22. Chapter 22
Chapter 22
Cedric
I couldn’t get more than twenty continuous minutes of sleep as I kept replaying Delilah’s crumpled expression when she asked me to leave.
Maybe I’ve come on too strong, but something tells me that’s not the case. She wanted me as badly as I did her; otherwise she would have told me, and I would have backed off without a second thought.
I’m supposed to head to the flower shop to discuss a few things about Marcus’s move with Myrta, but I’m not ecstatic about the prospect. Whether it’s because the more things I set up, the sooner I will be ready to head back home, or because I’m worried Delilah’s not going to be happy to see me, that remains to be seen.
I sent her a text asking if she was feeling better earlier, and all I got was a monosyllabic affirmation, which in my experience is not like her. I have no idea what could have happened, but it seemed like she wasn’t expecting it–though she knew exactly what it was. Maybe a stomach ache? But why would she look so afraid?
She said she’d explain, and at least I’m looking forward to that, if she’s still going to. So that perhaps I can help, should it happen again.
I’m buttoning up my cufflinks when my phone buzzes. I rush to grab it, and feel a stab of guilt when I’m disappointed to see the message is from my brother.
Are you alive, or shall I send over reinforcements? (It’s me. I’m the reinforcements.)
I type quickly, letting him know I am indeed alive, and apologizing for not giving him an update. My mind has clearly been elsewhere, though Marcus doesn’t need to know specifics. A few seconds pass, and his next reply comes through.
I wish you’d tell me more about this place if it’s going to be my home soon enough.
I close my eyes for a second, then pick up my wallet and blazer before leaving my room and hurrying down the stairs and past the ever-vacant concierge.
On my way to Myrta’s, I call Marcus.
“Brother mine,” he says by reply.
“Hey,” I say, squinting up at the sun, fishing my sunglasses from the blazer’s inner pocket. “How’ve you been?”
“Ah, you know, same old,” he yawns dramatically. “Eating steak, not eating people.”
“Marcus, how long has it been?” I sigh.
“I’m fine, stop fussing from a distance.”
“I’m not fussing, and you sound tired. Don’t lie to me.”
“This conversation is not going where I was hoping,” he huffs, just as another voice in the background asks, “Who is it?”
“Is someone there?” I hiss, glancing around me, though apparently I’m far from a novelty anymore, and no one is paying attention to me.
“It’s called having fun, Cedric. Science proves there are multiple health benefits–”
“Don’t be a smartass.”
“Aw, did you call me smart?”
“I called you a reckless fool in my mind, but I might as well be telling you.”
“You’re on edge,” he says, his voice accompanied by the sound of shifting fabric. Covers, probably. “What’s wrong with you, Ced?”
I shake my head though he can’t see that. “I just wish you would lie low until we can get you away for good,” I say, which isn’t a lie, but also not the entire truth.
“There haven’t been any incidents if that’s what you’re worried about. There’s something else,” he whispers .
I’m sure it’s our mother to be blamed for his ability to figure things out about people so easily; Joe couldn’t have had anything to do with that even if he’d paid for it. They don’t take checks for empathy.
Rounding the corner, Myrta’s shop comes into view; only there’s a small horde of people stationed in front of it, a few of whom are wearing deep green uniforms.
“I’m going to have to call you back,” I say absently to Marcus, whose grumbled protests fade beneath the questions the citizens are posing to the uniformed duo.
Police, could it be? A hollow feeling upsets my stomach as I step closer and notice the glass shards littering the ground outside the shop.
“Hello,” I say to the petite woman frantically taking notes on a notepad after jostling my way through the crowd. “What’s–”
“A break in, sir,” she says without looking up at me, her blond bangs nearly covering her eyes. Also, again with the bloody sir? I’m fairly sure she’s older than me.
“We’re doing everything we can to find out what’s happened, sir.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes, failing to take a peek at the inside of the shop.
“Did the girl who works here happen to show up yet?”
“What do you need Delilah for?” a gangly young man asks, and I recognize him as Ronnie, the waiter from the pub that seemed particularly interested in Delilah’s reactions.
“I don’t see how that concerns you,” I tell him as I make my way over to the man with a thick mustache I assume must be another officer.
“Morning, officer, I’m Myrta’s business associate. May I go in? ”
“I know everyone in this town,” he observes with a frown. “How’ve I never met you?”
I produce my business card from my pocket, handing it to him with two fingers. “Cedric Campbell, pleasure.”
He grunts in response, eyeing the card dubiously. “I’m afraid wearing a fancy suit isn’t enough to allow you entrance. This is a crime scene, son.”
“A crime scene?” I drawl.
“Someone broke Myrta’s door,” he says, enunciating every word as if I were being daft. “That’s a crime.”
I sigh as I pass a hand over my jaw, considering. “May I at least speak with Myrta? Or Delilah? It’s urgent.”
“Let him in,” Myrta’s voice calls from inside the shop.
“Off you go,” he says after a beat, somewhat begrudgingly. “Don’t step on the evidence. Don’t touch the evidence. Don’t breathe on the evidence.” He thrusts a pair of gloves in my hands.
