Chapter 16 #2
Then I go to the bedroom. Pull the closet doors open and dig through drawers, past spare shirts and old watches.
I check coat linings and jacket pockets.
Nothing is hidden, but everything’s deliberate—like Cassius already anticipated someone would look and made sure they wouldn’t find anything if they did.
I move into the hall. Knock on the walls like I’ve seen people do in movies. When nothing gives, I lie down flat on the hardwood, pressing my cheek to it, peering under the baseboards for cracks or latches or hidden panels.
I take a break to eat a single spoonful of peanut butter straight from the jar, then return to the guest room. Closet, mattress, behind the framed prints. I rip up a section of carpet in the corner when I think it looks slightly uneven.
It isn’t.
The bathroom’s empty too, save for the usual soaps and razors. I run my fingers over the tile like an insane person, tapping each one.
I even crawl under the kitchen sink.
At some point, I end up back in the bedroom, standing in front of the mirror, a little dusty, a lot sweaty, and looking completely unhinged.
And still no answers.
I sink to the floor, sitting cross-legged like a kid, and stare at nothing.
The worst part is… I do trust him. On some primal level, I trust Cassius with my life.
But I don’t trust the world he’s part of.
I don’t trust the weight he carries. It isn’t his honesty I doubt; he’s already promised me that.
It’s me. I don’t know if I can live with the whole of what the truth will look like laid bare.
If I can love him with blood smearing everything.
The lights thin, then brighten, like the room is breathing.
Cold drags across my collarbones, a damp fingertip tracing the notch of my throat.
The ghosts crowd closer. He’ll destroy you.
The air pressure drops, my ears pop. He’s already destroyed plenty of others.
Bolo-Hat tips his brim and the flickering steadies.
Not him. Them. Watch the shadows, not the man.
Their whispers braid and unbraid. A draft snakes under the door; the curtain lifts and falls.
I can’t tell the difference between the living who want to hurt me and the living who don’t; between the ghosts who’d like to see me miserable and the one who, for reasons I don’t understand, seems to want me happy.
Sometimes it even feels like they’re protecting me, though they so obviously hate Cassius.
Their murmurs keep scraping along my skull. The house joins in: the vent ticks find the truth; the lamp clicks leave; the window fogs stay; the floorboards sigh trust him; the walls knock doubt him. Protect yourself.
How am I supposed to trust my instincts when the dead and the living pull at me in opposite directions? How am I supposed to trust him, myself, anyone?
My phone rings while I’m still on the floor, back against the wall, heart a little raw.
Cassius.
I wipe my palms on my leggings and answer.
“Hey,” I say, trying to sound normal. It doesn’t work. My voice is scratchy, like it knows I’ve been crawling through shadows all day.
“Find what you were looking for?” he says, voice warm and too smooth, like melted dark chocolate laced with sin.
I freeze. “Excuse me?”
He chuckles. “I’m asking if you had fun tapping the baseboards, darling. And I was really rooting for the carpet to survive the day, but…” Another quiet laugh. “Rough morning?”
I pull the phone from my ear and glare at it like it betrayed me.
“Cameras,” I mutter.
“Lots of them,” he confirms, unapologetic. “You looked adorable under the kitchen sink, by the way.”
I drop my head back against the wall and groan. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No. I don’t.”
He’s quiet for a beat, then softer, “So tell me, Lindy girl. What were you looking for?”
I close my eyes. “Answers. About Spiderweb. About… everything. I know you said you’d be honest, that I can ask questions, I just…” I choose my next words carefully. “It’s like the walls whisper different stories and I can’t tell which one’s true. I need yours.”
He doesn’t respond right away. I imagine him somewhere dark, on a rooftop maybe, or in the back of a car with tinted windows and blood on his sleeves. I hate that I imagine that at all.
“First,” he says finally, “you don’t need to sneak around. If you want to know something, ask. If I’m not home to tell you, call me. If you need something, take it. If that makes you nervous, I’ll get it for you. And if I’m gone, I’ll have one of my brothers bring it.”
I press my hand to my chest to hold those words in place.
“And second,” he continues, firmer now, “there is nothing in our house, nothing, that could ever be used against me. Nothing anyone could ever find that would put you in danger. If shit ever hits the fan, you’ll be clean. Clear. Untouchable.”
“I wasn’t looking for blackmail material,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says. “But you’re in my world now, Lindy girl. And in this world, love is a weakness. I’ll never keep anything around you that someone could use to hurt us.”
