Chapter 14
Chapter
Fourteen
C onvincing Lou to leave with Dan, who’s standing silently at the door and waits for her to go through all of her worries about leaving for a few hours, takes about as long as I’d expected it to. But at last I’m able to close the door behind her with a groan while I sag against it.
“Is it true?” Scott’s voice comes from the landing, and I glance up to see him leaning over the railing at the top of the stairs. Roscoe is chewing on a toy beside him, and I wonder if Lou has a bitch of a time with the dog whenever Scott isn’t here. Bonded is an understatement for these two.
“Is what true? That your mom can worry anything to death?” I ask, locking the door instinctively behind me.
“That Lacey Clarke died that morning and it wasn’t an accident. And that two other people have been murdered since then.” He’s not quite asking, and it makes me wonder just how much he knows about the situations. But I just watch him, trying to discern any clues about his motives from his expression alone.
It doesn’t work.
He really does play it close to the vest when he wants to, and he definitely gets that from my sister.
“I probably know as much as you,” I admit. “Which isn’t much. You’ll be shocked to know that the police don’t keep me informed about their investigations or leads.” Giving him a quick, dry smile, I push away from the door and head for the kitchen. He follows me, thundering down the stairs with Roscoe at his heels. Once in the kitchen, I deftly open the sliding door, letting the Doberman shoot out into the yard happily.
When Scott doesn’t follow, I look at him, brows raised. “You don’t want to go out and patrol with him?” Normally he does, even if it’s just to follow Roscoe around the yard. But Scott shakes his head and stays inside with me.
“Hey.” I sink down on one of the stools sitting against the kitchen island and rest my chin on my palm. “What’s wrong? You can talk to me, Scott. I promise I’ll only judge you a little for whatever’s wrong.”
That gets a small smile out of him. The nine-year-old sits down at the stool beside me and focuses on a napkin he picks up to shred absently between his fingers. “People at school talk.” It’s hard to hear him when he’s mumbling, but I wait for him to go on. “They say stuff, like Lacey did something bad and…” He looks up at me shyly, then away.
“And?” I prompt, perplexed.
“And I heard the teachers talking when I was picking up construction paper for art yesterday. Mrs. Miller was telling Mrs. House something that happened a long time ago, I think.”
Suddenly I know where this is going, and I wish Lou was around to deal with it better than me. My stomach twists as Scott looks up at me guiltily, and it only cements my guess as to what he’s going to say.
“Something about you and a guy. Byers? I think that was his name. She said he killed someone. Stabbed someone, and that people are dying that way again. And she said you were there.” Scott’s words are rushed and uneven, making it seem like he feels guilty for saying them.
I tap my fingers on the counter and don’t answer right away. How can I when this is absolutely blindsiding me? Scott hearing my old third-grade teacher talk about Cassian murdering Carissa was definitely not on my bingo card for this week. Or ever.
But she always was a gossip. I’d realized that when I was in high school tutoring third graders for National Honor Society service hours. Mrs. Miller would take any chance she got to go call her friends or stand around talking about the parents of the kids I was tutoring to another teacher.
“Mrs. Miller likes to talk,” I answer at last. “Honestly? She likes to talk way too much. I’m not going to lie to you. You’ll hear it eventually if you live in this town long enough.” I can’t stop drumming my fingers on the countertop, and I stare out the window to watch Roscoe amusing himself outside. “When I was a kid, my babysitter’s brother killed her in front of me. He stabbed her. I don’t know why he killed her. But I don’t know anything about him, to be honest.” I figure if I get ahead of his questions, I can maintain the narrative that I’ve never spoken to Cassian again.
Which is maybe my biggest lie of the year.
“Oh.” Scott’s eyes are wide as he looks at me, studying me as if he thinks I might suddenly fall apart. “Okay.” There’s silence in the kitchen between us that’s broken only by Minxy pushing her dry food around her bowl unhappily. The fact that she’s so clearly pissed over being on a diet is pretty relatable, though, and I grin down at where I can see her long, bottlebrush tail. “I’m sorry, Winnie.”
“Hmm?” Out of all the things he could say, that’s certainly not the one I’m expecting. “Why are you sorry, Scott? You weren’t even alive.” I force myself to stop my tapping, though it’s harder than it should be not to have some anxious movement going on while we talk about this.
“I know it’s just…it must suck having everyone remember you for something like that. That’s all I mean.” He hesitates, but I can see the gears turning in his head. “Is that how your dad died? Did it have something to do with?—”
“No.” I don’t mean to interrupt him. I really don’t. But the word comes out before I can stop it, and I see him look away at my decisive tone that leaves no room for questions. Fuck , I hadn’t meant to sound upset. I sigh and get to my feet to let Roscoe in before he can start wailing for the ASPCA to come save him from such horrid conditions, such as being out in the yard for more than five minutes on his own. “No, Scott,” I say again. “That happened later. And I don’t want to talk about it.” I never want to talk about it, and most of my family is pretty happy to oblige me in that.
