Page 77 of Pleasure & Prey: Vol. 2

And I don’t regret it, no matter what Lou or my mom want to think.

“I’m home.” My voice rings out in the open concept first floor of my mom’s house, and the only answer is the soft sound of Doom’s bell as the large, tabby cat comes trotting out of the kitchen. “Hey, Doom.” I sigh, kneeling down and running my hand over his ears. “Did you piss off Gloom, hmm?” Though I’m not surprised Doom’s sister isn’t out here right now; she isn’t exactly social, after all.

Neither of my ex-feral cats are, but Doom has warmed up to me specifically enough to get love on his terms. Rising to my feet, I drop my things on the sofa, not minding that Mom won’t be home until Monday. This way I can leave some stuff lying around and not feel bad about her looking pointedly at whatever is out of place. As per usual, I’ll become a whirlwind Sunday night to clean up everything before she gets home.

I’m exhausted, even though it’s barely noon. And if I’d been thinking about taking today as a lazy day before, the events of this morning have only solidified that for me. In fact, I barely make it through feeding the cats and rummaging through the dangers of the fridge for a snack before I face-plant my bed with a groan.

The soft sound of my phone going off to alert me to a text makes that groan louder, longer, and more pitiful. “It can wait,” I grumble to absolutely no one, seeing as I’m alone here. “Literally anything can wait.” Well, anything except rolling over and sitting up with my bag of Cheetos beside me. I drag my computer onto my lap and open it, wondering if Lacey’s death has made it to the news yet. While I know there won’t be a ton of information, or maybe any, in a news report online…there might be something, at least.

Maybe they’ll confirm whether Lacey was actually murdered. But no matter how hard I look or how I search, there’s nothing in the Akron news or Hayden Fields pages about the Clarkes or their daughter.

“Surprised there aren’t reporters and cameras lining up outside the house,” I murmur to myself, crunching on a few Cheetos. I grimace at my fingers, always hating the residue the delicious snacks leave behind. But Doom obviously feels differently. The male tabby hops up on my bed and licks at my fingers, cleaning off my hand with an appreciative purr. “Thanks. Now I’m not eating any more of them.” I curl the bag closed and toss it onto my nightstand, then flop down onto my bed once more. This time, though, instead of suffocating myself in my pillowcase that’s a week late on being washed, I curl up on my side to stare at the mostly opaque blackout curtains covering my window.

“Don’t do it,” I mutter, but I know where my brain is heading. “Don’t do this, Winnie.” But well, I’m already doing it. Inevitable, really, since there’s no way to keep my mind off of him for long when he’s back in town.

Cassian’s face fills my head as I remember his look outside of the Clarke’s house. I feel like I’m scrutinizing every microsecond of our interaction, trying to look for something I’d missed before. Trying to find…something.

Though admittedly, I don’t know what.

If Lacey was murdered, I think, what are the chances it was him?

My stomach curls in dread at the thought, though I don’t move or even blink. He’s a murderer. Hadn’t he proven that when we were young? I have no idea why he’d want to kill Lacey, but I have no idea why he killed his sister that night, either.

He’d seemed so unaffected when he’d seen me, and with a jolt I realize I hadn’t been imagining things yesterday. Cassian really was outside the diner when I dropped the plates.

My phone going off again finally drags me back to reality, and I pull it up to my face to read the messages. But I should’ve known. After all, Reagan is the most excitable creature on the planet and she’s never going to stop talking about this.

You make it home??? Her first message had been about twenty minutes ago. But I’d just ignored it. Apparently for too long, judging by her next two texts that arrived back to back.

You have to be home by now.

What are you doing?

I don’t answer in a hurry. I take my time typing out a reply to her, then delete it once before writing it all over again. It’s not because of anything she’s said, or anything wrong particularly. I’m just tired enough that stringing appropriate words together feels like a chore. Finally I manage, though, and send her something halfway intelligent back. It must be at least a little convincing, because a minute later I have two more messages that I hesitate to open.

Do you really think she was murdered?

Do you think it was him?

Fear tingles up my spine at that last message, and I turn off my phone screen instead of replying as my eyes drift back to my curtains. But I know I can’t ignore Reagan forever. Especially right now when I really, truly just want to sleep.

My fingers type quickly on my phone, even before I’ve really formulated a reply. So I keep it simple, and easy, and send it without thinking about it too much.

I have no idea. And no, I don’t

It’s a lie.

It’s such a fucking lie, but it’s the best I can do right now. At least until I sleep, eat, and get my hand to stop aching so much today.

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.