Chapter 9
Waking up, I barely have any idea of where I am for a few seconds.
My mind spins, and I flex my toes, as if I’m reaching for something that will ground me and remind me what’s going on.
My chest constricts, and it feels like moments stretch into hours as I open my eyes to stare up at the dark ceiling lit only by the hall night-light.
I’m used to the quiet of an empty house. Mom is known for taking off on trips and leaving me here to watch over things in her absence. Though I’ve partially always wondered if she does it to get away from the memory of what happened to me while she denied anything was wrong.
But tonight…the quiet is wrong somehow. It’s not as empty as usual in the house, though I can’t really explain why.
“Fuck,” I groan out, wishing I knew why I’d woken up with my heart racing and confusion making my thoughts swim.
Absently, I turn, wanting to face my window instead of the blackness of my ceiling.
But when I open my eyes, I don’t see my bay window that’s always been my favorite feature of this house.
At least, it’s not unobstructed like it should be.
There’s a figure in the window seat, sitting almost completely still and backlit by the moon outside. I can’t see their face, but I sit up fast with a sharp intake of breath. “Who—”
The figure leans forward into the slanting illumination cast by the hall night-light and my heart stutters in my chest like it might just give out in the spot.
“The lock on your door is kind of pathetic,” Cassian informs me in his low, smooth voice. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him raise his voice, though it’s a weird thing to go through my head right now.
“What?” I ask dumbly, feeling frozen in place as he meets my gaze. “How did you get in here?”
“Picked the lock,” he says slowly, like he’s speaking to a toddler who might not understand the words. “On your back door.”
“You closed it, right?” My brain isn’t quite working the way it should, and I attribute it to the exhaustion that I’m still trying to shake off, even though I’ve probably been asleep for a good eight hours.
Cassian is quiet for a moment, and his expression slides into one of bemusement.
“You’re asking if I closed your back door?
” He sounds like he can’t quite believe that’s what I’m choosing to say right now, but I nod my head jerkily.
“Yeah. I did. The cats didn’t get out, Winnie.
” He settles back, face obscured by darkness once again.
“Is that really what you want to ask me right now?”
No, it isn’t. A million questions slam through my brain all at once, each wiggling uncomfortably into the space behind my eyes in an attempt to be the first to escape my lips.
Why are you here?
Did you kill Lacey?
Why did you kill your sister?
Why didn’t you kill me?
“What are you doing here?” I turn just enough to slide my fingers under my pillow, fingers searching for my phone that I always keep tethered to me for fear of not having adequate entertainment from social media drama.
Only, it isn’t there. And when Cassian pointedly clears his throat, I have an idea of what I’ll see when I turn around.
Sure enough, my phone lights up in his grip, showing a few missed messages from Reagan and what looks like a voicemail from my mom.
“Come on, Winnie.” His tone is just a bit goading, just a little amused. “You thought I wouldn’t take your phone so you couldn’t call the cops instead of talk to me?” The words and the way they’re said make me bristle, and I throw the covers off of my legs in case I need to do something dramatic.
And from the way Cassian Byers tenses, he’s expecting it too. But I force myself to stay still, my body poised to move when I feel like I might be able to get away with it.
“It’s a little embarrassing,” he admits finally, when the silence between us has stretched to its breaking point. “I’ve been coming back here for years around Halloween to reminisce. And maybe to see you, too.”
“I’ve never seen you before yesterday,” I can’t help but interject quickly.
He tilts his head to the side, just enough that one baleful eye is lit up again.
“That’s because I never wanted you to. I let you see me at the diner to find out what you would do and, umm…
” I swear he’s smiling now. “You didn’t disappoint.
I wasn’t expecting such a dramatic reaction from you, truth be told.
” His eyes flick downward, toward my hands that clench my comforter.
“You certainly didn’t react like that in the psych ward. ”
“That was years ago.” My words are quick and defensive, though I’m not sure what I feel insulted by. “And it was a unique set of circumstances.”
“Right,” he agrees. “The unique circumstances being that you’d just shot your father with his own gun.
I remember.” Fuck, I hate how easily he knocks me off balance and keeps me guessing.
I want him to be predictable, and not throw me for so many turns that I have no idea what will come out of his mouth next.
“You don’t know anything about what happened.
