Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
“ L ook out!” Martha’s voice makes me look up in surprise from the window decals I’m fighting, just in time to see the menacing faces of a string of pumpkin lights flying down at me. I barely have time to do more than register it, and I let go of the decal in my hands half a second before the first light smacks me in the face.
But it’s certainly not the last. They tumble down onto me, the hollow plastic stinging my cheekbones and with one lucky hit, the tip of my nose. I yelp at that one, eyes welling up at the quick, sharp pain of it. Luckily, I guess, the wire the lights are connected to catches on my shoulders and drapes over me like a feather boa instead of hitting the ground. Though I’m too busy groaning and rubbing my nose to do more than stand there while the lights flicker on and off.
“You should keep those on, Winnie,” one of the diner’s regulars says with a chuckle, looking up from her paper and waffles. “They make you look real festive. You could be the diner’s newest decoration.” She laughs at her own joke as I sigh, mouth twisting in a small frown as I untangle myself from my Halloween light bindings.
“So festive,” I agree under my breath, bundling the lights up in one hand and strolling over to the step ladder the diner’s owner, Martha, is still standing on, her hands over her mouth.
“I am so sorry,” she breathes, her brown eyes searching mine. “I lost my grip on them and that middle hook isn’t secured to the wall—you’re okay, right? You aren’t hurt?” She can clearly see my watering eyes as I hand the lights up to her, though I force a smile on my lips so she won’t think I’m going to do something extreme like quit.
Not that I would. This job is my favorite way to get out of the house and have an excuse not to babysit every day for my sister. As lovely as her son Scott is, I’m more of a once a week aunt than an everyday aunt. Besides, one day I’ll move out. Eventually.
When I know where to go. All I know for certain is I’m itching to get out of this suburb of Akron, Ohio, that’s just far enough outside the city to be considered its own town. We even have two whole gas stations.
And a Wal-Mart.
“I’m fine,” I promise, smiling. I know my face, though, and I’m sure instead of relieved I just look a little less sad.
Some people have resting bitch face.
I got stuck with resting sad face.
“They’re just plastic.” I finish handing them up to her and swipe the sleeve of my hoodie across my face to wipe away any tear tracks left there. “I’m just a little delicate.” With my luck, I’m going to have a bruise on my face and look like the poster child for abuse. Coupled with the fact that I look sixteen instead of twenty-three, I know exactly what will happen if I have to go see the doctor about this for any reason.
Do you feel safe at home?
Do you have a boyfriend at school who has a temper?
I let out a soft sigh and smile up at my boss, trying to reassure her I’m fine and not going anywhere. Though in retrospect, I think, as I walk back to the window to slam the decal against it with all the rage of a toddler missing her apple juice, maybe she’ll give me a pity raise if I do get a black eye from the menacing plastic pumpkins.
“His name was Cassian .” The words pull me out of my dreams of a seven cent raise and I look up at another of our regulars who dumps half a cup of sugar into every mug of coffee. Across from him is a woman I don’t know, though I think she’s been here a few times before. The Pancake Plate isn’t exactly booked every day, but thanks to being featured on some guy’s show about unexpectedly quality dives, we do get a steady stream of new customers checking out our twenty kinds of pancakes.
Though no matter how hard Martha tries, she can’t get the pancake burrito to take off.
I can only hope she gives up on it soon.
“He was just a kid at the time. Eleven or so?” the man goes on, stirring his sugar-laden coffee absently with a spoon.
He was twelve, I reply in my head, picking up a plastic bin and pulling the dishes off of a nearby table. It might not be my job, exactly, to do it. Martha’s son is our bus boy, but I never mind helping out. Especially since I know he’s taking every moment to study his ass off to get into college.
“He killed his sister in cold blood. Lived a few streets over from here, actually.” The man’s mustache twitches as he gestures with his head toward the window, as if he’s not just nodding at the movie theater and the gas station beyond it. Half of me wonders if he does know where the Byers family lived, because it’s definitely not in that direction.
“Then he turned on the kid she was babysitting.”
My hand jerks in shock, and spoons clatter to the floor at my feet, drawing the attention of all three of our customers. “Fuck,” I sigh under my breath, studiously not looking up at any of them as I pick up the utensils and toss them into the bin. “Way to go, dumbass.” It’s not like anyone knows, obviously. But it won’t help if I’m being obvious as hell about the fact I was the kid Cassian’s sister was babysitting.
But…he didn’t exactly turn on me. Unless my memories are fake and my brain is lying to me, which, according to my therapist, can totally happen sometimes.
Run, Winnie.
I may have forgotten a lot about my childhood—most of it purposefully—but I won’t forget that.
Not the way he’d said it, with his hand tight on the long, bloody knife that dripped crimson to the wooden floor below us.
Not his ghostly blue eyes.
And not what Carissa looked like in the corner of her room, blood seeping from so many wounds and her eyes staring lifelessly at the popcorn ceiling ? —
My hands jerk, and this time, the whole plastic tub goes crashing to the floor. I watch, unable to move, and it’s like I’m seeing it happen in slow motion. Like if I wanted to, I could just so easily reach down and catch it, instead of watching utensils and plates spill out onto the hard, tile floor at my feet.
The crash of it is just as loud as I’d expected and hoped against. Two plates shatter and a mug handle goes spinning off under the nearest booth. Utensils land like bones, crisscrossed in patterns as if I could read the future in their positions.
But all I see is the impending embarrassment from everyone here looking at me and Martha’s inevitable pinched face when she gets off her stepladder to see if I need help.
