Chapter 22
The fact Trudeau comes to the diner for three hours and just sits with a cup of coffee feels suspicious at best. At worst, it’s a subtle threat that I work hard to ignore.
Which is hard, since he requested to sit in my section. Martha makes her presence known while he’s sitting there, glancing his way every once in a while and doing everything she can to seem as inhospitable as possible.
Not that it works.
My phone going off in my pocket has me heading back to the break room forty-five minutes before the end of my shift, and I glance down to see I’ve missed a few messages in the past few minutes.
The ones from Reagan take priority because of my guilty conscience, and I read through her rambling worries and irritated complaints about ignoring her.
Though, I’m unsure when we became such great friends that she expects me to text her back within the hour. Last I checked, we were good friends, sure. But she has her friends and I have…
Well, I have my cats.
And now, I suppose I have Cass, too. Even though our conversation and his confession from this morning play on repeat in my brain like one of those songs that you just can’t get out of your head.
It’s almost like elevator music. Always there, playing on repeat, no matter how distracted I am by other things.
He’d meant it. There’s no way around that. And no way around the fact that Cass is absolutely, without a doubt, a psychopath.
So why am I not more afraid of that realization, like I should be? Why am I not marching over to Detective Trudeau to tell him all the things Cass told me so he can, I don’t know, investigate him for other crimes or maybe chastise him at least?
Why am I so okay with it?
After sending back a few more half-assed apologies to Reagan, I open the messages from Cass, leaning against the counter as I read through them.
I hope you’re having a good day. Miss you.
A grin curves the corners of my mouth upward, and I tilt my head to think of an answer, even as my fingers tap on the screen.
It’s only been a few hours.
Unlike Reagan, the text flips to read instantly, and the typing bubble immediately pops up. In seconds he’s responded, and I glance up at the door, making sure I’m still alone. Not that anyone would mind me being back here for a few minutes.
You’re off in forty-five minutes, right? Can I come pick you up? I thought we’d go get dinner, if that’s okay.
God, he’s so sweet over text. I tell him that works, and stuff my phone back into my pocket before heading back out to finish my shift.
The forty-five minutes left of it feel like days. Not just because I’m excited to see Cass and go out somewhere with him. But also because Trudeau just fucking sits there. Like a log. Like a lump.
Like an ugly, toad-eyed lump I’d like to get excised as soon as possible.
At seven fifty-five, I’ve had about enough of it.
My patience is as frayed as the napkin he’s been absently shredding, and while my other customers have been pretty unremarkable, even Martha has started dropping hints that maybe he could leave or order a second cup of coffee at the very, very least.
But he doesn’t take her hints, or Jeremy’s.
He just sits there and smiles in that oily, polite way of his, and nurses an empty cup of coffee.
His gaze makes me itch, and the hair on the back of my neck prickles constantly, but finally it’s time to make my last round and let my diners know that my shift is over.
“If you decide to order anything else, detective, my replacement will be around to check on you in a few minutes,” I tell him, the epitome of politeness.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed your coffee. Martha said to let you know it’s on the house.
” I smile sweetly at him, aware that the expression doesn’t come close to genuine.
“Where you off to?” he asks absently, looking up at me with his bulgy eyes. “Back home? Or are you planning to have a fun night out?” It’s wildly inappropriate, and not at all his business. But I only smile wider at him.
“I haven’t quite decided.”
“Isn’t that Byers’ car out in the parking lot?” He doesn’t even look out the window, and I wonder how the hell he already knows what Cass drives. I don’t fall for it or look.
I just shrug my shoulders in a show of hapless naivety. “Maybe? I don’t monitor where he goes or anything. So I guess he could be here if you say his car is outside.”
My eyes never leave his, and I fight to not look the least bit uncomfortable. I don’t want him to know how much he gets under my skin.
“This will be all for me, actually. And it’s really kind of your boss to cover it.” He nods and eases out of his seat, not leaving me a tip. I hadn’t expected him to, but my opinion of him lowers even more as he saunters out the door to the parking lot.
“What a jerk,” Jeremy mumbles in my ear, stopping to watch him go. “Not even a tip when we didn’t charge him for the coffee? Asshole.”