” Restlessly, I shift again on the bed, trying to come up with a plan.
I’m afraid of him. I’ve always been afraid of him, deep down.
Except for that one time in the psych ward, where he’d been the better alternative to getting dragged away by nurses who wanted to evaluate me to see how long I’d need to stay. “Don’t pretend like you do, Cassian.”
“Then don’t pretend like you know what happened the night you watched me kill Carissa,” he replies quickly, voice still soft. “Fair’s fair, after all.”
I open my mouth to reply, but think better of it.
He’s…right to some extent. I have no idea why he wanted to kill her.
Especially when he was so young, and she was just a teenager babysitting the neighbor down the street.
“Enlighten me, then,” I invite. It’s not meant to be a real offer, but I can’t help being curious.
Even though I’m pretty sure in this case my curiosity could get me killed, and no amount of satisfaction would bring me back from getting stabbed like Carissa.
“You first,” he shoots back. “Tell me why you shot your father. Tell me in detail, and I’ll give you every single answer you want, and plenty of ones you don’t.” I hate the challenge in his words, and despise how it makes me bristle and want to jump down his throat.
I hate everything about Cassian Byers.
“You know I’m not about to do that,” I whisper.
“Then you don’t get the answer to your curiosity about that night.” He doesn’t sound particularly put off by it. He sounds conversational. Like this is something other than a horrifying situation.
Like I’m not waiting for the flash of the knife in the darkness.
“So you come back to Hayden Fields to get some sick pleasure out of remembering what you did, and I’m an unwilling participant in that,” I say flatly, changing the conversation back to a less horrid topic.
Though not by much. “And now you’re, what, graduating to breaking into my house so you can watch me sleep?
You’ve always been a creep, but don’t you think this takes it to a new level? ”
He leans forward so his entire face is in the light, and his gaze tells me I’m not getting the rise out of him I’d expected. Not only that, but he seems more amused than annoyed as he runs his fingers over the back of my phone absently.
“I’ve ‘always’ been a creep, huh?” he repeats. “That so? Even when we were kids?”
“Stop.” My voice is flat when I say it, and I clench the comforter more tightly.
“Even when you were hiding from what we both knew was happening at home? When you begged me to let you hide under my bed so you wouldn’t have to go back with your mom?”
“I said stop.” This time the words come out as even a whisper.
But his eyes never leave mine, and a small, wry smile twitches at his lips when he asks, “Did you know I was a creep when I walked you home so no one would bother you and you held my hand so tight I thought you might never let go? Or when—”
“I said stop!” I’m yelling without meaning to, and I grab my pillow to launch it at his face.
I can see the look of surprise in his eyes as he jerks back, and I take that moment to lunge to my feet, hitting the floor at the foot of my bed and looking around for anything I can use as a weapon.
But unless I’m willing to beat him to death with an empty plastic cup or throw my fan at his head, I don’t think I have a lot to work with.
Instead, I bolt toward the hallway, just as I hear heavy steps behind me that eat up much more distance than my own.
I’ve barely made it to the doorway before an arm loops around my waist and I’m jerked off my feet.
A yelp of surprise and protest escapes my lips as I grope for the doorframe, hooking my fingers around it for some kind of leverage as I struggle in his grip.
“Let go of me!” I scream, refusing to give in, even as my heart pounds out a terrified rhythm.
“Never,” Cassian snarls in my ear. “Not ever, Winnie. So don’t bother asking again.
” His words register in my brain and shock makes my limbs go cold.
My fingers are suddenly numb enough that he can yank me off of the doorframe, and Cassian easily spins me around to toss me back onto my bed before kicking the door closed behind him and plunging us into darkness lit only by the moon outside.
I surge upward off of the mattress, hands propelling me, but a large weight knocks me off balance, pinning me on my back with my head pressed to my remaining pillow that I hadn’t used as a pathetic excuse of a weapon.
“What do you want?” I demand, though the words come out shakier than I want. My fingers twist in the comforter, palm aching dully from too much movement.
“To tell you I didn’t kill Lacey Clarke,” Cassian growls.
“Why—”
“Because I know what you think, Winnie.” Frustration laces his tone, and he shifts, settling on his hands and knees above me and giving me a few safe, scant inches between my body and his.