Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
“ W ake up!” Reagan’s voice and the way she shakes my shoulder have me awake in seconds, and I jerk away from her in surprise with a startled gasp. “Sorry!” She holds her hands up in surrender, fingers splayed. “I’m sorry, I just?—”
Then I hear it. Police sirens wail in the distance, getting louder and drowning out her next words. “What’s going on?” I murmur, sitting up on the sofa and looking around. “Did you call the cops?” That’s the only thing I can think of, and fear makes the last of my sleepiness vanish from my brain. “Is Scott okay?” I demand, jolting to my feet. “Why are the police coming?”
“Scott’s fine,” Reagan assures me quickly. “They’re not coming here. Look.” She pulls the curtain opening, revealing heavy, charcoal colored clouds that threaten rain. Across the street and down a few houses ,there are already two cop cars in the short driveway.
“What the heck?” I murmur, pressing my nose to the cold glass to try to get a better look. The two cars I’d heard approaching zip onto the scene as well, until there’s a cluster of cars ruining the yard landscaping. Seconds later, an ambulance pulls up as well, joining the cavalcade. “Did something happen this morning?” Paramedics rush into the house as the new officers stand in a small circle in the yard. This far away, there’s no way for me to have any idea what they’re saying.
“I don’t know. I woke up a few minutes ago when the first round of cops showed up.” She stands beside me at the window, biting her lip as she watches the same spectacle as me. “Do you think someone’s hurt?”
Before I can answer her murmured question, I hear the sound of toenails on the hardwood floors, and I turn to see Roscoe trot into the room, Scott appearing behind him. “What’s going on?” my nephew asks with a yawn, his eyes still heavy with sleep and his hair the epitome of bedhead chic.
Reagan and I look at each other, both of us equally lost for words as the other. She’s the one who thinks to slam the curtains shut, and we both turn to look at Scott. “Okay, so”—I realize I should probably text Lou about what’s going on pretty fast—“something is happening down the street. There are cops out front and an ambulance. I umm…” I glance back towards the window, biting my lip. “I might go see if they’ll tell me anything.” Though I doubt they will, I feel restless. Like I need to do something.
“Can I come with you?” Scott asks as he reaches out to scratch Roscoe’s shoulder. Immediately, I shake my head.
“No. You may not,” I say. “Can you call your mom, actually? Tell her Reagan is here, and that she and I are going to go check this out. Tell her the police are there, but we don’t know why.”
“What house is it?” He wanders to the window to look out of it as well, craning his neck and pressing his cheek against the glass a lot like I had. “Oh, shit.”
“Language!” I snap. “Jeez, do you know what your mom would say if she heard you swearing?”
Scott rolls his eyes at me before looking back out the window. “That’s Lacey’s house,” he says suddenly.
“Lacey?” The name is familiar, but doesn’t quite connect in my brain. “Do I know her?”
“Uh, yeah.” Scott gives me a look and steps back. “You used to babysit her, remember? Lacey Clarke? They moved there a couple years ago.”
Oh. My heart twists in my chest. I babysat for the Clarke’s about six times, until their daughter, Lacey, had thrown a fit and bloodied my nose when I’d told her to go to bed. It had definitely been the worst babysitting job of my life, and I’d never babysat again. But I still can’t help but feel bad that something has happened at their house. It’s not the parents’ fault that their child is the spawn of Satan. And now that she’s sixteen, I’m sure she’s worse, not better.
“Go call your mom,” I say again, sliding my shoes on and pulling my messy blonde hair into a ponytail. “Tell her about the cops, okay?” I’m already unlocking the front door as I speak, and I glance up when I notice Reagan behind me, her shoes on as well. I hesitate, wondering if I should tell her to stay, but ultimately decide against it. We aren’t going far. If we do have to go someplace other than just across the street and down two houses, then I’ll either send Reagan back or come back to get Scott first.
I book it across the road, a little relieved there aren’t any other people out on the street yet. In a small town like Hayden Fields, anything that draws the attention of the police is something to leave our houses for. Because of that, I’m sure we won’t be the only ones out here for long.
Sure enough, when we’re close enough to hear the static of the radios in the police cars, I notice two couples from adjacent houses stepping out onto their porches. They definitely have just rolled out of bed, and belatedly I check the time.
“So much for sleeping in,” I mutter, grimacing at the time. At seven thirty-two, I would normally be sleeping unless I have an early shift at the diner.
“Look.” Reagan gets my attention by gesturing at the house, and my brows jerk upwards in surprise when I see two officers rolling out the yellow tape around the front yard. “Doesn’t that mean…?”
“I’m not sure,” I reply quickly. “There’s no way it’s actually a crime.” Right?
“Yeah, I mean. There hasn’t been a murder here since…” She glances at me, sidelong, and I frown in her direction. Apart from my family, Reagan is one of the few people who know about Cassian and the fact I’d been there that night.
But she doesn’t know about me meeting him again in the psych ward the same day I’d shot my father with his own gun to stop him from hurting me again. No one knows about that, not even Lou. I’m certainly not about to tell her now as I turn back to the house to see an officer walking toward us, his face serious and his hands up in front of him, palms out.
“Morning ladies, I’m going to need you both to stay on the sidewalk,” he tells us almost apologetically. “I’d ask you to go back home, but”—he looks at the other people slowly inching closer and sighs, shoulders slumping in defeat—“I’m realistic.”
