Chapter 9
NINE
NEVE
My heart races as I shove my feet into my Uggs, then open my bedroom door.
Silence now as I look straight through the kitchen and the living room area, Cynthia’s closed door positioned in the latter, toward the entrance. She has a framed Frida Kahlo hanging on it.
The front door is closed. Locked. Because we always lock up after ourselves. We’re girls in a city.
But a heartbeat later, a fist slams against the door and nearly rattles it off its hinges. Well, maybe not quite, because aside from the fucking back alley door, Casper Bennet takes security seriously. The door is heavy and the lock is a deadbolt.
But going in through the back?
Did Casper just let them up in the entrance from the shop? That one is kept locked. It’s how Cyn and I usually get in, and it lets me scope out the books after hours.
But Casper could have let someone in. He’s polite if thorough, but if it was someone semi-famous, or charming, or…
Fuck.
Maybe it isn’t Will at all.
And if it’s who I’m starting to think it is, it makes a hell of a lot more sense on why Mr. Bennet would let them in.
I squeeze my phone in my fist in the jarring silence between a likely-hockey player nearly knocking my door down and me, motionless in my bedroom.
But how would either of them know where I live?
I know it’s possible to find out, with an eclectic place like this.
Especially since they have reach, and hell, their coaches are probably friendly with the police but to give them my address?
That would set them up for some liability if… if I got hurt.
Whoever it is knocks hard on the door again, like they’re going to tear it down with nothing but their fist.
I jump but then anger flashes under my skin.
Fuck this.
I keep a tight grip on my phone, then march into the kitchen and pull the chef’s knife from the butcher block. High-quality, Japanese knives. A house-warming present from Cynthia’s chef of a father. Almost a gag gift, considering we can’t cook. At least not well.
I tighten my fingers around the handle and glance at the steel blade.
This time when the door sounds like it might fall from its hinges, I don’t startle.
My steps are steady and with my phone in one hand and my weapon in the other, I make my way to the door.
I don’t need to press up on my tiptoes to look through the peephole, but I peer through it quickly all the same, in case they start to knock again, and the tiny metal circle jabs me in the eye.
Surprise makes me jerk my head back, right as Jackson’s friend Will lifts his fist to start wailing on the steel again.
And anger makes me flip the lock and snatch open the door with my phone hand before I can think through the reasons Will might be angry with me. Which are, on the whole, pretty valid.
His fist is mid-air, and his lips part in surprise when he sees me, then he glances over my shoulder, as if he’s looking for someone, and I don’t like the fact that he might discover I’m here alone.
Casper can’t hear well, and if there’s no customers down below, it’s possible no one would hear me scream.
Because, yeah, Will’s reasons are valid, so the emotion is real.
His blue eyes are red-rimmed as they crawl back to mine. He doesn’t seem to see the knife in my hand, but he doesn’t take a step forward either.
I don’t invite him in from the dark, dim corridor strung up with red fairy lights.
“Neve?” He says my name like he doesn’t believe he’s seeing me.
Then he runs his fingers through his dirty blond hair, pulling at the roots.
“Something happened to Jackson. Something…” His voice breaks and his shoulders curve inward and for the first time since I saw it was him out here, I feel my resolve start to splinter.
He doesn’t know I was one of the last people to see him alive, does he? I didn’t read the campus security alert and he wouldn’t have received it since he’s not a student, but neither it nor the media would say my name. Not yet.
But why, then, did he knock on my door like he wanted to burn my apartment down?
“What do you mean?” I am a liar. I am a fucking liar. If not an outright one, then a coward all the same.
He still has his hands in his hair and he’s looking down at his boots.
“Didn’t you see him last night? He knew about us and he was coming to confront you.
He told me that! Then he was dropping by my place, but he never showed.
This morning I got a call before I lost my phone and…
” He slows down for the first time, as if considering something.
Lost his phone? I think of the texts on mine. The countdown. What the fuck? But before I can get him to back up, he starts speaking again.
“Did he ever talk to you? What did he say?” He brings his gaze back to mine.
