The Weight of Blood Read Online Free PDF Page B

fluorescents making me question if this was how I really looked—raccoon-eyed, sallow, scared; if the real me no longer matched the version in my head.
    I had to remind myself I was only one state south on the map. How different could it be? But the hills were too steep, the sky too blue. Even the dirt was wrong, rocky and red and alien. It was a place where you’d have to watch your footing, be careful what you touched. It made me miss the flat, welcoming expanses of home: the black dirt and whispering corn, the big white farmhouse I’d grown up in, and the lush square of lawn that surrounded it. Here in Henbane, the few clumps of grass sprouting at the edge of the garage were parched and prickly, a warning to bare feet.
    Regardless of my first impression, there was no going back to Iowa, nothing to go back to, so there wasn’t much point in whining about it. A handful of machine sheds surrounded the garage, and behind them, halfway up the hill, sat a small cottage. My new home, I guessed. Judd grabbed my suitcase, but instead of heading up the hill to the house, he opened a door on the side of the garage and shoved my luggage inside. “You’ll be staying in here,” he mumbled. With a nod, he got back in his truck and left. I felt a flicker of disappointment, but I tamped it down. I’d learned from my time in foster care that you never knew whether a place would be cozy or hostile or filled with creepy Precious Moments figurines until you stepped inside.
    It was dark in the garage, and musty, like it had been closed up for a while. A narrow bed sat under the one window, piled with faded quilts. In one corner was a kitchen counter with a hot plate and tiny refrigerator. In another corner was a makeshift bathroom with a toilet, sink, and stall shower, blocked off from the rest of the garage by flowered sheets that hung from the ceiling. The only furniture aside from the bed was a dresser with the varnish peeling off. I opened the drawers and found them half-full of someone else’s abandoned clothes.
    The garage, with its concrete floor and exposed rafters and gritty film of dust, wasn’t exactly charming, but there was one thing I liked about it: It was mine. A room all to myself, something I hadn’t had since I left my parents’ house. I turned on the little lamp and opened the window to the racket of insects; as I listened, the noise sorted itself into distinct whining rhythms like sirens, intensifying, fading, intensifying, the sound of a thousand alarms. With nothing else to do, I got ready for bed and lay down on top of the quilts, sweating. This was it. My new life would start in the morning. I swore to myself that I wouldn’t do anything to screw it up.
    I woke early and was showered and dressed when Mr. Dane banged on the door. He was nearly as tall as the doorway and broad-chested, casually dressed in jeans and a gray T-shirt. I’d thought the farm’s owner would be older, but he didn’t look over thirty-five. His hair was slicked back, just beginning to recede at the temples, and his wide grin revealed lower teeth splayed and overlapping like a hand of cards.
    â€œMornin’,” he drawled, reaching out to shake my hand. “Good to finally meet you. I’m Crete.”
    â€œLila,” I said. “Obviously.”
    He was handsome in a rugged way, with strong features and intense blue eyes. The bridge of his nose had a bump at the top and angled to one side, then the other, as though it had been broken more than once.
    â€œGlad to see you made it here safely. How’s breakfast sound?”
    â€œSounds good,” I said. “I’m starving.” I followed him out to his truck, a heavy-duty model with a double axle and a shotgun rack in the rear window. He opened the door for me and offered his hand to help me climb up into the cab.
    The air-conditioning roared at full blast when he started the engine, and he quickly