Page 32

No one names their kid Delilah.

Shaking the snow off the bottom of my pants, I flex my fingers until feeling comes back. It smells nice in here. Different than my usual places. Roast beef with mashed potatoes and gravy. Warm and soft and inviting.

I’ll call Mom tomorrow morning, I promise.

I take the stairs two at a time, pulling myself up as quickly and quietly as possible. Peeking my head around the corner, an old dude is ironing a pair of black suit pants. He’s humming to himself while an old CRT TV plays off to the side, painting him in easter pink and autumn brown.

Shit, I know this show. I really love this episode, too. It’s the one where the main character is working at a chocolate place, and she keeps eating the bad ones. She sticks her mouth under a pipe, and me and the dude laugh.

His head snaps to me.

… Oopsie.

I cross the room in two steps before his mouth can open. My hand closes around the iron, and I swing it into his cheek. His skin sizzles like fucking bacon. Burnt and crispy.

He doesn’t scream like I’m expecting—he rushes past me, fast as hell. I try to grab his wrist, but he’s heavier. Stronger. He wrenches his wrist free and drags me halfway out the door with him.

My shoe catches on something. I go down hard. The bunny mask hits the ground first, and I hear my nose crunch beneath it. Blood coats the back of my throat.

There’s another sickening crack, then the old dude lands on the floor next to me less than a second later.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Police announce themselves, right?

Right?

Scrambling back to my feet, I yank the iron off the carpet, and half the singed fibers come with it. I can deal with a—a shoot out. Guns? Fuck guns. I got a motherfucking iron.

I am so goddamn prepared to fucking die right here.

Blood’s still trickling over my lips when my eyes decide to work.

Black ski mask. Green eyes in the warm bedroom light. Black hoodie. Black jacket. Black cargo pants.

Best friend.

My eyes cloud over, and I suck back the coppery sob that’s stuck in my throat. I push the mask up just enough to wipe my nose on my wrist.

Then I wave with the iron.

“You,” he hisses, pointing at me, “are a fucking imbecile.”

I’m not going to cry right here, so I nod.

The dude rolls over on the carpet and grabs my ankle beneath my ripped pants. Panic and adrenaline rip through my veins. I slam the iron down onto the top of his head as hard as I can. Burnt hair wafts up, turning the roast beef metallic.

Nope, I hate that.

I tear my eyes away from my pen pal and kick the old dude onto his back. The iron comes down on his face over and over. His nose caves in, skin red and sizzling, exposing the fake white dentures. One more hit and the middle of his face melts like cherry ice cream.

I didn’t need something heavier after all! I just needed something hot.

The next time I look up, my best friend has his arms folded over his chest, all his weight leaning on one leg. I’m not good at reading expressions—especially with only eyes—but he looks… not pissed. His head tilts to the side and Beckett, of all people, flashes in my head so suddenly I drop the damn iron.

Something warm spills over my sneakers and seeps into my socks. My toes are sticky in seconds.

Oh my God.