Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
“ M om doesn’t like pineapple on her pizza.” Scott’s voice makes me glance sidelong at him on the sofa, where the light from the television illuminates his face in the darkness.
“Yeah, your mom is weird like that,” I reply, dunking the crust of my pizza in ranch dressing before devouring it. Scott slurps on the nearly empty milkshake cup in his hand, and I grin slightly. We’re also the only ones in the family who drink chocolate milkshakes with our pizza.
“I don’t get why she doesn’t like it.” He grabs another slice, though at a yelp from the television, his attention is riveted back onto the kids’ Halloween movie we’re watching. It’s one we’ve both seen before, though since it was a year or so ago, Scott is still thrilled to watch it.
“I’m telling you, Lou is weird. Your grandma is the same. Growing up, I was the only one who ever ate pineapple on my pizza. It was a seriously lonely life.” I sigh, pressing the back of my hand to my forehead theatrically.
“What about your dad?” The question is innocent, as all of his are. He doesn’t ask out of malice, or to get a reaction out of me. Hell, he’s not even looking at me. His eyes are still on the television as he chews the piece of pizza like a chipmunk, his cheeks bulging a little with the too big bite.
“I don’t remember,” I say, thinking back on if my dad ever ate pizza with me. But a lot of my time with him is hazy in my head, thanks to the whole trauma thing and my mind putting a wall between me and those memories.
Well, most of those memories.
“You should ask him,” Scott says matter-of-factly. “Do you know his number?”
It occurs to me that Lou has never told him about my dad, though he knows that she and I are half-sisters.
“My…uh.” I fiddle with the napkin in my lap to avoid picking at the bandage on the side of my hand. “My dad’s dead, Scott.”
“Oh.” My nephew’s reply is quiet, and he takes a minute before he asks, “What happened to him? Were you still a kid when he died?”
He really is the king of uncomfortable questions tonight. I remind myself he’s just curious and na?ve to the situation, and that there was no real way for Lou to tell him delicately. Especially when it’s my business, my dad, and my problem. Honestly, I’m grateful she never told Scott about the whole situation.
And I’m not about to give him the details now.
“It was umm. It was an accident. I was twelve,” I explain flatly, trying to keep any emotion out of my voice to discourage his curiosity.
“Do you miss him?”
I could lie, I suppose. I could tell him I do miss my dad and that he was fine, all things considered.
But I know if I even try, the words will burn my lips like acid.
“No.” I glance out of the corner of my eye at Scott, who’s still barely paying attention to me and instead has his eyes glued to the television. “He and I didn’t get along that well. So I don’t miss him.”
“What kind of accident was it?”
That’s a question I absolutely don’t know how to answer. I could lie completely, I guess. It’s not like Scott would know, and I doubt Lou will tell him any differently. My fingers shred the napkin absently, and I look at the television as well, letting myself pay attention to the dog running from a ghost on the screen.
“A bad one,” I say finally. “It was a really…umm. Bad accident.” I cross my fingers that he’ll let it go, because that was the last truthful thing I’m willing to say about my dad.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and thankfully Scott seems satisfied with my answers as I fish it out from between the sofa cushion and me. For a second I’m sure it’s Lou, texting to make sure Scott is still alive and we haven’t done something to get us both arrested. Not that I’ve ever let him get in that much trouble, truth be told.
She’s just a worrier.
But my brows raise a little in surprise at the name on top of the message, and I watch as another is sent.
Hey. Her first message is brief and vague, but she’s already sent the second by the time I open my messages.
What are you up to? Reagan’s texts are always more formal than chat-speak, and I have no idea where she learned the habit. It certainly isn’t from when I babysat her for years, since I’m much more fond of shorthand in messages.
Babysitting Scott , I reply quickly, curling my knees up to my chest.
Oh fun. You guys get pizza?
Oh yeah. With pineapple. I grin as she sends back a very unhappy face at my response. Reagan despises pineapple on pizza, and bringing it up always gives her an almost visceral reaction.
Roscoe’s bark makes me glance towards the kitchen, where the door to the fenced-in backyard is. He’s only been out twenty minutes or so, and normally I leave him out for thirty during his last time out at night. That way he gets all of his energy out, and I know he’s gone to the bathroom so I don’t have to let him out at three am.
“He probably wants to come back in,” Scott tells me, not looking away from the television. Normally he’d be the one to bounce up and run to get the Doberman, but he’s too interested in a movie he’s seen at least twice before.
Another bark seems to agree with him, and I let out a long huff and shove my phone back into my pocket. “Yeah, okay,” I agree, getting to my feet. I don’t put my shoes on. Not when all I’m doing is opening the door and ushering the young dog back inside so he can stare longingly at the pizza and fall asleep to snore in Scott’s lap. He’ll most likely stay there for the next couple hours, until Scott also inevitably falls asleep on the sofa and I fireman carry him up to his room around eleven.
In the kitchen, I glance at the counters to make sure Minxy isn’t doing something she knows isn’t allowed, but she’s not on a counter or the top of the fridge. Instead, I see her thick, fluffy tail flicking back and forth on one of the chairs, and I swerve past the small breakfast nook to scratch her ears lightly. I’m met with a purr, and a pair of permanently crossed blue eyes look up at me, barely visible in the dim kitchen that’s lit only by a nightlight above the stove.