And my heart starts to race.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
What do I say? You’d think the third retelling of the first time I ever saw a dead body would be easier, but shockingly, I still can’t get the words out. And definitely not to Will.
“I…” My voice is hoarse and he’s staring at me with big puppy dog eyes and I tighten my grip on the knife, which is the wrong thing because instantly, I watch his gaze zero in on it.
The surprise from when I yanked open the door comes back.
But it’s quickly replaced with something else.
His gaze narrows and he slowly drags it to my face. “You saw him.” This time he isn’t asking.
He drops his hands by his sides and lifts his chin.
Jackson told me they’ve gotten into bar fights. That once Will was arrested after a bad fight with his ex in a Wal-Mart. Obviously sleeping with him wasn’t the pinnacle of my year, but now I’m thinking it was a worse mistake than even hungover-me realized the morning after.
If I hadn’t, Jackson wouldn’t have been angry in his truck.
I wouldn’t have run from him.
He wouldn’t be fucking dead.
And Will wouldn’t be at my doorstep.
“You saw him, didn’t you? What did you do?” He takes a step toward me, but I don’t concede. If I do, he’s inside the apartment.
I don’t hold up the knife though, either. First of all, despite what he might be thinking now, I’ve never used a knife against anyone. And second of all, I don’t want to escalate this.
I take a breath, but I have a flashback.
My mom and biological dad fighting.
The hole Dad kicked through my dresser. His loud voice. The way my brother covered my ears.
My chest tightens and my stomach is all worked into knots.
I can see Will’s pulse beat beneath the hairs on his throat.
A vein is there, pulsing.
We’re the same height, but he’s broader.
He doesn’t have a weapon, Neve.
I repeat it in my head like it matters. Like that will save me.
The bad thing about knives is you need to be at close range to use them. The good news is Will is pretty fucking close. The worse news is if I somehow manage to stab him and inflict damage, that’s not going to look too good to the detectives who are probably still investigating Jackson’s death.
One stab wound in my vicinity, okay.
Two, it’s on me.
“What did he say to you? Who were you with? We both know you can’t keep your fucking legs closed so who were you with?”
I think he’s insinuating the person I was “with” murdered Jackson? I don’t know. It’s hard to follow boy-logic.
He tries to come closer but this time, I brandish the knife, the point close to the underside of his chin.
He stops, glancing at it, then back at me. He looks like he’s vibrating with rage.
“Do you know who killed him?” He’s whispering, but it’s full of barely-restrained violence. “The police didn’t tell me anything about how they found him, but I bet you know, don’t you?” He glances at the blade, so close to his skin. “Was it this? Did you do it, you fucking whore—”
Before he can get the word out, I angle the knife in a way that if I arced my arm down, it would go through his chest. Would I have enough momentum and strength to do any damage? I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter.
It’s enough to make Will shut the hell up.
It’s my turn to talk, motherfucker.
“Go home. I understand you’re very upset, and you have every right to be. I’m sad he passed, too, but I didn’t do it, and I don’t know who did.”
“He was with you last night, Neve! He was with. You!” He lunges for me then, grabbing my forearm, near my elbow, and stopping the knife from coming closer to him. His grip is tight, his jaw clenched, and he pushes me backward by his hold on my wrist.
I drop my phone with a clatter and shove against his chest while straining to keep the knife’s blade closer to him than me.
Do I scream?
Is now the time?
Do I try to calm him down?
Why does that always seem like a woman’s responsibility? To calm men and their fucking emotions? No one ever tries to calm mine. Not a man anyway. Not even Nolan. If anything, he fans the flames.
“What did he say to you? That’s all I want to know, Neve. How did he find out about us? Did you tell him? Did you want to come between us?”
The shock of the question is my downfall. I stop fighting back, and his words are lost as my spine collides with the door and he presses my arm there, too, so I’ve still got the knife but it’s up in the air and he’s pinning me in place.
His face is inches from mine and he’s breathing hard.
“I thought you did. He said you confessed.” I breathe out the word like a curse. I assumed it was true. Assumed the guilt got to Will or else they were drunk together and he spilled.