My mom is too guilt-filled and resentful to bring it up, though I’m never quite sure what the worst of her guilt is for; letting it happen, or the fact that some part of her still blames me. My money, quite frankly, is on the latter these days.
Lou has just never known what to say. Even now, she avoids the subject like a very contagious plague that can be spread simply by whispering of it.
“Mom’s never said anything to me about either of those things.” I close the door as Scott goes on, dreading the curiosity in his tone. “Does she know about them?”
“Yeah, bud, she knows. Now stop dredging up the past, will you? Do you want me to cry all over our burritos while we watch the next movie on your Halloween list?” He immediately brightens at the promise of food and movies, and I can see him forget about his curiosity. At least for now. It’s lucky that we’re discussing food, because it’s the easiest way to distract him from a topic I’d rather not deal with.
“Can we get queso too?” His excitement is almost literally visible as it bubbles off of him. “And if we get them from Taco Talk , they have a new flavor of slushie!” If there’s one thing my nephew and I share, it’s a love of greasy food that makes the person regret eating it about thirty minutes later.
“Uh, yeah. Queso and salsa,” I agree. “What do you want to get this time?” We don’t order from Taco Talk often. Especially when his mom is here. She doesn’t exactly approve of their food, especially since it really doesn’t agree with her.
Personally, I think she just holds a grudge because she can’t chow down on cheap Mexican food like her son and me.
Scott takes my phone when I hand it to him, the menu pulled up for him to scroll through. “Umm…what are you getting?” he asks, distracted by his scrolling.
“Chicken and cheese burrito. Extra sour cream, no guac,” I rattle off. “And a large queso to split with you, obviously. Tell me what kind of slushie I should get.”
Scott smiles. “You should get Kiwi Melon. Who’s Cassian?” The question throws me for a loop, and I cough, choking on my breath that’s caught in my throat.
“What?” I demand, hacking up a lung while my nephew watches. What a way to go. Choking on surprise from my nephew switching the conversation from tacos to murderers.
“You just got a text from someone named Cassian. He asks how you’re feeling after last night.” My nephew gazes up at me, and I know in this instant that this is about to get worse. “What did you do last night, Winnie?” he asks, voice full of naive curiosity as I stare at him in hidden horror. “Did you go somewhere?”
“Uh, no. I umm.” Fuck, I need to think of an excuse. Deftly I pluck my phone back from Scott’s hands, scrolling through the menu myself just in case I’m not going to get the same thing I get literally every time. “A friend came over. We watched movies and stayed up way too late.” I roll my eyes at him, hoping he takes it in the innocent kid way, and not in a way that’s going to get me murdered by his mom.
“Is Cassian your boyfriend?” I hadn’t thought this could get worse, but here Scott is proving me wrong while I place an order for burritos to be delivered.
“I don’t think so.” I don’t know why I’m hesitant to say it when that’s the truth. Cass is not my boyfriend. No matter what we’d done last night and how I’d felt after.
No matter how his words make me squirm in the best way possible.
My thoughts drift, and I find myself having to rein them back in as my brain tries to replay the events of last night.
“Do you want him to be your boyfriend?”
I let the question sit in the air while I finish placing the order and enter my payment information. After I’ve got the confirmation that tells me our food should be here in the next forty-five minutes, I turn off my phone and set it on the counter in front of me. “I don’t know,” I say with a sigh at last. “That’s my final answer, I think. I really don’t know.”
“Oh.” Scott seems to think about that before getting up and walking to the fridge with Roscoe trailing his every move. “Does he want to be your boyfriend?”
If only Scott knew that the person we’re talking about is the person who murdered his sister in front of me. But he doesn’t, and hopefully he never will. “I have no idea what he wants,” I answer at last, fingers back to tapping out an incessant, nervous rhythm on the counter while Scott pours himself a glass of apple juice.
“Heave ho, bud,” I murmur, picking up Scott from the sofa where he’s passed out on Roscoe. He barely stirs, and only enough to turn and wrap his arms around my neck. We’ve done this before, after all. He knows the routine just as well as me. “You need anything before bed?”
My nephew shakes his head against my shoulder as I carry him up the stairs in a feat so great I could clearly be a pro weightlifter. Or a firefighter, if I wasn’t terrified of running into a burning building. I manage not to trip on the stairs or Roscoe, and finally I get Scott in his bed. He falls like a sack of potatoes, and I’m grateful tonight he’d decided to change into his pajamas early, to settle in for a night of movie watching and slushies.
