Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
I ’m at the door before Lou can open it, though her hand is out for the knob when I pull it open in her face. “Is Scott okay?” she asks immediately, brushing past me into the house.
“He’s totally fine. And he doesn’t know,” I murmur, not wanting her to say something that’s going to freak her son out more than he already is. “He and Reagan are in the back playing with Roscoe.”
“Reagan’s still here?” Lou seems a little surprised by that. “Did you ask her to come over?”
“No. I think I missed some calls from her yesterday and she showed up last night to see if I was okay.” I flex my hand, wincing at the sharp twinge of the stitches in my palm. “She stayed the night. Sorry. I really should’ve texted you.” A touch of guilt makes me bite my lip, and I hesitate. “Are you mad?”
“Hmm?” Lou looks at me, her attention already glued to the scene across the street. Dan is over there, looking jovial and polite as he talks to one of the cops. “No, you know I’m fine with Reagan. She babysits when you can’t.” Her words are absent and distracted, but I still breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t want her mad at me for letting Reagan in. And if I would’ve thought better about it, I would’ve told her last night. Unfortunately, I’d been freaking out over the person behind their yard.
And today is…not great.
“I can’t believe this,” my half-sister murmurs. “I don’t understand what could’ve happened. You really think it was…?” She glances my way and I shrug. “Maybe it was an accident. You know Lacey isn’t exactly the most responsible kid. Plus she started drinking last year. That’s what her mom told Dan, anyway.”
“I don’t know what kind of accident would’ve left that much blood. Unless she fell down the stairs and hit every step on the way down. And uh, they were covered in knives?” When Lou looks my way, I grin nervously. “Sorry.”
“No, don’t be.” She shifts from one foot to the other. “I need to get our bags out of the car and figure out what I’m going to tell Scott. There’s no way he won’t ask everyone in the neighborhood, and I’d rather he hear it from us.”
Heading for the door, I shake my head. “I don’t envy you.” With my hand on the knob, I hesitate. “Lou?” She looks over at me, still glued to the window and the sight across the street.
“Hmm?” Distracted is an understatement, judging by the way her eyes keep darting back to the glass. “Something wrong? Well, more wrong than this?”
I don’t answer right away. My fingers tap against the heavy door, and I reconsider my words. “Scott, umm.” God, this is a hard subject to bring up. “He asked about Dad. My dad.”
That does the trick. She lets the curtain fall back into place and turns to look at me fully. I can feel her heavy gaze on me as I press my forehead against the door and tap my fingers in an incessant rhythm against the wood. “Oh,” Lou finally murmurs. “What did he ask?”
“He asked what happened to him. That’s the important part, anyway.” But I still don’t look at her. I can’t. Not when we’re talking about this. “I told him it was an accident, but I didn’t give him any details. Seriously, I was trying to be as vague as humanly possible.” I give her a tight, wry smile before dropping my hand to my side.
“It was an accident, Winnie,” my sister is quick to assure me. She crosses the room and wraps her arms around my shoulders, dragging me into a tight hug. “You were a kid, it wasn’t your fault. It was just…an accident.”
But I don’t reply. I stare over her shoulder at the window; able to see the cops standing outside the Clarkes’ door through a small gap in the fabric.
Lou can say it was an accident all she wants. At this point, I’m convinced it’s to make herself feel better, not me.
Because deep down she knows the truth that I’ve never denied, except in public when someone asks and I just want the question and the attention to go away.
It wasn’t an accident.
I’d planned it, found Dad’s gun, unlocked it, and waited for him to get home. But that night, before he could hurt me, I’d make sure he could never touch me again.
It wasn’t an accident.
And I don’t regret it, no matter what Lou or my mom want to think.
“I’m home.” My voice rings out in the open concept first floor of my mom’s house, and the only answer is the soft sound of Doom’s bell as the large, tabby cat comes trotting out of the kitchen. “Hey, Doom.” I sigh, kneeling down and running my hand over his ears. “Did you piss off Gloom, hmm?” Though I’m not surprised Doom’s sister isn’t out here right now; she isn’t exactly social, after all.