“At least he’s gone.” I sigh. “And so am I. Have a good Halloween, Jeremy.” It’s only two days away, and this year, I’m not dreading it nearly as much as usual.
I might even be looking forward to it, if I’m being honest.
As quickly as I can, I take my hair down and run a brush through it, then change out of my black pants and ugly but comfy shoes, into leggings and ankle boots. My shirt comes off next, replaced with an oversized hoodie that is the definition of comfortable, and maybe not very fashionable.
I’m back in the front of the diner within a few minutes, looking presentable for the outside world and smelling of fruity body spray instead of waitress suffering and contempt, like I usually do. But just as my hands land on the glass of the door, my eyes flick up and I see the problem immediately.
Trudeau is still here.
And he’s standing way too close to Cass. My heart takes that moment to thud against my ribs in warning, like I’ve somehow not seen them and it needs to inform me how bad of an idea this is. Or at least, how badly this situation could go.
“Cass!” I call, surprised when he doesn’t look up.
Instead he’s leaning against his car, ankles crossed, the picture of relaxed.
In contrast, Detective Trudeau looks anything but at ease.
He crowds close to Cassian, keeping him against the car, with his hands hooked in his utility belt suspiciously close to the gun he has holstered there.
But Cass doesn’t seem to care. His hands are shoved loosely in his pockets and his eyes radiate boredom.
Part of me wonders if it’s an act to piss off the detective. That seems like something Cassian would do.
I don’t slow down, even though it’s clear they’re having a private moment. My steps take me quickly over the asphalt, but when I open my mouth only a few feet away, my stalker holds up a hand, causing me to stop in place and not say a word.
His eyes flick to mine, a clear message that I’ve done the right thing. There’s a smile creeping over the edges of his lips, and when Trudeau turns to look at me, his expression is anything but friendly.
“You should pick better company, Winnifred. I’d think this boy would be the last person you’d ever want to be around.” His voice is low, tight, with a hint of something I really dislike. His words taste sour in my throat, and I press my lips together in an irritated scowl.
“I’m an adult and I can pick my own company—”
“Makes me wonder what your mother would think if she could see you right now.” His words have the unintended effect of making me take a step back, and he must sense that it was the wrong thing to say by the look on my face.
His brow furrows, and suddenly Cass is pushing off of the car, looming in the detective’s space without hesitation.
“Stop,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You can insult me and threaten me all you like.” His words are slow, careful, and there’s an undercurrent of a threat that would be impossible to miss even if I didn’t know him.
“You can tell me you’re just waiting for me to fuck up.
Tell me again how you always have your gun with you.
I don’t care, detective. But you will not bring her into this.
You will not try to hurt her just to get a reaction from me. Do you understand me?”
Silence falls between them, and the two men just stare at each other for so long that I start to fidget. The air is cold enough that I shiver, even in my hoodie, but finally Trudeau lets out a breath. “I only meant it as—”
“I don’t care how you meant it. You don’t know anything about her life, or her mother.
Anything you’ve read in a file”—he sneers the word—“won’t give you a real picture of what happened.
You’re not from Hayden Fields, Detective.
You were never a part of what goes on here.
And I suggest you stop trying to be. Go back to solving murders in Akron.
Hell, do something useful and look for the person who committed murder here recently.
Oh, that’s right…” His smile turns mocking.
“You haven’t been looking, have you? Because you’ve been convinced it was me this whole time. ”
Trudeau looks back at me, and I hear the warning sound that grates in Cass’s chest. “No, you don’t look at her, Detective.
She has nothing to do with any of this. And neither do I, not that you’ll believe it.
I paid for what I did all those years ago.
And I’m not dumb enough to come back to my hometown near Halloween just to start killing.
No matter how much you want that to be the case because of how easy it would be. ”
I’ve never seen Cass be so…in control. So sure of himself that he’s all but threatening the detective. It’s kind of hot, if I’m honest with myself.
Okay, it’s really fucking hot to see him standing there, uncaring and unafraid of the detective or the gun his fingers are inching toward.