to say, brows drawing together in confusion.

It's only when I feel a residue crinkling along my shifting cheeks that I reach up, feel the moisture, and realize I'm crying.

"Is this about what happened last night?" Peterkin asks, cataloging every inch of The Château with her dark eyes and making note of the mess that I have yet to finish cleaning.

"What happened last night?" Attempting to play it cool, I turn off the sink. Wipe away my tears. Turn the sink back on, then off again.

"Cecelia Joy Routledge."

I suck at playing it cool.

She speaks like a mother would to her child, and I cave. "Please, Sheriff," I beg, rushing forward to meet her where she stands in the living room. "John, he— I have everything under control. He was only standing up for himself and his friends, and then things got totally out of control—"

"Cecilia," Peterkin cuts me off. "I know what happened."

I release a stagnant breath. "So then you know that my brother was attacked. He did nothing wrong—"