The Follower Kate Doughty (general ebook reader .txt) 📖

rabbit and a reminder to support cruelty-free cosmetics,” Cecily chimes in, sweeping open the cage and cradling the dwarf rabbit in her arms. “Who’s the cutest little pet?”

Rudy rolls his eyes and chimes in. “Nuisance, more like,” he says to the camera, winking. “Should have named him Houdini, the way he keeps escaping and getting into my stuff.” The kitchen is now home to the Cole family pet: Speckles the rabbit. A ridiculous name, if you ask Rudy. The Coles moved around too often to have a real pet, but his sister had begged and begged and begged until their parents finally relented—and of all animals, she chose Speckles, a runt-of-the-littler dwarf rabbit that’s always managing to escape from his cage and get into Rudy’s things. In their last house, Speckles had made one of his great escapes and had been found, along with a smelly pile of rabbit droppings, in Rudy’s guitar case. Cecily said that it was his fault for leaving it open on the floor, but still. Rudy gives Speckles a look. It’s cute and fuzzy, sure, but it’s no dog.

“Aw, you’re just jealous that he loves me more,” Cecily coos.

“Kids!” Mrs. Cole cuts them off with a gale of fake laughter. “We have a tour to finish!”

“Uh, as I was saying, it would be lovely to preserve the character of this place,” Mrs. Armstrong continues. From the look on her face, that does not involve rabbits.

Mrs. Cole gives Mrs. Armstrong the fakest smile that Rudy has ever seen, and that says a lot because he’s seen more than his fair share of fake. He knows that the entire downstairs is going to be completely redone. The realtor leads them through the rest of the cramped kitchen that Rudy just knows is going to be made open-concept, as well as a study that he can picture their dad sanding bookshelves in. But despite his parents’ mention of these—and other—potential upgrades, Mrs. Armstrong keeps talking about the original wood paneling, the hand-carved stair railing . . .

Rudy leans in closer to the camera as she leads them down a particularly decrepit hallway and toward the upstairs. “I smell demolition,” Rudy croons. “Lots and lots of demolition. Hey—leave a comment and a like if you want that livestreamed.” The second step on the stairs lets out a high-pitched creak as he puts his weight on it, and he makes a face for the camera. Amber smiles; Cecily gives him a loving eye roll. Rudy tries to keep up the energy; sometimes he feels like he’s performing as much for his family as for his internet audience.

The grand staircase leads to a landing. Rudy can already picture Mom glossing over the cracked paint and decorating it with expensive, delicate vases. A hallway off the landing contains four bedrooms, two on either side, which the triplets have already laid claim to. Rudy’s free weights and guitar are in the largest one, and Cecily has set up a mirror and started unpacking her closet in the room with the best lighting. For my makeup tutorials.

Amber’s things are in the room across from Cecily’s.

“I see you’ve already found the bedrooms,” Mrs. Armstrong simpers as the camera pans over various belongings. “We can head up to the third floor, then, since you kids have already made yourself so . . . at home . . . on the second.” Her smile is too wide. Rudy begins to wonder if the realtor is the reason he feels uneasy.

The third floor is an even bigger disaster. It’s a creepy maze of paint tarps and broken furniture that makes Rudy hesitate. Several of the windows have been boarded up, doubtlessly broken by teenagers tossing rocks, if the few stones on the hall floor are any indication. Mrs. Cole eyes her children and makes a cranking camera motion with her hands. Rudy drags Cecily back on camera to crack jokes, plug Cecily’s upcoming makeup video, and debate the best kind of varnish for the floor. From behind Amber, Mrs. Cole nods with approval.

“Are those cobwebs?” Cecily asks, making her mock-scared face.

“Sis is afraid of spiders,” Rudy says, giving the camera a wink. “But you’d know that from our earlier vlogs!”

“And here’s the master east bedroom,” Mrs. Armstrong says, motioning the family into a giant, derelict room. “As you can see, it needs some . . . work.”

Understatement. The wallpaper is peeling, the floors are water stained, the ceiling is cracked. Rudy catches his parents exchanging a look.

“It’ll be a challenge!” Mrs. Cole says with an impressive amount of fake bravado. It may fool their followers, but Rudy isn’t buying it. Rudy catches her glaring at their father and knows that Mrs. Cole is beyond angry. This renovation is in much worse shape than Mr. Cole had led the family to believe. On the drive here, his dad had described the house as a fixer-upper with character. A little work, sure, but a lot of promise. Mr. Cole was so clearly trying to be optimistic, to believe that this home could fix things. Rudy and his siblings had smiled and nodded along. Even Mom had seemed hopeful.

But this house is a mess. It’s going to be a difficult renovation—and that’s without the financial troubles that led them here in the first place. But what choice did they have? After all, the more “fixer” there is in your “fixer-upper,” the cheaper it is, and the bigger the profit.

At least, that’s what his dad had told them as they drove down the driveway and set eyes on the house for the first time. It didn’t exactly fill Rudy with confidence.

“When did someone last live here?” Rudy asks. “Let’s have some house history!”

“Well, uh, the last family to live in this house did so around ten years ago.” Is it just Rudy, or does the realtor falter? “Uh, it’s about due for a new family.”

“I’m sure it is,” Mrs. Cole says.

“Check out the state of these walls, though!” Rudy exclaims. “We’re going to have to tear ’em down—Cole Patrol, don’t