Read Online The Twice Lost by Sarah Porter - Free Book Online

Got ruled a suicide. I’m real sorry.”
    Andrew stopped searching the kitchen and paced over to his brother’s sagging figure. For a long moment he simply stood over him, too close, staring down into Peter’s worried eyes. “Well. That is bad news, Peter. My sweet little Luce a suicide.”
    Peter slumped a little deeper with what looked like relief. “I didn’t know how to break it to you,” he agreed.
    “I can see it would be a hard thing to say. But you manned right up and told me the truth. I appreciate that.”
    Peter was nodding eagerly. “Had to do it.”
    “Yeah. Now it’s my turn. I’ve got some even worse news I need to tell you. I’m afraid it’s gonna hurt.” Andrew was standing even closer to his brother. His arms were swinging lightly.
    “I . . . What news?”
    “Luce didn’t die.”
    A swarm of conflicting expressions buzzed through Peter’s face. At first they were mostly variations on confusion, but as he felt his body heaving out of the chair and crashing backwards onto the floor, there was a lot more terror in the mix. Then Andrew was on top of him, knee on Peter’s chest, fists slamming down into his rubbery cheeks. Andrew punched again, feeling a few teeth break, while Peter’s heavy body flopped and grunted below him. It would have been more satisfying if only Peter had done a better job of defending himself. He tried to swing at Andrew’s head, but his blows were limp and disjointed, slapping like damp frogs.
    It should have been a great moment, Andrew knew, making his creep of a brother pay for what he’d done to Luce. He’d been looking forward to it. But somehow in practice it came as a disappointment. His revenge felt as mushy and pathetic as his brother’s doughy flesh jiggling under his knuckles. Andrew hit Peter again, harder, hoping that savagery would help cancel out the disgust he felt. The bridge of Peter’s nose snapped.
    In fact, Andrew felt more like vomiting than anything.
    He stopped punching and stayed where he was for a minute, half kneeling on his brother’s chest, staring around the room. He’d faked looking for Luce before, but now he searched for her in earnest, desperately wishing she’d walk out of the shadows—
walk
out, on legs, the way a young girl ought to do—and gently pull him to his feet again. Peter was gasping, struggling uselessly. Andrew toyed with the idea of strangling him. He’d pretty much planned on it. He didn’t doubt that his brother deserved to die, and he didn’t care at all about the consequences. It was just . . .
    It was just too sad.
    Killing Peter would be too sad, too senseless.
    “I should rip your throat out,” Andrew said to the twitching mass under his knee, but his voice didn’t have much conviction. “I should throw your dirtbag of a corpse off the same damn cliff where you left my little girl after you tried to
rape
her. I should . . .” There was a rivulet of blood dribbling from Peter’s swollen lips, pooling on the green linoleum. At least, Andrew thought, he’d accomplished
that
much before punking out.
    Andrew got up heavily, walked to the cabinets, and picked out a can of chili. He started poking through the drawers for a can opener. Behind him Peter made slobbery noises and spat out his teeth. Andrew didn’t bother turning around.
    “Andrew . . .” The tone wasn’t what Andrew would have expected. It was high and soft.
    Andrew still didn’t look back. “Yeah?”
    “She’s . . . really alive? Luce is really . . . she’s really alive? You’re not
shitting
me?”
    “I just saw her. About four-five weeks ago, now.” He dumped the chili into a pot and fired up a burner, flicking the match into the sink. “She was a lot less dead than I am, for sure.”
    The slobbery noise got louder. “Where the hell
is
she, then?” Peter’s voice kept getting higher, whinier. “Little girl just
ran
off and made me think . . . Didn’t even call. Is she coming home?”
    “Is that what you