He veers toward the side of the house.
“No,” DJ breathes.
Henley disappears around the corner, and a second later, a light comes on inside the house. Are you kidding me? I drag my hand down my face. That was an oversight that probably could have been avoided.
“So Benji goes back and draws another sigil on the side door,” Griffin says.
“When Henley’shome?” Benji squeaks.
“I’d offer to go with you, but you’ll be more discreet alone,” Griffin says.
Benji swallows hard enough that I can hear the gulp.
We need a better vantage point, so Griffin starts up the engine and we roll forward slowly, no headlights, creeping down the streets like the wet bandits fromHome Alone. We park two houses down with a clear view of the side entrance. It’s a plain white door with a tiny concrete stoop and a single lightbulb.
“At least there’s a welcome mat,” I say, and Benji looks at me with eyes so wide I can see whites all the way around.
He gives me a close-lipped smile that’s just him pursing his lips together. “Yep. At least there’s that.”
He opens the van door, and the interior light floods on. Griffin slaps it off immediately.
Benji walks toward Henley’s house with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, hunching his shoulders. He reaches the side door. He glances back at us once, and even from here I can see how badly his hands are shaking when he pulls the chalk from his pocket. He crouches. I hold my breath.
Henley’s shadow moves across the window. Shit, is he going toward Benji?
Benji replaces the mat and jogs back toward us. The second he climbs into the van, I can breathe again.
The minutes crawl by. Henley moves around inside. The lights in the living room flick off. I check the time on the dash. 10:37 PM.
“Do you think he’s going to turn in for the night?” DJ murmurs.
I hope not. I shift in my seat, trying to find a position that doesn’t make my hand throb quite so much. Bob’s asleep in my lap, twitching occasionally, probably chasing something in his dreams.
I’m about to ask Griffin if there’s any pizza left when a light switches on in the house and the side door opens.
Henley steps out in plain clothes, standing on the welcome mat as he locks the door behind him.
He keeps walking down the steps.
“What the fuck?” Zoey says.
Henley heads to his sedan like this is perfectly normal. Like he’s never had a serial killer living inside him and would be deeply offended if anyone suggested otherwise.
“We should follow him,” Griffin says, moving toward the driver’s seat. “If Morrow enters him while he’s out, we need to know where he goes.”
“Is that normal?” I ask. “For Morrow to slip in and out while Henley’s driving around?”
“Usually not this early. It takes a strong bond to do that.” Griffin jams the key into the ignition. “But Morrow’s stronger than most suckers we deal with. He could have his claws in by now.”
Henley’s car rolls past us, and a cold feeling passes over me as it goes by, like someone dragged an oil-soaked rag across my face.
The van rolls forward. Bob digs his claws into my thigh, not enjoying the sudden movement.
We tail Henley through the neighborhood, keeping a careful distance. He turns onto a main road. The traffic gets heavier as we enter a shopping district.
Henley’s blinker flashes. He pulls into a shopping center and parks near the entrance to a supermarket. He’s going shopping?
Griffin slides into a spot three rows back, angling the van so we have a clear view of the sedan. Henley gets out, locks his door, then heads toward the store entrance. A wisp of something peels away from his body like smoke trailing behind a cigarette, disappearing into the air as Henley walks through the automatic doors.
