Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [52]
Jesus. How goddamn many mice were there?
Do you really want to know?
No. What if it’s not mice? What if it’s ghosts? Or what if those scratching noises are just a figment of your imagination?
My head started to pound, and I focused on getting the valve opened. Either it’d gotten easier or I’d gotten better because this one didn’t take long. Once I finished, I stood and brushed the dirt and webs—cob and spider—from my clothes and proceeded upstairs.
In the kitchen, I couldn’t detect the rotten-animal-flesh odor, but I’d been in the house long enough that my sense of smell had adapted. I crouched in the space where the stove had been and thoroughly inspected the piping. The connecting end to the propane had been capped off, the valve shut off. Despite the difficulty in removing the cap while wearing gloves, I managed. Then I gradually cranked the valve on.
I did one last sweep of the house.
By the time I finished, sweat oozed from my pores. My head throbbed. I exited the back door, tools in hand. I debated on checking the propane tank gauge again, but I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there.
I ran all five miles back to the ranch, stopping only to toss Jake’s gloves and tools in his truck. As I wandered across the yard, light-headedness overtook me. I bent forward, bracing my hands on my knees to keep from passing out.
Vaguely, through the ringing in my ears and the blood pulsing through my body, I heard the screen door slam.
A shadow appeared. Then Hope said, “Mercy? You okay?”
“No. Shit. I-I—”
“What’s wrong with you?”
I breathed in too many propane fumes. “I’m, ah . . . gonna be sick.” I fell to all fours in the mud. The acid in my stomach churned, sending up my two cups of coffee. Half the liquid spewed out my mouth; the other half burned up my nasal passage and out my nose.
I retched until I hit the dry-heave stage.
Through it all, Hope stayed beside me, rubbing circles on my shoulders, murmuring to me. When I pushed back to rest on my haunches, she handed me a towel-like thing covered with tiny smiling ducks. I wiped my mouth, looked at the towel and then at her.
Hope shrugged at my confusion. “I always have a burp cloth on me these days.”
“Handy. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She paused. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you sick.”
“Don’t worry, it’s not contagious, just self-inflicted.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Not from too much liquid fun. I had meetings in town early. I helped Jake and then I decided to run back here. Not a good combination.”
“You’re always bitching at me about not taking care of myself. When was the last time you ate anything?”
“I had coffee this morning.”
“Coffee ain’t food,” she scoffed. “Try again.”
I thought back. “I don’t remember.”
“No wonder.” Hope circled her fingers around my bicep and hauled me to my feet. “Come on.”
When had my sister gotten so bossy? I tried not to lean on her too much as we hobbled toward the house, but she came to a full stop and got right in my face. “Dammit, Mercy, would the world end if you let me help you?”
“Umm. No.”
“Then stop acting so damn tough and trust that I won’t let you fall on your face.”
“Fine.” She easily bore my weight on her left side. “You’re stronger than you look.”
“Glad someone finally recognized that.”
By the time we reached the porch steps I was woozy again.
Sophie held open the screen door, clucking at both of us. “Mercy, you look awful.”
“Thanks.” Puke alert. I dangled over the freshly planted flower bed. The colors swirled together like I’d taken an acid trip, and the sickly sweet floral scent lined my nose, making my stomach rebel.
“Don’t you be barfing on my flowers, hey,” Sophie warned. “Get her to her room.”
“Bring a bucket,” Hope said, and herded me inside.
I think she enjoyed manhandling me a little too much.
In my room, Hope studied me. “Feel like hurling again?”
I managed a scowl. “No.”
“Good.” She maneuvered the eyelet coverlet around where I sat on the mattress and jerked the sheet back. “Then you can crawl right in bed.”
“In the middle of the damn day? I don’t think