The House of the Wicked (The snake and the raven #1)

11. Nora

Nora

you don’t look, you don’t touch

C arefully taking the two rickety steps out of the bus, I drag a deep breath into my lungs and force myself to shake off the tension hanging like fog around us. I’m in Hell's Basin—in Dahlia Heights—for the first, and possibly only, time in my life. There’s no part of my mind that can afford to be anywhere but here, present in this moment. August’s hand lands on my shoulder, gently turning me toward a brightly painted concrete staircase. Doing my best to follow him, to focus on each step in front of me, but everything and everyone around us... It’s so new and jarringly antithetical to the Port Manaus I know.

The city’s economy depends on a thriving tourist industry—it’s not surprising that the scenes of abject poverty I’m facing are absent from the pages of glossy travel magazines.

Most people who vacation here are familiar with the five-star hotels, art galleries, and the many world-class restaurants. But Hell’s Basin is the easily forgotten underbelly—vacillating between violence and apathy, teeming with parasites, and fragile enough that one well-timed strike can split it all wide open.

Seeing it, being here... It makes me sick. Knowing the wealth that defines my life, that Ricky squanders, that we habitually take for granted, while millions of people exist in an endless cycle of generational destitution, it’s shameful.

Pulling the hood of my sweater up to blend in with the residents of The Heights, I continue to steal small glances as they go about their day, oblivious to the enemy walking among them.

The section of the staircase just ahead of us fills with laughter. A group of children cluster together. Their infectious chuckling cuts through my depressing thoughts as we pass them; they’re playing with a raggedy-looking puppy. Seeing them like this, happy and perfectly innocent, eases some of the dread rooted in my stomach.

August nudges me, a silent instruction to get moving. Reluctantly, I follow him until he comes to a stop a few steps above me on a filthy concrete landing. The view ahead of us is staggering. The flat concrete perch stretches and then veers off in three different directions. To my left is an asphalt football field, someone painted green. I guess grass is hard to grow when the only playground you have is built into the face of a mountain and sandwiched between thousands of informal houses.

August, oblivious to my hungry eyes, moves straight ahead, into a narrower staircase culminating in a courtyard.

I’m two steps behind him when a door to my right slams open. Jumping in fright; August moves with lightning speed, positioning himself in front of me. Three older men walk out of a house carrying folding chairs and a deck of cards. Their smiles are friendly as they acknowledge us with a slight tilt of their heads.

“C ome on,” August tugs me toward the courtyard straight ahead, stopping when we reach a dull and weathered yellow door. “The woman that lives here? Her son is the boy who was murdered.” He whispers the words before knocking twice on the door. Gaping at him in horror, dread and shame siphon any words I’d planned to utter. Despite that, my mind screams that this is wrong, that we—I—don’t belong here.

T he sound of someone shuffling around inside the house grows louder before the door finally creaks open. A woman close to my age stands in front of us, shifting from one foot to the other as she looks over us.

Her hair’s piled on top of her head in a greasy bun that looks like it hasn’t been let out in weeks. If I somehow missed the desolation the unbrushed top knot screamed, the food-stained sweats and eyes brimming with tears would’ve clued me in.

Her heart’s broken—breaking—with a permeance most people will never understand.

Most people, but not me. My broken heart, my grief, reaches for her as she tries and fails to blink her devastation back. She sniffs as she watches us with a blank expression.

“Can I help you?” she asks. God, her words bloom with pain. As if she can no longer remember what it feels like to speak without the heavy curtain of sorrow wrapped so tightly around her.

“We’re part of the team investigating Elijah’s murder,” August lies.

With out a sound, she steps aside, gesturing for us to enter her home. It’s cramped and gloomy, the air thick and stagnant.

The woman pushes the door closed; the soft click of the lock sliding into place, sounding louder than it should. We shouldn’t be here.

The woman walks past us into the small living room and drops onto one of the worn-out brown sofas. Hands clasped, knuckles white, her eyes seeming to plead with August. “Eli was a good boy.” Her voice breaks on his name as she chokes her words out. “He didn’t deserve this.”

“No child deserves this,” August quietly agrees. “Can you take us through what happened?” he asks gently, sitting down next to her, not bothering to wait for an invitation.

