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Sighing, I look back up at Sara. “Well, you’ve got my attention now. So, what did you want?”
Her smile fades, and I feel a little bad for being short with her.
She was murdered by the witches she warned us about. It’s not like she’s hanging around because she’s trying to bug the crap out of me.
“Yeah,” she tells me, as a clear reminder that she can hear everything I’m thinking. I should probably be glad she doesn’t seem pissed off. She gives me a wry smile. “I’m not Carter.”
“Good,” I reply. “One Carter is more than enough.”
I glance back, waiting for the kitchen door to swing open, expecting an indignant response at my disparaging mention of his name. It doesn’t happen, so I guess Carter really is busy cleaning.
I try not to dwell on the fact that Sara’s making it so damn obvious she can read my mind.
No matter how creepy it is.
“Oh, come on. It’s nowhere near as bad as when Carter does it.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s way worse when he does it.”
Usually only because it’s something about Rachel. I’d prefer it if my private thoughts about our mate stayed private. Mainly because Carter takes so much delight in knowing how I feel about certain things.
“Omegas,” she says. “Boundaries don’t exist for them.”
“I’m starting to think you really are just here to bug the crap out of me,” I admit, making her arch her eyebrows.
“I should be insulted,” she says, letting her expression go back to neutral, “but since I’m willing to let it go …”
Fuck. I knew it. She’s here because she wants something.
My jaw starts to tighten. It must be something bad. She wouldn’t draw it out like this if it wasn’t going to be a huge ask.
“You seriously have issues, you know that?” she mutters, as if she’s mad that I’m getting tense.
“Spit it out, Sara. I’ve got a life to get on with,” I mumble back, feeling another nip of guilt when I realize I’m goading her.
It disappears quickly. She knows I don’t like this, and yet here she is.
She’s been lurking around for the past couple of months, silently getting on my nerves.
If she isn’t going to tell me what this is about now, she probably never will.
I’m not sure which would be worse, honestly.
She lets out a heavy sigh, and then stares me down.
“You remember when I told you to look out that yearbook?” she asks.
“I remember,” I answer.
How could I forget? It’s the least direct way a spirit’s ever given me their name.
“There was another yearbook beside it, wasn’t there?”
I start to shake my head, then I realize she’s right. There was another yearbook in that dresser next to mine. That’s actually the reason I decided to put mine in that drawer. It’s where my aunt’s old yearbook was. I laid mine on top instead of throwing it in the trash, where it was headed beforehand, alongside everything else I didn’t really care about.
“How would you know about that?” I ask, confused.
She died after Rachel warded the house, and I’m pretty sure she was never inside while she was alive. I didn’t know her in high school, and I doubt my aunt had anything to do with her. That woman barely tolerated me, and I was her nephew. Her sister’s weird kid she ended up half-heartedly raising for a few years before she died from the same cancer that killed my mother.