It’s then that I notice his hands are shaking slightly. Not only that, but his face is pale and drawn, as if he’s seen something that makes him unable to relax his features. But I know if I ask, he won’t tell me what’s going on. Still, I watch him, looking for any hint in his worried face as to what’s going on. Seconds later he’s repeating himself to the next four people who wander over, then again a minute later. It’s not long before the sidewalk in front of the Clarkes’ house is full of curious neighbors, all whispering and speculating under their breath.
“I heard Angie and Josh fighting last night, before they left,” I hear someone say behind me. “But they always fight. Especially when they’re leaving their daughter alone for a few hours.”
“I’d fight too if she was my kid,” someone else replies flatly. I grin humorlessly at that; she really is the worst kid I’ve had the displeasure of knowing.
That thought turns to one of guilt, however, when a paramedic appears in the doorway, pulling on a stretcher that he maneuvers down the stairs. But instead of a person, the stretcher holds a sealed, black bag that is definitely person shaped.
“Fuck,” Reagan whispers, grabbing my hand. “Do you see that, Winnie?”
“Kind of hard not to,” I reply in a soft voice. “Do you think it’s Lacey?” I feel bad for thinking about how much I hadn’t liked her. And I feel worse when I remember all the shit I’ve said to Lou about her in the past few years when I’d seen her at the diner. She was awful, yeah, but if she’s dead…? Then I’m just as awful for thinking badly of her while watching her body being taken to the ambulance.
“Lacey!” The scream splits the air just as Angie Clarke stumbles down the stairs, her face tear-streaked and blood staining her hands and clothes. She falls, tripping over the last stair, and one of the cops tries and fails to catch her before she falls. Mrs. Clarke hits the ground hard, her sobs growing louder as she struggles to her feet; not noticing the fresh scrapes on her palms that bead with blood as she does. “No! Let me ride with her!” She screams her daughter’s name again, but before she can lunge for the ambulance, two officers grab her, pulling her back even though she’s fighting with all her might to get to the stretcher.
“I think we can assume it is,” Reagan’s whisper is so soft I barely hear her. “Holy fuck. What do you think happened?”
“I don’t know.” But judging by the blood on her mom, I can assume she didn’t just die in her sleep. “Reagan?” I realize that Scott really doesn’t need to see any of this, and that his mom really needs to know what’s going on. “Can you go back to the house, please? Get Scott. Take him and Roscoe into the backyard so he can’t see any of this.”
“Yeah—I can do that,” the redhead mumbles, her face pale under her tan. “Shit. Okay.” She stumbles back, eyes still fixed on the scene, before forcing herself to turn and walk back to Lou’s house.
Not that I intend to stay here for much longer, but I do hang around long enough to see Mr. Clarke walk out of the house like a zombie, his face sapped of color and barely seeming to realize his wife is having a fit and screaming like she’s out of her mind. He says something to an officer, then stumbles, looking as if he might faint. He’s bloody as well, the red stains cover his loose white dress shirt. But less so than his wife, who looks like she might have rolled in it.
I need to go. I won’t learn anything standing here, and I need to figure out what I’m going to do with Scott until Lou gets home. “Okay,” I sigh softly, turning around to leave.
I don’t make it very far.
Not when the person standing a few feet behind me is Cassian Byers.
My heart nearly stops, and I find that breathing suddenly feels like the most difficult thing in the world.
But he’s not even looking at me. With one hand in his pocket and the other tapping against his thigh, he stares over my head at the scene still happening behind me. Yet I can’t take my eyes off of him. Hell, I can’t even speak.
Not when he’s this close. He’s so real in the daytime. More real than he ever is in my memories or my dreams of the night he’d killed his sister or the day I met him again. I can’t help staring at him, though. I can’t stop myself from looking at the differences and the similarities in his features.
When my phone starts ringing in the pocket of my pj pants, I barely notice it. I’m too busy staring at him with my chest tight and my lips slightly parted.
Finally he sighs, his eyes flicking down to mine to study my face. He takes a step closer, and it causes my heart to try to make its grand escape from beneath my ribs. My fingers tighten, nails cutting into my palms, and the stitched up wound aches.
I still can’t move, not when he leans closer, and not when his lips brush my cheek as he murmurs, “You should really get that, Winnie. It feels like Season of the Witch might not be the most appropriate song to play right now, don’t you think?”
His words snap me out of my trance and my face heats with shame. Fuck. He’s more than a little right. My ringtone is loud, and the song is definitely off-tone for the situation. Looking away from him. I hastily grab my phone, unsurprised to see that it’s Lou calling me. “H-hello?” I greet, watching as Cassian walks past me, as if all along he’d been on a walk down the sidewalk and this had just been a momentary pause.
“ Are you listening? Hello?” Blinking, I realize Lou has been talking to me the whole time I’ve been staring at Cass’s retreating figure.
“Sorry. I’m sorry, Lou.” I tear my gaze away and head back towards her house, forcing my thoughts away from Cassian. “Did Scott call you?”
“ Yeah. He said there were cops across the street at the Clarkes’ house. What the hell happened?” Her voice is still somewhat calm, though there’s a definite and reasonable undertone of worry.
When I’m in her yard, I stop, gazing up at the window where Reagan and Scott are watching me expectantly. “Lacey’s dead, Lou. Murdered, maybe,” I murmur. It’s a guess, but probably an accurate one if the police and yellow tape are anything to go by. Plus, of course, all the blood. “And I think…” I take a deep, nervous breath, then think better of my words. "I think you should come home soon,” I say, instead of what I'd wanted to tell her in the first place.
I think I know who killed her.