Neither of my ex-feral cats are, but Doom has warmed up to me specifically enough to get love on his terms. Rising to my feet, I drop my things on the sofa, not minding that Mom won’t be home until Monday. This way I can leave some stuff lying around and not feel bad about her looking pointedly at whatever is out of place. As per usual, I’ll become a whirlwind Sunday night to clean up everything before she gets home.
I’m exhausted, even though it’s barely noon. And if I’d been thinking about taking today as a lazy day before, the events of this morning have only solidified that for me. In fact, I barely make it through feeding the cats and rummaging through the dangers of the fridge for a snack before I face-plant my bed with a groan.
The soft sound of my phone going off to alert me to a text makes that groan louder, longer, and more pitiful. “It can wait,” I grumble to absolutely no one, seeing as I’m alone here. “Literally anything can wait.” Well, anything except rolling over and sitting up with my bag of Cheetos beside me. I drag my computer onto my lap and open it, wondering if Lacey’s death has made it to the news yet. While I know there won’t be a ton of information, or maybe any, in a news report online…there might be something, at least.
Maybe they’ll confirm whether Lacey was actually murdered. But no matter how hard I look or how I search, there’s nothing in the Akron news or Hayden Fields pages about the Clarkes or their daughter.
“Surprised there aren’t reporters and cameras lining up outside the house,” I murmur to myself, crunching on a few Cheetos. I grimace at my fingers, always hating the residue the delicious snacks leave behind. But Doom obviously feels differently. The male tabby hops up on my bed and licks at my fingers, cleaning off my hand with an appreciative purr. “Thanks. Now I’m not eating any more of them.” I curl the bag closed and toss it onto my nightstand, then flop down onto my bed once more. This time, though, instead of suffocating myself in my pillowcase that’s a week late on being washed, I curl up on my side to stare at the mostly opaque blackout curtains covering my window.
“Don’t do it,” I mutter, but I know where my brain is heading. “Don’t do this, Winnie.” But well, I’m already doing it. Inevitable, really, since there’s no way to keep my mind off of him for long when he’s back in town.
Cassian’s face fills my head as I remember his look outside of the Clarke’s house. I feel like I’m scrutinizing every microsecond of our interaction, trying to look for something I’d missed before. Trying to find…something.
Though admittedly, I don’t know what.
If Lacey was murdered, I think, what are the chances it was him?
My stomach curls in dread at the thought, though I don’t move or even blink. He’s a murderer. Hadn’t he proven that when we were young? I have no idea why he’d want to kill Lacey, but I have no idea why he killed his sister that night, either.
He’d seemed so unaffected when he’d seen me, and with a jolt I realize I hadn’t been imagining things yesterday. Cassian really was outside the diner when I dropped the plates.
My phone going off again finally drags me back to reality, and I pull it up to my face to read the messages. But I should’ve known. After all, Reagan is the most excitable creature on the planet and she’s never going to stop talking about this.
You make it home??? Her first message had been about twenty minutes ago. But I’d just ignored it. Apparently for too long, judging by her next two texts that arrived back to back.
You have to be home by now.
What are you doing?
I don’t answer in a hurry. I take my time typing out a reply to her, then delete it once before writing it all over again. It’s not because of anything she’s said, or anything wrong particularly. I’m just tired enough that stringing appropriate words together feels like a chore. Finally I manage, though, and send her something halfway intelligent back. It must be at least a little convincing, because a minute later I have two more messages that I hesitate to open.
Do you really think she was murdered?
Do you think it was him?
Fear tingles up my spine at that last message, and I turn off my phone screen instead of replying as my eyes drift back to my curtains. But I know I can’t ignore Reagan forever. Especially right now when I really, truly just want to sleep.
My fingers type quickly on my phone, even before I’ve really formulated a reply. So I keep it simple, and easy, and send it without thinking about it too much.
I have no idea. And no, I don’t
It’s a lie.
It’s such a fucking lie, but it’s the best I can do right now. At least until I sleep, eat, and get my hand to stop aching so much today.