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Leaving me in the bathroom to get dressed, when I re-emerge, she’s sitting on the floor with her back propped against the side of the bed, sipping on one of the cans of ginger ale. Her door is shut, bolted with a padlock, the thick black curtains pulled shut over her window.
She looks completely at ease, even though her brother’s outside right now, dealing with an unknown assailant. A random trespasser, maybe, but the ease with which both of them handled the situation tells me there’s something else going on.
I walk over and sit down beside her, running my fingers over the silk cow-print pajama set she gave me. “These are cute.”
Nodding, she scrolls through her phone without looking at me. “You can have them. I don’t really wear pajamas anymore.”
Blowing out a breath, I stretch my legs out, trying to get a grip on my sense of control before it spirals and I can’t get it back. There’s a thin thread that runs the line between sanity and lunacy, and even though I normally toe it in general, I can feel myself falling.
Backsliding.
All because of a little danger. A little violence. A little blood.
Okay, a lot of blood, but still.
After the initial shock of murder wore off in the shower, I realized I wasn’t even upset about the fact that I’d killed.
More so about the fact that I’m not upset at all.
There’d been a brief flash of relief when I pulled the trigger, buried by nerves and adrenaline, a euphoric rush from catering to the violence that’s been trying to hatch inside of me all along.
It’s not a craving, but I can’t deny there was a rush when I finally went through with it, as if I finally have something to connect me to the Ivers’ namesake.
Only now, it feels like Boyd’s paying penance for my deeds, since we have no idea what the hell is going on outside.
Tapping my fingers on my thigh, I scan the room, looking for something in need of fixing.
Anything.
I note a puzzle tucked beneath her dresser, and reach out to slide it my way—it’s a thousand-piece cottagecore scene, the box so old I have to imagine it belonged to the house’s previous owners, but it’ll have to do.
“What are you doing?” she asks as I take off the lid and dump out the pieces, immediately searching for edges.
My nerves are shot, so my fingers still shake as I comb through the colors, separating the edges from the others. “If I don’t do something, I’ll go crazy just sitting up here waiting. Doesn’t it bother you at all that we have no idea what your brother’s doing outside?”
“No.” She shrugs, still scrolling. “He’s a big boy, he can take care of himself.”
I huff, shaking my head. “Well, that’s not how my mind works.”
“How is worrying about him gonna help the situation?”
“It’s not, but it’s—it’s not something I can just turn off. Most of the time, anyway.” I gesture toward the puzzle. “Hence, the distraction.”
She hums, finally setting her phone on the floor. “I see why my brother likes you. You’re as crazy as he is.”
Pursing my lips, I don’t reply, and she slides closer, helping me separate the pieces. We work in silence for a while, until the sound of a gunshot rings through the air and a loud banging reverberates off the walls, making us jump. Riley gets to her feet and turns off the bedroom light, shrouding us in the dark, and slides the other can of ginger ale my way.
“Drink,” she says. “I don’t want you passing out.”
I take the can and crack the tab, thinking to myself that it’s weird being bossed around by someone my age, and then lean against the bed.
“What happened tonight?” she asks finally, her voice small and unsure, cracking on the last syllable. Something tells me she already knows—that this is a night she’s been anticipating for a long time. I think about the baggy clothes I see her in, the cropped cut of her hair, the scars lining her otherwise perfect face, and wonder how much she’s struggled over the last few months.
Boyd probably wouldn’t want me to tell her, but if it were me and a demon of mine had been slain, I’d want to know. I think it’s the only way I’d be able to sleep at night.
“I killed Romeo Bianchi.”
Neither of us moves, even the moonlight outside seeming to still at my confession. Then she nods, the movement barely visible. “Good.”
And then, we wait.