“He was playing. He was a good boy,” she repeats. “I was at work at the salon. It’s close by. I was doing Kamryn’s hair when I heard the shot. I knew, I just…” She breaks down again, her body trembling with a fresh wave of sobs. “Something inside of me screamed it was Eli. I don’t remember leaving the salon. Time moved strangely. I was in the salon—then I was there, on the steps. He was slumped over, my baby. God,” she cries. “He was just hanging there, his little hand clenched tightly in a fist. I froze on the landing, just watching, staring helplessly as his blood dripped from one step to the next. Down and down. Like the last of him was racing to find me.” She shatters before us, recalling one of the worst moments of her life.

I turn away, desperate to look at anything but her. My eyes land on a box of tissues, resting patiently on the coffee table, like an anchor forcing me back into a moment I’m desperate to run from. I offer her the box. “Thank you,” she whispers. “He was only a baby. Who would do something like this?” She looks between us frantically, like we some how hold the answer to why her heart is now shattered into irreparable pieces.

“Does anyone else in the house have gang affiliations?” August asks carefully.

She shakes her head aggressively, the strands of her hair clinging to the wet tracks of tears still running down her cheeks. The hushed whispers from the gallery race back to me again. Something inside my heart twists—her denial is a lie. At least according to what I overheard. I add it to my list of things to tell August when we leave here.

His questioning, while gentle and considerate, is also thorough and persistent. Shifting to the edge of my seat, to listen as August unearths crucial details that should’ve been reported to the police. Where had the murder happened? Who were the witnesses? Who should have been watching Eli? It’s odd that he’s the person gathering this information.

As she speaks, my brain begins to piece together a timeline between my visit to the gallery and now, enough time has passed for the police to have collected her statement. But I can’t shake the feeling that this is the first time this woman—Marna, she said her name was Marna—has officially shared her recollection of events surrounding her son’s murder.

The soft wail of a baby fills the small house. It’s so quiet, so delicate, I almost think I’ve imagined it.

Marna's gaze shifts to the doorway at the back of the house. “My daughter,” she explains, before moving to stand.

“We won’t take up any more of your time,” August says before standing as the cries grow more insistent. “Thank you for talking to us. We’ll be in touch with any updates we have,” he says, my eyes dart to him. Why is he lying to her?

Ther e’s a chance he could be looking into this for Ricky, but that wouldn’t include providing any kind of closure to this woman; not Ricky’s style. Marna pulls the front door open, smiling sadly. I want to hug her—to offer any kind of comfort that might burrow beneath her grief to reach her. But it’s hopeless. Someone brutally murdered her child, almost in front of her. And the chance that it was one of my guns that did it causes a deafening, shame-filled roar to thunder inside my head. One I can no longer ignore.

A ugust guides us back down the steps to the bus stop. The smell of fast food mingles with exhaust fumes from the many motorbikes crowding the street. I look over at him, waiting for answers I know won’t come. Not while we’re here, maybe not at all.

Thankfully, the bus arrives minutes later, emptier than the one we took to get here. I guess that not many Heights residents have business in the city toward the end of the day.

This time, August sits next to me on one of the cracked pleather seats at the back of the bus. My eyes close as the warm weight of his hand wraps around mine. He squeezes my fingers gently. An offer of comfort, reassurance. But for what, I don’t know.

T he second we enter the parking garage, I prepare to bombard him with the questions burning inside me. He unlocks the car; I practically rip the door open.

“What was that about?” I demand, fishing my purse out from under my seat. His gaze lingers on me momentarily before he looks away. The cogs turning in his mind are almost audible as he grapples with indecision. How much can he share? Can he share anything at all?

“The shooting was never reported to the police,” he finally admits.

“How is that possible?” I stammer over my words.

“Ricky and King both have police on their payroll. Any murder is bad, but the murder of a child is terrible for business. They must have squashed it.” He shrugs, like this absolute abortion of justice is just a minor little paperwork error.

“When I was at the gallery—” I start.

“When you snuck out?” He interrupts me as he starts the car.

“—when I was at the gallery,” I repeat. “There were these guys there—Knights, I think. They said Eli's mom works for the Knights.” August’s jaw ticks. His grip on the steering wheel tightens slightly as he navigates out of the garage. “So the mom, she was lying about no one having gang affiliations,” I insist.

“Maybe. I mean, we don’t know if the guys at the gallery were right.”

I sigh. “What do we know?”

“Very little. There were no sanctioned Cartel hits that could or would touch the boy. So, either the Knights are lying or Ricky is working off the books. The latter wouldn’t surprise me.”

