Chapter 21
Chapter
Twenty-One
M y phone rings somewhere nearby, but it’s not enough to break me out of this moment. My mind is at war, trying to figure out if I’m terrified or something else that’s definitely not okay.
Or both.
Sure, it’s petrifying to learn Cass killed his sister to stop her from keeping me away from him. But it’s also…well, it’s also something else.
A nervous grin twitches at the corners of my mouth as I look at him, meeting his gaze as he pulls back from brushing his lips to mine. “So what you’re telling me is…you suck at planning,” I murmur, amused when I see the flood of incredulous surprise on his face, his eyes widening. “Let me finish. You decided to kill Carissa to stop her from telling everyone how messed up you were…only to get caught, thrown in a psych ward, and not get let out until you were eighteen. Is that about right?”
Cass closes his eyes with a snort. “God, Winnie,” he grumbles as my phone goes off again. “You really are such a fucking brat, you know that?”
“Well, I like to think of myself as—” The doorbell chimes, ringing through the entire two-story house. But for a moment all I do is stare at Cass, confused, as if he’ll have the answer for who’s at the door. I’m certainly not expecting any visitors, or any deliveries. I have a few hours before I need to go to the diner to work, so I’d planned to spend it in bed, sleeping, or bothering Cass.
The doorbell sounds again and I lean back, extracting myself from Cassian’s grip. “If it’s Mormon boys, I’m going to scare them away with talk of Satanism,” I mutter, pulling on a hoodie over the t-shirt and shorts I slept in. Cass snorts and flops back down on the bed.
“Can I go back to sleep now? Or are you planning on asking me more uncomfortable questions before breakfast?” He groans, burying his face in my pillow.
The sight of it brings me up short, and I realize I love the sight and the idea of Cass in my bed like this. Fuck, that has to mean there’s something really wrong with me.
He opens his eyes to look at me as the doorbell rings again, the bright blue pinning me in place. I don’t want to leave him. Especially when I’d rather go back to sleep right now, instead of being awake at all.
But the doorbell sounding again makes that impossible. I groan, tossing my head back, and turn to stomp across the landing, scooping up Doom and draping him over my shoulders as I stride heavily down the stairs. “I’m coming,” I call, when the doorbell is pushed yet again . Every time I hear it, I’m a little bit closer to kicking the person on my porch right off.
With my luck, it’s a random delivery from my mom, who still hasn’t called or really texted beyond some polite, perfunctory greetings and updates.
Like I care what her new condo looks like. She’ll certainly never invite me to it.
Absently I yank the door open, prepared to force myself to be polite to whoever is way too eager to get me here.
Only for the words to die on my lips at the sight of Detective Trudeau on my doorstep. My confidence falters, and I hold on to Doom as I look at him, feeling suddenly much more away than I had before.
“Miss Campbell.” He tips his hat at me like he’s going for charming or honest. To me, it just seems arrogant and overplayed. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“You did,” I yawn, leaning on the doorframe with my cat over my shoulders. “Can I help you, officer?”
“Detective.”
“My bad.” Tilting my head against the frame, I meet his eyes. “So can I help you with something?” I’m not afraid of him, precisely. But he’s definitely not my favorite person in the world, and not my first choice for surprising me at my front door.
He’s close to my last, honestly.
“I was hoping I could come in and talk to you. There was a report of a bit of an incident at Manic Manor a few nights ago…” His eyes drift to the bandages on my hands. “And I was hoping you could give me a few more details on it.”
I have no idea how he knows about that. Or why it’s taken him this long to show up, if he’s actually concerned. It doesn’t feel… right. “Umm…” I look down at the ground, trying to get my thoughts in order and come up with a plan for how to steer the conversation. “It was a pretty minor thing, actually?—”
“I think you should let the detective in. He’s really going above and beyond in his job, you know?” Cass’s smooth voice is the only warning I get before he wraps an arm around my waist, standing half-behind me in the doorframe.
Trudeau’s face jerks in surprise, nostrils flaring and eyes widening by millimeters. But he pushes the expression away, choosing to study Cassian carefully before speaking. “Mr. Byers, right? We’ve never had the pleasure of meeting in person. I have to admit, this is the last place I would think to find you. Forgive my surprise.” He certainly doesn’t sound apologetic, and his lips press together in a thin line as he looks Cass over.