“Good job, Winnie,” I whisper, sinking smoothly to crouch on the floor. “Good fucking job. You’re so great at being subtle.” Thankfully, no one here except Martha really knows me, and even she doesn’t know the truth about why I know Cassian Byers’ story so well.
“Oh, Winnie.” I hear Martha sigh in concern, and she kneels down on the tile to help me throw plates and utensils in the bin. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”
“Th-the plastic was wet,” I lie, thinking fast to cover up the real reason I’d dropped it. “I was readjusting my grip and dropped it. I’m so sorry, Martha.”
“No, no need to apologize.” Martha waves it off one-handed, tossing chunks of porcelain into the bin.
“I am the worst,” I laugh ruefully. “God. I can work an extra few hours to make up for—” I break off at a sudden sharp pain in the side of my hand, and I hiss, wincing as I jerk my fingers up off of the bin.
I’m bleeding.
I stare at the red line along the side of my palm as it wells with beads of blood that stay stuck to my skin for a second, two seconds.
Until they begin flowing in streaks down my wrist.
“Winnie!” Martha gasps, moving across the floor. “Oh god! You cut yourself on that plate, didn’t you?”
“N-no, I—” I look up toward the window, as if glaring at the stupid decals will provide me with the inspiration to lie about why there’s definitely blood rolling down my arm. “I?—”
But then my words die in my throat and every single thought goes out of my head when my eyes lock with a distantly familiar ghostly blue gaze outside.
Cassian.
I haven’t seen him in years, but I could never forget his eyes. I’ve never met someone with bluer eyes, nor someone who’s just so…
Well, Cassian.
He’s standing across the street, staring toward the diner sign. His light brown hair curls over his ears, swept back from his face and held there either from habit or gel.
It has to be him.
Right?
“Winnie?” Martha’s voice is concerned, and her touch on my arm makes me look down, eyes wide as my heart pounds against my ribs.
“Martha…I—” My breath catches in my chest as my gaze finds the blood on my arm. It runs toward my elbow as Martha gropes for a napkin to press against the deep cut on the side of my hand, but I don’t feel any pain.
Just a dull tingling.
“Do you see—” My words come to a halt when I look up through the glass again, searching for the familiar figure across the street.
But he’s not there.
Instead, two guys around the same age laugh at something they’ve said, and one of them pushes his light brown hair back from his face.
It’s not Cassian.
Maybe it never was.
“Winnie!” Martha’s loud, panicked tone breaks me out of my thoughts and I look down at her frantic, pale face.
“What?” I ask, dazed and just a little bit woozy all of a sudden.
“Your hand!” She shakes my arm in her grip and I look down at the now bloody napkins pressed to the side of my palm. Admittedly, it’s…a lot of blood. More than I’d expected to see.
“Oh. Huh.” As if drawing attention to the injury is the trigger, my hand starts to sting, my palm pulsing with discomfort. “Well, that’s…” I don’t panic. I never panic anymore unless it’s something worth panicking. “Do you think I need stitches?” I move my hand to peel back the napkins, but Martha holds them tight.
“I’m having Jeremy take you to urgent care,” she says, pulling me to my feet. “Jeremy!” Her voice is loud and in seconds her eighteen-year-old son stumbles out from the kitchen, eyes wide at his mother’s panicked tone.
“What’s wrong— Oh …” His face goes pale when he sees my hand, causing his freckles to stand out like dots from a marker. “Oh shit. That’s a lot of blood.”
“It’s a medium amount of blood,” I disagree, glancing out the window again. It’s probably a good thing I’m so distracted by what I thought I’d seen outside. Otherwise, I’m sure my hand would be hurting like a bitch and refusing to be ignored.
“Can you take her to urgent care?” Martha asks, grabbing my other hand and pressing it to the napkins. “ Now, Jeremy. Go get your car and pull it around.”
“Need any help, Martha?” our regular with the thick newspaper asks, getting to her feet. “I can help you decorate or clean up.”
That drags me out of my trance, and I grimace apologetically. “Shit, Martha, I am so sorry.” I look at the mess of plate pieces and utensils on the floor, then up at her. “I can stay. Let me help?—”
“Nope!” Martha marches me to the door, her grip like iron. “You are fine, Winnie. It was just an accident, but you need to go get that looked at. Laura can help me with decorating. You heard her.”
Yeah, sure, but it’s not her job to do it, I think to myself, sinking into my guilt. My steps drag, and I open my mouth to argue, but Martha shoots me a glare that’s somewhere between maternal and commanding.
“In the car,” she orders, yanking open the passenger door the moment Jeremy’s car rolls to a stop in front of The Pancake Plate . “No arguments. And take tomorrow off.” She ushers me into the car with surprising strength, and it’s all I can do to wrestle my seatbelt from her and buckle it myself while keeping my injured hand in my lap.
“Aye aye, captain,” I tell her with a rueful half-smile. “I’m sure Jeremy will report back to you on what the damage is.” I treat it as a joke, which is my usual, but I’m still barely paying attention to the pain in my hand or the blood.
I’m still fixated on the image of an older, taller Cassian with the same blue eyes.
Though as I glance back at the two men now making their way to a car, I frown and a touch of doubt stabs into my heart. Be real, Winnie, I tell myself silently. There’s no way he’d be here. It had probably been a hallucination of my weird brain. It is near Halloween in Hayden Fields, after all.
“Aren’t you off tomorrow, anyway?” Jeremy asks slowly, when we’ve gone through three stoplights and approach a fourth.
“Yeah,” I tell him, throwing a small smirk his way. “But it’s the thought that counts.”