I open my mouth to argue, then shut it. Everything is so damn loud. The vent ticks, the light flickers, the cold draft lifting the edge of the curtain. They all crowd the corners, mouthing things I can’t pay attention to right now. I want to say I’m not afraid. But I am.
Not of him. Of what loving him will cost, because the living and the dead both want a say.
“Cassius?”
“Yes, darling.”
“Does it scare you? That I want to know the whole truth?”
“No,” he says. “What scares me is how much I want to keep you from it.” His words sit heavy between us.
Every light flickers and then steadies at once; the dead apparently agree.
I don’t know what to say. I think maybe he doesn’t either.
“I’ll do my best to be home by Monday,” he adds, his voice quieter now.
“Don’t tear out any walls while I’m gone, yeah? ”
A laugh escapes me. “No promises.”
“I mean it, Lindy girl. Take a breath. I will answer your questions.”
“We both know I don’t even know what to ask,” I whisper. “And you already said you won’t offer anything up.”
“I know being in the dark is hard,” he says without hesitation. “And I know trusting me to do what’s best for you isn’t easy either. But I’m asking you to do it anyway. Please. Trust me anyway.”
Cold feathers across my arms. The whispers line up like bullet points:
Ask about London.
Who took the girls?
He kills, he probably took the girls.
Call Detective Blake. Tell her our names. Tell her about the parking garage.
Bolo-Hat cuts across them, firm, scolding. I swallow hard, unsure what to say. There’s so much I want to ask, but none of it feels safe to speak out loud.
“You’re not alone in this, Lindy girl,” he adds quietly. “Even when I’m not there.”
His voice is a thread pulling me loose. Wyatt’s shape pools in the corner and mouths: He’ll disappear you next. Tell someone.
Bolo-Hat cuts him off, Spiderweb first. London first. Keep quiet.
“I hate being away from you,” he murmurs. “I hate that I can’t keep eyes on you myself.”
My throat tightens. “I miss you too.”
“I’ll send someone over,” he says gently. “To keep you company.”
I sit up straighter. “What? Who?”
But he’s already gone.
Thirty minutes later, there’s a knock.
I peer through the peephole at a woman who looks like trouble dressed as poetry. I open the door.
She steps inside without the awkward hello people do when they’re new. She locks the deadbolt and stands like she’s assessing exits, sightlines, me.
“I’m Sava,” she says. “Cassius asked me to check in.”
“Melinda,” I say, though she obviously knows.
Heat pricks my collarbones. I want to be jealous of her cheekbones, her don’t-even-try-it energy, the obvious bond she and Cassius share in a language I’ll never speak.
But the jealousy fizzles as fast as it sparks because something about her lands gentle.
I hear my own dumb bucket list in my head—make one real friend—and, God help me, I want it to be her.
She moves through the entry with quiet confidence.
Dark waves fall down her back like they grew that way.
Black clings like a second skin; thin hoops flash when she glances toward the hallway.
There’s a don’t-fuck-with-me look to her that could cut a person down with one glance, and yet when her gaze lands on me, I feel seen in the same way as when Cassius looks.
“Do you—uh—want coffee?” I ask.
She nods, follows, and leans a hip against the counter while I fumble with mugs. My hands shake like I’ve been caught doing something wrong.
“You don’t talk much, huh?” I say, half-joking from the barstool.
“I talk when there’s something worth saying,” she replies, voice low, sure.
“Does that mean I’m worth it, or are you just bored because Cassius left you babysitting?”
She lifts a brow and smirks without looking at me. “He didn’t ask me to stay. I volunteered.”
My grip tightens around the mug. “Why?”
“Because you’re going to be interesting.”
“Interesting how?”
“You’re not afraid of him,” she says simply. “I wanted to see why not.”
“Have you figured it out?”
“Not completely.” She takes a slow sip. “But I did just get here.”
I laugh to cover how exposed that makes me.
Sava watches me for a beat, something like understanding, or maybe sympathy, flashes through her gaze.
She pushes the second mug toward me. We sit in the silence for a while, the kind that would be uncomfortable with anyone else but isn’t with her. It’s weirdly safe.
“Can I ask you something?” I ask.
“You just did,” she says, the corner of her mouth betraying a smile.
“Okay, smartass. Can I ask another thing?”
She nods.
“What is Spiderweb, really?”
Sava doesn’t flinch. She sets her mug down. “Why are you asking me and not him?”
“Because I want to understand it, his need to chase this.”