Crimson Footprints by Shewanda Pugh Read Free Book Online Page B

juice waited on the table.
But Deena could stomach no food. Not before what she had to
do.
     
    She stared at the flimsy
slab of door that stood between her and Anthony’s room. White and
peeling, he’d slammed it in her face in a thousand variations of
exasperation, anger, annoyance.
    What she wouldn’t give for
him to slam that door once more.
    Deena brought a hand to the
brass knob and hesitated. Never had she walked into Anthony’s room
unannounced. There was something so final about presuming to do so,
so irreversible, that her body seemed unwilling to do it. She
turned the brass knob and the door slipped open.
    There.
    It’s done.
     
    The room was stale; the
white curtains drawn and already gathering dust. Air Jordans were
strewn about—an orange and red one near the entrance, its match
near the window, a purple one at her feet, the other absent. Deena
stared at those shoes, her brother’s pride, and a bitter sort of
amusement washed over her. How many times had Anthony declared that
his shoes were off limits, that they would be touched only over his
dead body? How right had he been?
    Deena moved to open the lone
window. The heat and smell of old sneakers threatening to smother
her. His window caught, refusing to open; and she abandoned it.
Looking around, Deena realized she’d neglected to bring a box or
bag for mementos. She headed for the kitchen and returned with a
fistful of Glad bags.
    Deena worked slowly,
gathering and folding his shirts and pants, paying them the
attention that he never did. Her mind was on autopilot, processing
data and giving orders through the ripest pain she’d ever known.
She bagged shirts, shoes and sneakers for Goodwill, before digging
out a pair of Jordans for herself. They were his first pair, as
gleaming as the day he’d bought them. Varsity red and white, the
sneakers were a vintage tribute to originals released two decades
earlier. Deena set them aside. They would join a fitted Miami Heat
cap and a bracelet he used to wear, now in her closet at
home.
    She moved on to his dresser,
an old oak hand-me down with five drawers and froze at the sight of
his keys.
    Air eluded her.
    Silver and unassuming, the
keys sat, forgotten.
    Deena lifted them with
trembling fingers and closed the keys in her fist.
    He’d forgotten them that
night, left there on the dresser as he went to his death. Would he
have returned had he remembered? Would he have lived had he
remembered?
    She brought the keys to her
heart. Choked on a sob. Never would they be used again. Not at her
house or her grandmother’s or anywhere.
    Ever.
    In the end, it was the keys
and that single, unforgiving word that brought her to her knees.
Never would she see her brother again.
    Ever.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    Deena reached underneath the
leather bucket seat and felt for a lever. When she found it, she
adjusted her chair so that the back was bone straight and knees
brushed the steering wheel. With a deep breath, she turned and
looked at Tak.
    “ You can’t drive like
that,” he said.
    Deena frowned. “But, I want
to be sure I can reach—”
    He leaned over and yanked
the handle. Her seat shot back.
    “ I said you can’t drive
like that. It’s too close. Plus, you look ridiculous.”
    She pursed her lips. “Fine.
But can I at least get close enough to reach the steering
wheel?”
    “ Steering wheel, yes,
headlights no.”
    She rolled her eyes. “You
exaggerate, as always.”
    “ Probably. Now come on.
Hands at ten and two.”
    Deena swallowed. For a
much-welcomed twenty-fifth birthday present, these driving lessons
were causing her a fair amount of stress.
    “ Can you give me a sec? I
mean, I’m wrestling with nerves here. You’re teaching me to drive
in a Ferrari.”
    She stared at the instrument
panel. The car had six speedometers.
    “ We’ll go slow. I promise.
But we’ve got to start to go at all.”
    She nodded.
    “ Ok. What first? I’m all
yours.”
    Tak grinned as if