Roscoe barks again, prompting me to roll my eyes at his impatience. As if he wasn’t thrilled not long ago to be outside when he’d been bouncing at the door to be let out. “Okay, okay,” I mutter, going to the sliding glass door and pulling it open.
I expect him to come running when I whistle, but the patio remains empty except for the table and chairs. I pause, confused as hell, and Roscoe barks again from somewhere out in the big yard, past where the motion light illuminates.
“Roscoe!” I call, pitching my voice to make sure he hears me. But all I get in reply is another round of barking. “Roscoe!” Forcing my voice stern, I try again. “Get over here!”
Still nothing. I grimace, wishing I had my hoodie and shoes on, and I consider going to the living room to grab them. But…
I’m a little lazy. And surely he’ll come running if I go out into the yard and call for him. Besides, it’s just grass, and darkness, and the nipping cold of the first of October in Ohio.
“So nothing bad at all, Winnie,” I mumble, my heart picking up speed just a little in my chest. It’s not that I’m afraid of the dark. Not really. But it’s certainly eerie to walk out past the patio to the sound of Roscoe’s continued, frantic barking.
I call for the dog another few times, rubbing my arms as I walk farther and farther away from the patio and the light. It feels…strange out here, I suppose is the best way to describe it. I feel watched, almost, even though there’s no one in either of the adjacent yards as far as I can tell. If there were, I would think the motion lights would be on above the privacy fences, and I’d be hearing some kind of noise.
But all I hear is Roscoe’s barking and the wind rustling the leaves in the trees Dan so carefully planted when they moved in. I normally adore his landscaping of their yard, but tonight the branches feel ominous and reaching. They obscure the moonlight above me, casting the yard into more and more shadows.
“Roscoe!” I’m almost to the back of the yard now, where the back gate sits lower than the rest of the fence and leads to the community pool and neighborhood playground. His barking is louder, so I know I’m on the right track, and when I see a flurry of movement in front of me, I let out a long, low sigh of relief. “Goddamn it, dog,” I mutter as he runs frantically back and forth along the fence, barking his head off. “We’re going to get so many noise complaints, you know that?” It takes a moment, but I finally manage to grab the ring on his collar, stopping him from making another lap.
“What’s your problem, anyway?” I ask, glancing around the yard for any sign of a small animal. “You never act like this.” It takes all of my might to drag him away from the gate, and Roscoe yelps his disagreement with the action. “I could kennel you,” I threaten, though we both know it’s empty as hell. I wouldn’t be able to handle his whining all night if I tried to separate him from Scott.
He twists out of my grip again, and I reach for him with a curse. “Roscoe!” I yell, frustrated, and I turn, watching him run back to the back fence. “Roscoe, there’s nothing—” But my words die in my throat as I look at the heavy, five-foot-tall gate.
There’s someone standing on the other side of it. He’s wearing a white Halloween mask pulled over his head, obscuring every single one of his features. All I can do is stare at him, as every muscle in my body freezes with terror.
I need to get back in the house.
“Roscoe!” I scream, too afraid to get closer to the gate. It’s locked, sure, but I know for a fact the lock is half broken. Something in my tone must tell Roscoe that it’s really time to go. He bolts away from the gate, still barking, and when I take off at a run he follows me, right on my heels.
“Come on!” I urge as my feet hit the patio. I keep running across the stones, hopping up the two stairs to the door and yanking it open. The Doberman surges inside without stopping, and I turn, slamming it shut as fast as I can as my eyes search the yard for signs that whoever was standing there has made it past the locked gate.
But there’s nothing in the yard. Nothing except the patio furniture and the fire pit. Still, I lock the door, making sure both locks are secure before jamming the curtain shut across the glass.
“Scott!” I yell, heart pounding in my throat as my stomach twists. My hands are shaking, and belatedly I realize the stitched up wound is aching more sharply than before. “SCOTT!” I scream, following a trotting Minxy out of the kitchen. “Where are you?!”
“Right here?” Scott meets me in the hallway, bewilderment on his face as he takes a bite of the pizza in his greasy fingers. His words are a question, and his brows raise. “What’s wrong, Winnie?”
“W-we need to, umm.” My mind is racing, and I press my nails into my uninjured palm. “You need to hide. We need to call the cops. There’s someone outside, and?—”
Someone knocks hard on the glass behind me, causing my soul to nearly leave my body in fear and shock. Scott and I stare at each other, both of us unmoving as the knocking sounds again. Roscoe whines and bolts past me, heading for the door even as I yell his name in protest, my hand reaching out for his collar and missing.
“Roscoe, no!” I shriek as he noses at the curtain, pushing it back enough for us to see outside and for the person outside to see us.
But I don’t see the white Halloween mask I’m expecting. I don’t see a tall, over six-foot-tall figure knocking at the door.
“Hello?” Reagan stares at me, perplexed, her hands on her hips. “What the fuck , Winnie? Why the hell am I locked out?”
“Reagan?” I gasp, taking a few steps toward the door and my friend who’s backlit by the motion lights.
“Yeah?” She jiggles the door handle again. “Who else would it be? Are you going to let me in, or am I going to die of exposure out here for your entertainment?”