“Hayden Fields is just full of surprises, as I’m sure you’re realizing,” Cass replies with a low chuckle. “And you’re more than welcome to come in. I, for one, would love to know the details of what happened at the haunted house the other night. I’ve only heard about it secondhand.”
“Right.” Trudeau shifts, glancing back at his car, and it hits me that he’s uncomfortable with Cass here. “I thought you’d moved away, Mr. Byers,” he says finally, turning back to look at us but not making a move to come into my house.
“I did. I’m just here visiting. Hayden Fields has a lot of Halloween nostalgia, you know?” God, he’s enjoying this. I can almost feel his amusement from the small, almost nervous movements the detective makes, and the way he’s clearly floundering to figure out where he wants to go next.
He certainly doesn’t want to come in here.
“I see.” The detective’s voice is cold, and he’s barely looking at me anymore. Instead, all of his focus is on Cass. “Well, I can see it’s a bad time. And I overestimated my schedule this morning.” He glances at his watch, as if to convince us the lie is true. “But I’ll be back by, all right? Maybe I’ll catch you at work, Miss Campbell.”
That sounds like a threat.
“Anytime,” I murmur as he turns and takes a step off the porch. “Wait.” I don’t expect him to, but he does. “Who reported the incident at Manic Manor ?” I’m not sure if he’ll tell me, but it’s worth asking. I hadn’t thought anyone was around to have seen.
“A Miss…”—he pulls out his phone and opens it, checking his notes quickly—“Reagan Darcelle. She didn’t have many details. Just said there was some kind of incident and you might be in a bit of trouble.” I can hear the dry judgment in his tone, and I know he thinks I’m in a different kind of trouble than what he’d come here to investigate.
And, well, he’s not exactly wrong.
“Oh, yeah,” I reply lamely. “She’s one of my good friends. Sorry that she overreacted and got you involved.”
The detective shakes his head, glancing back at us one last time. “No need to apologize, Miss Campbell,” he assures me flatly. “I’ve found the trip to be very informative.” With that he marches back to his car, not hesitating before slamming the drivers’ side door and driving away so fast I’m surprised I don’t hear the dramatic squealing of tires.
“That was bold of you,” I murmur, still leaning on the doorframe and looking around the part of the neighborhood I can see. “Do you really think it was a good idea to let him know you’re here?”
Cass drags me back into the house, closing the door and locking it absently. “I think he would’ve tried to bully you if I hadn’t. He pushes you around when he talks to you, and it unnerves you enough that he can get away with it.” Carefully, Cass pulls Doom off my shoulders, kissing his forehead. That’s another thing I hadn’t expected of him, or my cats.
I’m pretty sure Gloom is in love with him, and she’s never liked anyone other than me. Doom is a little less surprising, but still abnormal, considering the way he flips over in Cass’s arms to let the man hold him like a baby.
“Well, I appreciate your championing of me, Sir Byers,” I reply, leaning back against the door. “Do you want anything to eat? I might as well stay up and shower instead of getting up fifteen minutes before my shift starts.”
Two hours later when I’m in my car and ready to leave, I finally take the time to look at my phone, having forgotten about the texts I’d been sent and too busy after Trudeau had left to even think about glancing at them.
But I should’ve known they’re from Reagan. Four texts sit unopened, and I scan through them, registering the clear worry in her words.
Are you okay?
It’s been a few days
I know something happened at the haunted house. I’m worried.
Just…text me back soon, okay ?
Guilt creeps up my spine and I immediately send back confirmation that I’m alive, before telling her I’m sorry for the radio silence. I don’t have it in me to really talk to anyone right now. Especially so close to my shift where I’ll have to be social for hours. Or at least pretend to be.
I’m okay, Reagan. On my way to work. I’ll text you later? Sorry for going MIA.
I give her a few seconds to respond, but when the message doesn’t shift to read, I chuck my phone into my passenger seat with a sigh. She’ll get back to me when she has time, I figure. Until then, I’ll rehearse my apology for leaving her basically high and dry for the past few days, and come up with a better lie for what happened at the haunted house so I don’t worry her.