Page 73 of Pleasure & Prey: Vol. 2

But nothing happens. Nothing except Scott’s yell of impatience and Roscoe’s playful yip. They draw me away from the window and back into the living room, where I’ll probably have to deal with the two of them ganging up on me to watch something Lou would skin me for putting on.

“Hey.” Reagan’s soft voice from the recliner causes me to open my eyes, and I look at her in the flickering light coming from the television. Now that Scott is in bed with Roscoe snoring on his feet, we’ve changed from kids’ Halloween movies to something scarier, though I have no idea what ‘90s era slasher movie is currently playing. “You okay?”

I blink, my attention shifting back to the movie. I’d almost been asleep, but her words chase away some of the drowsiness. “Yeah,” I say with a sigh. “I’m okay, Reagan. Thanks for coming over, by the way. And for checking out the yard.”

“Anytime.” She shifts, dragging the fleece blanket she pilfered from the hall closet over herself. “Seriously, you know? You’re my best friend. If you ever need a yard patrolman or co-babysitter, all you have to do is ask.”

“Best friend?” I repeat, eyes closing again as sleep tugs convincingly at my brain. I yawn. “I never knew you considered me your best friend.”

“Well, yeah.” She doesn’t say anything else, even though I expect her to. She just rolls onto her side, her knees drawn up to her chest in the recliner before letting out a huff and closing her eyes as well. “See you in the morning, Winnie,” she mutters.

“Yeah.” I glance at the television and pick up the remote to turn it off, plunging us into relative darkness lit only by the hall nightlight and the diffused light that seeps in through the living room curtains. “See you in the morning.”

Almost immediately I hear her snoring as I stare up at the ceiling, and I sigh ruefully, jealous of Reagan’s ability to sleep literally anywhere and at any time. Hell, I’m pretty sure if a tornado swept through the neighborhood, she wouldn’t wake up. Even if she herself was carried away.

But it takes a lot longer for me to drift off, despite being somewhat sure she was right, and what I’d seen in the yard was just some asshole playing a prank who’d run away after scaring me.

It’s cold in the janitor’s closet. Especially in my still-bloody t-shirt and denim shorts. Even though it's late summer, it feels freezing here. Still, the cold makes the bruises and my broken arm hurt a little less, if only because it gives me something to distract me from the pain.

Outside, I hear the rushing around and yelling of the Psych Hospital staff, and I can make out my name being said or yelled in desperate attempts to locate me in this huge, cold place. Not that I have any intention of coming out.

I don’t want anyone to touch me.

I’d be happy if no one ever touched me again, in fact.

When it’s silent, I get to my feet, leaning my ear against the door to listen for any sign of someone walking by. But when it’s been calm outside for at least five minutes, I figure I’m in the clear and they’re searching somewhere else for me. Slowly, I push open the door and peek out into the fluorescent hall, giving it a few seconds to make sure there really is no one waiting to pounce. When I’m satisfied, I walk out, my sneakers making no sound on the tile floor.

I don’t want to be here.

All I have to do is convince Mom and Lou that I don’t need to be here. That I’d be better off at home, even with everything that’s going on. I just have to make them see that I don’t need an evaluation, a test, or medical care now that my arm is splinted and my ribs have been x-rayed.

Maybe this time she’ll listen; once she sees I was desperate enough to get away that I’ve been hiding from the psych ward staff for thirty minutes and counting.

Trying to remember where I’d come from, I jog down the hallway and glance through the small glass windows set in each of the doors. Most of them are empty, and none of them are the way out. Not that I can tell, anyway. And my brain is so jumbled that I can’t quite remember which way they’d led me in before I’d slipped away in the ‘waiting room.’

Voices echo at the other end of the hall and I panic, pushing open the closest door without looking inside to get away from anyone who might find me and take me back. I know I’ll be in trouble for this, but it’ll be worth it if I can just go home.

It isn’t until I trip over a chair and go sprawling that I realize I’m not alone, thanks to the low, dry chuckle from the other side of the room near the windows. Getting to my feet, I look up at the person, eyes searching their face and taking in their plain, white clothes.

“I know you.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop myself, and I take a step toward him before hesitating.

He looks me over with pale blue eyes set under curly, unkempt, light brown hair and I see a spark of recognition in his gaze as he pulls one knee up to his chest. It occurs to me that he’s sitting in the middle of what looks like an activity room, against the only wall with windows, and he’s all alone.

“Are you allowed to be here?” I look around, as if other people are hiding behind the walls or under tables. But he and I are the only ones here.

He quirks a brow at me, a smile hitching on his face. “Are you?” he asks in reply. “Because judging by how you’re acting, and your clothes, I’d say you aren’t, Winnie.”

When he says my name, I suddenly realize who he is. Cassian Byers sits in front of me, in the psych ward he’d been thrown in after killing his sister.

“Cassian,” I murmur, my stomach twisting nervously. I take a step back, but only one, as Cass’s lips twitch into a small, wry grin.

“Winnie,” he repeats. “Aren’t you going to run away? You know what I am and what I did better than anyone else here.”

I glance back at the door, hearing the voices in the hallway grow softer, then look back at Cassian. “No.” Being here with him is preferable to being caught, I think, and I decidedly sit down hard on the floor, wincing as I curl my legs up under me. “I don’t want them to find me.”

“So you’d rather be stuck in here with me?” His brow raises, and a look of interest crosses his face. “You must be in a lot of trouble if I’m your preferred choice.”

“I’m not in trouble,” I snap, before I can help it. But then I hesitate, not sure if that’s quite true. “I'm not…exactly in trouble,” I amend. “But I want to go home. I’m trying to find the front desk so I can find my mom and beg her to take me home. She thinks I need to be here, but I don’t.”