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“He was a freaky little kid,” I admitted. “He was sixteen when he came to stay with us for a couple of months.” I thought back to that time in my life. “I wasn’t sure what it was that freaked me out about him. But you know those kids—or sometimes just people in general—that just give you the creeps? They don’t have to say or do anything, really. You just know that they’re fucking weird and you don’t want to be around them—especially not alone with them?”
Lock’s eyes locked on mine.
“Yeah, I do,” he said.
I studied him for a long moment before I started explaining more.
“Kris was sixteen, as I said.” I paused. “He used to cut himself. I used to walk in on him doing it. As if he was wanting me to catch him.”
Lock’s eyes narrowed.
“Did you tell your parents?” he asked.
I nodded.
“I did,” I confirmed. “And they confronted him about it. Took him to counseling. But that didn’t fix him. If anything, it made him worse, and honestly more secretive about how he did his cutting.”
“What else happened?” he wondered, leaning forward as if he knew there was more.
I frowned. “How do you know that there’s more?”
He grinned. “I’m a cop. Cops are curious by nature.”
“I forgot that you were a police officer,” I admitted.
He nodded his head with a small grin forming on the corner of those perfect lips.
“Nice,” he said. “Now, tell me what happened.”
“After I told my parents what happened,” I said as I walked the bowls over to the sink and rinsed them. “I used to get visits from him in the middle of the night.” I shivered. “He never did anything, just stood there and looked at me for hours.”
Lock was at my side moments later, reaching his nearly empty coffee mug out and filling it halfway with water before dumping it out beside my bowl.
“Sounds like he’s definitely freaky,” he confirmed. “What happened then?”
“I told my parents, and they decided enough was enough and found him another place to live.” I licked my lips. “But over the next year or so, I used to get dead birds and shit on my windowsills. I swear to God, it was him.”
“Fucking creepy,” he said. “Sounds like you dodged a bullet, though. Your parents trusting you like that is awesome.”
“My parents are the best,” I agreed.
“No, mine are the best,” he corrected me. “Yours are probably second best, though.”
My brows rose. “I think we’ll just have to agree to disagree.”
He winked.
“Probably for the best,” he admitted. “Are you hungry? I can order lunch.”
Actually, I was absolutely starving.
“No,” I lied. “Thank you, though.”
He eyed me from where I stood at his kitchen sink, washing my dirty dishes.
“I’m going to order Waitr anyway,” he said. “And I’ll get you a hot dog unless you tell me what you really want.”
I tilted my head.