I tip my head in thanks, thinking better than to point out that shattered glass is hardly evidence . I quickly cross the shop’s threshold and find Myrta; she looks up at me, and her expression is surprisingly serene given the circumstances. Before I can get in a word, she informs me that Delilah is in the greenhouse. The soles of Myrta’s velvety slippers crack when she steps on what looks like a pot fragment, as if it weren’t there. It’s only then that I truly take in the state of the shop.
Ripped petals are strewn everywhere, pinks and purples lazily swirling across the floor. Pots are broken in halves, stray earth littered all around, along huge leaves and fern branches.
It’s as if someone stumbled inside and blindly grabbed for everything, throwing it on the floor in a craze. I frown at the chaos, and make sure not to step over anything as I walk up to the paneled glass doors, rapping softly .
“Delilah?” I ask.
“Come in,” she replies after a beat. When I step inside, she’s standing with her back to me, hair cascading down her shoulders.
“What the hell happened?”
Delilah
It’s not that I wasn’t expecting Cedric to show up–it’s that I’ve been bracing myself for the umpteenth lie.
“We don’t know for sure,” I say as I turn to face him. “It looks like a break-in, though Myrta doesn’t keep any money in the register during the night. I guess they left empty-handed and got frustrated?” I try for a smile, though I fear it looks more like a grimace.
Cedric’s brow is particularly furrowed as he walks up to me and folds his arms around my shoulders. I close my eyes and rest my head on his chest, sheer exhaustion seeping from every bone.
“Are you alright?” he asks after a few seconds.
I nod into the fabric of his shirt.
“I’m sorry about last night,” I add, because the topic will inevitably come up, and I might as well get it over with now. I look up at him without stepping away, and he brushes a lock of hair from my face. “I freaked out.”
“Was it something I did?”
“No,” I say steadily. You’ve been nothing but kind and funny and dreamy and perfect , I don’t add. It’s me, no, really , it’s me.
I lick my lips, looking for the right words, because what I’m about to say is true, even though it’s not the reason I needed him to leave. It’s also increasingly hard to focus when his hands are caressing my back, and I can vividly recall the way he did the same last night.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I can be very enthusiastic about, well, a lot of things.”
“Can you?”
I push him lightly with a huff, though my stomach flutters all the same. “Yes. And if there’s someone I’m enthusiastic about, it’s you, clearly.”
He nods without interrupting.
“So yeah, I guess I panicked. I don’t want either of us to dive head first into a–” I shrug helplessly. You can’t even bring yourself to say the word relationship out loud, Lila. How is he supposed to take you seriously?
“Into what?” he asks, assessing me.
“I can’t think when you look at me like that!” I blurt out. I’m exasperated, mostly at myself, and devastatingly tired. If only people realized the toll shifting shape has on a body, how exhausting it is to run around aimlessly, they’d maybe cut werewolves some slack. Although they’d have to believe in them first.
“Shall I turn around?”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“Not particularly.” He steps closer, brushing his knuckles on my cheek, making my insides liquefy instantly. “Delilah, just so we’re–wait, what’s that?”
I follow his gaze as his fingers gently turn my wrist, and I nearly cry out as I realize I’m a complete idiot. My bite mark is visible in all its dreadful glory. With everything that’s happened, I straight up forgot to cover it up as I usually do.
“Bite mark,” I say quickly, escaping from his loose clutch to hide both hands behind my back. “A–a dog, a few years ago.”
“Not Blaine, surely?” Cedric asks, mildly appalled .
“No, of course not.” I smile, because as it turns out, this is the one lie I can’t tell him.
“Right, well, I meant to–”
The door rattles open, and Myrta’s scrawny form somehow still manages to loom over us. Her lips purse, clearly unimpressed at the view.
“Orson and Linda left,” she says, looking directly at me, and I nod in quiet gratitude. “Time to get back to work.”
“Are those the police officers? Do they know what happened, exactly?” Cedric asks, clearly bothered that we’ve been interrupted. As much as I want to know what he was going to say, I’m also secretly grateful for the reprieve from his closeness. Not because I don’t want it–the opposite, rather.
I want it so bad, I might throw it all to hell, give in and tell him everything so that he leaves and I don’t have to worry about eating his head off.
I want it so much, I’m afraid it’s going to blow up in both our faces.
“A stunt, nothing to fuss over,” Myrta says, waving her hand impatiently.
“They broke your door,” Cedric says sternly. “The shop looks like something exploded. You’re just going to let it go?”
“Are you paying for reparations?”
“No, but–”
“Then it concerns you little, doesn’t it? Come on, Delilah.”
Cedric seems ready to add more fuel to the fire, so I touch his arm to call his attention.
“Surely you’d want to know who did this?” he asks me as Myrta leaves us.
I look up at him with an apologetic smile and say, “It won’t change what happened. ”
“No, but someone should be punished. Someone should make this mess right, not you, me, and a seventy-year-old lady.”
“You?”
“I’m helping,” he says, as if it were obvious, already shucking his blazer off.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say, even as my heart flips.
“I know,” he replies, and with a kiss to my cheek he stalks off after Myrta, his scent lingering in the air.