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My eyes open and a yawn creeps out as the sun filters in through the curtains. I stretch my arms until they make contact with soft fur and I look over to see Dan laying next to me, though his ears have twitched and perked so I know he’s at least awake.
I kick off the blankets and slide to the edge of the bed, cracking my neck and spine before getting up. The events of the past few days whirl through my mind as I grab my phone from the side table.
Candace:So. Are you gonna spill the tea?
Henry:Why would she do that on purpose?
Candace:Not literally, you buffoon!
Henry:Oh, I googled it.
Lara:‘Henry the Boomer’ has a good ring to it. Chat later, gonna get ready and get in soon.
I snort at their antics and stand while tying my hair up into a messy bun. The ache around my ankles and wrists has slightly lessened after a full night’s rest. They’re not the most severe injuries I’ve had in my life. The scars that mar the skin on my back are proof that I’ve endured worse.
Not many people have gotten close enough to me to understand the extent of those traumas. Tammy looked at my back one time when we were changing and didn’t ask questions.
She still hasn’t, actually.
Caspian may be the first to know the truth of how I got them. Yet another thing I will never tell Claire.
Thankfully, enough time has passed that those scars are no longer raised, red and angry. The past years have since faded them into pink and white lines. The worst part is that some of them werestill healing when he’d take the belt to my back causing the process to start all over. Those are the ones that are the least appealing to look at now.
It’s just skin and flesh, though. I’m sure if you put my bones under X-Ray you’d find the imaging littered with old breaks and fractures. I had given up counting the injuries by the time I had stayed with two foster homes within my first year, considering not all abuse is visible to the untrained eye. Through the duration of being in the system, some of the mothers would simply pretend I wasn’t there, starving me while they fed their own families. I’d have to eat the dog or cat food when they weren’t looking or eat from the garbage just to survive.
That form of torture wasn’t my favorite, but it also was nowhere near the worst I’d endured.
The worst was the psycho I stayed with four years into the system. I was twelve and his wife was always high on some kind of drugs. He would bring his friends over, and they’d take turns with her, making me watch. It was only a couple nights of forced observation before they did the same to me. Though, -thankfully or not-, I was never given any of the drugs, but they were brutal enough that whilst defiling my body for their own dark, selfish needs, I’d have broken bones from the aggression they expended.
Lost in my thoughts, I slowly make my way to the kitchen, absently following the smell of coffee. As I round the corner my gaze falls upon Caspian who is still shirtless, sitting at the counter with his hair disheveled as it hangs over his forehead.
I flush as he looks up from his coffee with hooded eyes and the corner of his lips quirk, “Someone slept well?”
I snort and grab a mug from the cupboard, lazily pouring some coffee and yawning again.
“Like a baby. At least, the second time around.”
“Good. That means we can get right to work then.” Caspian takes another sip of his coffee and my brows furrow in confusion.
“Well, I do have a day job that I still need to work on and since my samples are no longer viable after being held hostage and going missing for two days, I’ll have to collect more.”
He raises a brow at me, “Are you implying I do not have a day job?”
“I’m not implying anything, I’m simply stating I still have mine to do. What does a century old serial killer’s killer do for a day job, anyways?”
“I’m a detective, so I investigate things.” He says it in such a matter-of-fact way that I snort.
Of course. It’s fitting actually.
“Right, I should’ve known that’s what detectives do in the day-to-day,” I say coolly as Caspian laughs under his breath.
Dan walks to the front door and whimpers.
“Oh shoot, you probably have to go outside, huh?” I assume based on normal dog behavior as I hurry over to open the door for him. I stand there a moment, unsure if he’ll come back or if I should wait for him.
“He will probably hunt for his breakfast. Come finish your coffee.” Caspian’s voice is thick as I turn my head and see him staring at my back with a hardened gaze, his jaw flexing before his eyes avert to his coffee.
“Was that all from him?” Caspian’s voice has a lethal edge as he takes a sip.