Jackson definitely said he confessed.
It’s when he started shouting. Right before he lunged toward me.
“He fucking told me! He told me, Neve!” His words from the truck.
But Will’s brows are furrowed and his eyes show genuine confusion.
That doesn’t make sense.
I sure as fuck didn’t tell him. And maybe I would have, if he hadn’t taken my break up well, but I didn’t really get into that spiel, about how it was me and not him, when he started shouting (accurate) accusations at me.
“Why would I do that? We’ve been best friends since I moved here, Neve. And why wouldn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you text me last night? Unless you were the one who—”
“Why wouldn’t you warn me, you fucking asshole? If he told you he was coming for me, why the hell wouldn’t you give me a head’s up? You text me a creepy fucking countdown before you bang on my door and—”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” He looks bewildered, his eyes wide, bright. “I told you I lost my goddamn phone.”
He curls his fingers around my arm and squeezes so hard I know he’s going to leave a mark. Then he shoves me further against the door, shifting us so the door smacks the wall and my head jolts with the collision.
Fear beats in my bloodstream again.
I claw at his sweater beneath his jacket, digging my nails in.
This doesn’t feel like last night, between the two boys.
This feels more dangerous somehow, and there’s not even a corpse around.
Not yet, anyway.
“I didn’t want to make it worse.” He presses his temple to mine. His nostrils flare and I smell nicotine on his breath. “That’s why I didn’t tell you last night. I didn’t want to make it worse and I didn’t, but you did.”
I try to lift my knee to make distance between us by attacking him in the groin but he’s too close and I don’t have enough momentum. My arm is still pressed painfully to the door and his full body weight is keeping me here.
His free hand finds my throat between us and he starts to strangle me.
Panic flares hot inside my body.
I smash my hand against his face, digging my fingers against his eyes. He closes them but I keep pressing and I hear him groan at the same time his hand tightens around my neck.
No, no, no.
Maybe he killed him. If he’s going to hurt me like this, maybe it was him, and maybe I’m next.
I press harder with my fingers and he cries out, his breath against my lips, but it’s like we’re hurting each other under water, the way our movements are small and sluggish but he’s got my breath in his fist and my head starts to hurt and there’s no more air in my lungs.
Spots flare behind my closed eyes as I drag down his lids and try to jab my sharp nails into his sockets but he twists his head and I can’t follow the movement as he squeezes tighter around my throat.
My instinct is to pull at his hand but I know that won’t work. I’ve read about it in books.
It doesn’t stop me.
The panic is too much.
I’m going to die here in my doorway.
Cynthia will be the one to find my body.
I scratch as deep and as hard as I can at the back of his hand but my body feels like it’s swimming now and I’m weak-kneed and wobbly.
His grip slips, a swallow of air comes down my lungs, and I think I’ll live, but then he tightens his hold.
Fuck.
No.
Nolan will be so pissed I let myself die like this. I shouldn’t have opened the damn door and I should’ve called my brother instead.
I should have stopped fucking around with boys just because I could. Because Daddy didn’t love me, then Mommy gave me up, too.
I hear nothing beyond the pulse of blood in my ears.
My corpse will be next on the news.
Poor Cynthia. I’m sorry, Cyn.
I can’t breathe.
Everything is black. My body feels so heavy.
Fuck you, Will.
Then, just when I think I’m going to collapse, I’m gasping in air. Barely standing as Will’s weight disappears.
I snap my eyes open and rub at my throat, lowering my other arm but keeping the knife in my shaky hand as I see a familiar blond figure slam Will’s head against one of the eyes of the stove.
Will cries out, but the hockey player doesn’t make a sound.
He’s dressed in the same bomber jacket as last night, this time with a black scarf, black pants, and red Oxford boots. His black gloves come to the back of Will’s skull. He twists his head and slams it face-first against the eye again.
This keeps Will’s cries muffled.
But not entirely silent.
I swallow hard and before I can think through what I’m doing, right as Sylvan Connor’s blue-gray eyes meet mine, I slam the door of Darkmouth shut and click the lock into place.