“But why would Ricky want a child dead?”

“W hy does Ricky want anything?” August counters.

“Leverage,” I whisper. And for the second time today, the gravity of this entire situation falls over me like an anvil. I’ve successfully divorced my work from the very real human consequences of putting illegal weapons in the hands of criminals. It sounds stupid because of course there are consequences. Of course they’re bad. Of course, I exist as a catalyst for this violence. But I’ve compartmentalized. I’ve pretended. Today, that pretense was ripped away. And in the wake of this truth, another one has become violently clear. I can’t do this anymore.

Our drive back to the city is thick with heavy silence. When we finally park in front of the pretentious house I call home, I leap out of the car and race inside.

Skidding to a stop in the doorway of the living room, I blink back the tears threatening to spill from my eyes. Ricky’s on the sofa, his phone gripped in his hand, eyes wholly focused on me.

“Nonny?” He stares as August walks in behind me. “Where have you been?” He looks intently at August and then at me, eyes flickering back and forth as he waits for one of us to answer.

“I had some clothes to return to a store in the city. August drove me,” I lie, before turning toward the kitchen. I don’t want to be around either of them for another second.

“I need to speak to you.” I hear the rough timber of August’s voice speaking to Ricky.

Their footsteps echo through the silent house, followed by the click of Ricky’s office door.

Then my tears come, fast and relentless and unending.

Who am I crying for? I can’t stop wondering. Is it me? Eli? Marna?

Frustrated with myself and the fucking nightmare that is my life, I wipe away the tears before t hey can fall again.

Standing in the kitchen, managing to stem the flood streaming down my face. Well, just enough to make a cup of tea.

Back in the living room, steaming mug in hand, my body sinks into the sofa as my eyes squeeze shut. The pool’s calling out to me, promising me numbness I’ve never craved as deeply as I do today, but I can’t move.

Seconds stretch into minutes, marked only by the waning intensity of heat seeping into my palms from my mug. My mind races, lost in a whirlwind of sadness and guilt, stewing in grief that’s not all mine.

Until the silence suffocating me shatters.

A tormented scream rips through the house. So suddenly and intensely, I shoot to my feet, looking toward the arched entrance to the hallway. The guttural, pain-filled cry rents the air again, forcing my body into action. My mug clatters against the glass-topped coffee table as I rush outside.

Nothing, absolutely nothing, could’ve prepared me for the horror waiting for me in the driveway. I run forward until my feet skitter to a shocked and shaky stop next to a group of Ricky’s men. They’re gathered in a semi-circle around the side of the guardhouse.

Ricky’s with them, a chilling smirk strangling the familiar features of his face. Someone’s lying on the ground, twisted in agony, arms stretched out on either side of their body. Deep crimson pools of blood gather beneath their hands… Hands that are pinned to the ground—crucifixion-style—by two black push daggers plunged into each palm.

Taking a shaky step forward, closer to this violence that defines my world, transfixed by the blood staining the gravel stones of the driveway red. I finally see him. The man whose blood has turned the gravel stones into horrifying little rubies, glinting in the afternoon sun. Bassey’s face is a mask of terror, screams ripping from a primal part of his consciousness.

August towers over him, pushing one of his booted feet against the handle of one of the knives. A 9-mm pistol fitted with a sleek black silencer hangs limply in August’s hand; he drops it, crouching over Bassey.

Time slows. I watch in horrified silence as August pulls a long, gruesome looking knife from the inside of one of his boots. He toys with it, turning it over in his palm before pressing it firmly against the soft skin beneath Bassey’s left eye.

Ricky’s voice cracks like thunder through the enclosed driveway, startling me as he turns to address Bassey. “What happens to men who take things that don’t belong to them?” Ricky asks.

“We take their hands,” Alley answers psychotically from her spot behind Ricky.

My eyes freeze on August's hands—one holds the knife to Bassey’s eye, the other grips Bassey’s chin, twisting his head violently, forcing him to face Ricky.

“And what happens to men who look at things that don’t belong to them?” Ricky demands, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper.

“We take their eyes,” August murmurs coldly, as his eyes find mine.

“You don’t look, you don’t touch, you don’t get a second chance,” Ricky barks. Nausea flares in my gut when the wet slap of his saliva hits the center of Bassey’s face.

Ricky smirks at Bassey, malice burning in his eyes before he turns away, strolling back to the house.