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“I hadn’t thought about it until now, but… nothing. Every time I attempt to eat, I suddenly lose interest. Is that bad?”

The poor girl looks so concerned.

“No, honey. You’re fine. You can go back to your room now.”

Dee switching up like that is disturbing enough, but her motherly demeanor toward Lyr is even weirder. She’s like a Sour Patch Kid—sour and then sweet. Except when she’s sweet, she’s sickly. I’ve got to get Lyric away from her.

CHAPTER 6

ATTICUS

“That proves nothing.” I quip.

“Let me educate you, pretty boy. If she knew she was dead, don’t you think she would’ve figured it out by now? She doesn’t know. She just thinks that she’s in a funk from the shit with Jake.”

She rolls her eyes at me and exhales loudly, slapping her hands at her sides.

“Wait. Who the fuck is Jake?”

Seriously. Is he dead, too? What are the odds I can whoop his ass?

“See, you wouldn’t know, would you? You’re obsessing over a chick you know absolutely nothing about. You’re a creep pretending to be a repairman so you can get close to Lyr. It ain’t happen⁠—”

I abruptly cover her mouth with my palm. She’s worn me out after having to listen to her yap for so long. I need to find Jake. I need to see Lyric. And I need to get the hell away from Cruella.

“Enough. You don’t own her and none of these concern you.”

Cruella nods vigorously and tugs at my wrists. I release her and bolt to Lyric’s room. I don’t knock.

I open the door and there she is, typing away. She’s got a stack of pillows propped in her lap with her laptop balanced on top. She looks up from the screen and suddenly I notice how full her lashes are and every sun-kissed freckle on her face. It’s like a map, and they all lead to her.

“Can I help you?”

What a loaded question. I need her like I need air.

“I’m just here to check the circuit breaker. Complaints established from the restaurant below have us contemplating whether the wires or connections overlap in your place. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

I can’t stop staring at her. A man’s graphic tee envelopes her upper half. The Metallica shirt is obviously way too big on her, but that’s okay. The only thing that ought to fit snugly against her curvaceous body is me, anyway.

Lyric gestures to her closet, where the electrical box hides. I head over and open the curtains. There is no door, and honestly, that doesn’t surprise me. The inside of the closet resembles a porta-potty, and with the conditions of this building, I’m surprised it doesn’t smell like one too.

I glance over at her, trying to contain the grimace on my face as I step into the too-small closet. As I pull the curtain back and fasten it to the wall with the one bulbous pin shoved into the frame of the entrance, my eyes land on a pale and cartoonish ghost reading an emerald green book; the figure surrounded by broken bits of blooming cyan-blue roses entwined around an elaborate, golden filigree frame.

The tattoo is large and peers out from underneath a mesh cutout and a transecting buckle on athletic leggings. The peekaboo moment makes me wonder if she has more meaningful ink hiding under there.

Locating the power box, I begin to feign productivity.

“So, what are you typing?”

I curiously look down at her laptop, and she instantly shuts it.

“Nothing, just… writing a poem.”

Interesting. I wonder if she’s any good.

“Can you read one of them to me?”

I keep messing around with the tin box, hoping to distract her from my lack of knowledge and that I’m not actually looking at what I’m doing.