Frankenstorm: Chaos Theory Read Free

even he couldn’t hear it.

2
    The police are here, Latrice thought as she stood in the kitchen, and you’ve got blood all over you. Get your shit together, girl.
    She left the kitchen, but instead of entering the living room, she went down the hall and found the bathroom. She closed the door and locked it.
    The bathroom was a spacious mess. The clothes hamper was full and more dirty clothes were piled on the floor beside it. An unflushed turd lounged at the bottom of the toilet bowl and towels were everywhere—on the counter, the back of the toilet, the side of the bathtub—except hanging on towel racks.
    Latrice inspected herself in the mirror. She was wearing a navy blue sweater and grey slacks. The sleeves of her sweater had been pushed up to her elbows and her right hand and forearm were covered with blood. There was some on her left hand, too, and it was spattered on her face. There were a few speckles of it on the front of her sweater, but somehow, she’d managed to avoid getting her clothes bloody.
    She turned on the faucet and let the water get warm, then she grabbed a bottle of liquid soap and lathered up her hands. She scrubbed her forearms and washed her face, found a towel that appeared relatively clean, and dried off. Then she dabbed the spatters of blood from her sweater with some tissue until it was no longer visible.
    She’d been watching CSI long enough to know they’d be able to find enough blood on her to send her away for good. But she didn’t plan to stick around long enough for that to happen.
    She leaned on the edge of the sink, looked at her reflection, and took some deep breaths. Then she lifted her right hand and rubbed her eyes with thumb and fingers. A headache was creeping in like a morning fog, gathering behind her eyes. She was beginning to feel achy, probably because every muscle in her body had been so tense for so long.
    Turning to the door, she listened for a moment. The storm still raged outside, worse than ever, a nonstop rumble accompanied by loud rattles and clashes. She heard nothing happening inside the house, though—no shouting, no shooting. She took another deep breath, then opened the door and stepped out.
    It remained quiet in the house as she made her way down the hall. It seemed even the television had been silenced. She entered the living room without making a sound, hoping she wouldn’t be noticed.
    Marcus had come back into the house and was frantically cleaning the guns, drugs, and paraphernalia off the coffee table, moving fast as he swept everything into a plastic garbage bag. He wore a dripping raincoat.
    Jada was finally awake and sitting up on the love seat, rubbing her eyes with both hands and looking groggy. She lowered her hands and lifted her head and her puffy eyes went directly to Latrice, widening a little.
    Giff was at the front door, looking out the peephole. The left sleeve of his sweatshirt had been removed and his arm had been bandaged. A younger man with short, black hair and mocha skin stood beside him, leaning close and talking quietly. Beside him stood a young woman in a long, dark coat. Her auburn hair was short and spiky and Latrice could see part of a tattoo on the right side of her neck. She looked apprehensive as she ran a hand through her hair. Standing several feet away, fidgeting and smoking nervously, was Tojo.
    The tattooed woman turned slightly, spotted Latrice, and turned fully toward her. Her skin was pale and she had piercings in her face. She took off her coat to reveal a blue sweatshirt and green sweatpants.
    “Who’re you?” she said.
    Giff pulled away from the peephole and turned around. “Oh, that’s Latrice, she’s a . . . guest.” Striding toward Latrice, he frowned and said, “There’s a sheriff’s deputy outside and it looks like he’s coming in, but I don’t know why. And it looks like he’s got some guy and a little boy with him. You know anything about this?”
    Latrice assumed it would be unwise to admit