But alas, Scott had only made it through one movie and half of another instead of his proclaimed six movies before bed. “Good night, Scott,” I murmur with a soft sigh. He doesn’t answer, but I’m happy that he’s out like a light. “Sleep well, Roscoe.” I cup the Doberman’s chin as he settles on Scott’s legs and grin when he gives a soft woof.
Making my way downstairs means keeping an ear out for anything in the house, and I can’t help feeling more on edge and ill at ease lately with the murders that have been happening in Hayden Fields. How can I not be uneasy, after all, when it’s so close to home?
Literally close to home this morning when the cops had zoomed by and stopped just two streets over.
“You’re fine, Winnie,” I tell myself dryly. With a quick stop in the kitchen for Minxy and a bag of chocolate-covered raisins. When I’m back on the sofa with the cat curled up on my lap and a mouthful of chocolate, I change the movie from something animated and kid-friendly to whatever spooky movie I find first. I’ve never been much of a horror movie watcher, exactly, but I won’t say no.
Especially when it’s clear this movie is from the eighties and really not that scary. Or well acted.
My phone ringing makes Minxy glare up at me, and I frown apologetically as I dig my phone out from under her. “You could move,” I tell her, even as she does her best to spread out over more of my legs. For a Siamese she is pretty big, though Lou swears she’s just big boned and she’s not fat.
Even though we all know she’s totally fat.
“Hello?” I answer before I even think to look at the number. It’s probably Lou, and frankly I’m surprised she’s waited so long to call. I’d expected it earlier, given what’s happened in town.
“ Winnie. ” The voice on the other end of the line is definitely not Lou’s. I place it instantly, and my muscles tense.
“Most people start with ‘hi’, you know,” I murmur to Cassian, eyes fixed on the television even though I’m not paying any attention to whatever is playing.
“ Yeah, I suppose. ” He sounds amused more than anything. “ You’re babysitting your nephew.” It isn’t a question, and the words send a tingle up my spine.
“If you say shit like that, you sound like a stalker.” My fingers stroke over Minxy’s ears, and I can’t help feeling like she’s judging me for this conversation. But I just frown at her, making a face at the large cat.
“ I am a stalker. Your stalker, actually. Doesn’t that make you feel special?”
“It certainly makes me feel something.” I pause, unsure of what to say for a few moments. “Is everything okay?”
“ I just wanted to hear your voice. That’s all. I’d been hoping to see you tonight but…” He laughs dryly. “ I think maybe your nephew might not like it if he wakes up and I’m in his house. So we’ll take a raincheck. ”
God, he’s definitely watching me. I can’t help looking around the room, anxious, though all I see from the glow of the television is Lou’s pristine, empty house.
It seems like everywhere I go, I usually find an empty house. Whether it be Lou’s house when she’s out on a trip with Dan, Cass’s old house that I’d gone back to only once. Or my house, which has felt empty and full of ghosts at the same time since the moment my finger pulled the trigger on his gun.
“ Winnie?” Cassian’s voice drags me out of my thoughts. “ Are you okay?”
“I’m always okay.”
“ Well, you don’t always have to be.” The words are unexpected and soft. Sweet, in a way. For a murderer. “ Maybe you could be not okay for once, and let me help you.”
I have no idea what to say to that. “I…I always make sure I’m okay.” That’s the only thing that comes out of my mouth and my eyes stay fixed on the television while my insides twist with unfamiliar feelings and a strange kind of nervousness.
“ You should let me try it. See if I can make you feel okay as well. ” There’s a teasing note in his words, and I find I hang on every single one. God, either I’m desperate or just a problem.
Maybe both.
“ I’ll let you get back to your movie, Winnie. ” He doesn’t seem to mind that I haven’t been able to say a damn thing in the past thirty seconds. “ And maybe get better candy. Chocolate covered raisins? By choice?”
“Wait—” I look down at the box in my hand. “How do you know?—”
“ Good night, Winnie. Like I said…I just wanted to hear your voice tonight.” He doesn’t let me ask a question, or at least stumble to try to find the one I want an answer for. Instead he hangs up, leaving me with my phone to my ear and the cat glaring at me in judgment.
“Oh, yeah?” I set my phone on the end table and settle back against the armrest. “You try talking to him or telling him to leave or…literally anything. He’s difficult, okay?” And a murderer. But I don’t need to say that part out loud. Minxy resettles on my lap, stretching out over my stomach when I lay down on the couch, and it’s not long before the combination of an eighties slasher and her purrs put me to sleep.