Though people all around town are starting to question…Where is Hopkins?I shake my head, tell them to give him a call and ask him themselves.
Carol notices Ginny in my cat carrier and coos at her. “And how is Miss Genevive?”
“She’s doing great. Want to say hi?”
“I’d love to.”
I open a compartment of her backpack carrier, and Ginny pokes her head out.
Carol scratches her readily. “Looks like she’s doing wonderful under your care. I’m glad.”
Ginny purrs. For a moment, the tension eases from my shoulders. The sunset, Carol’s smile… Life is okay.
With a squeal of tires and the dying roar of a silenced motor, another car parks, drawing both of our attention. John Beck pops out of his old red Mustang—an heirloom he and his father fixed up together.
He looks at us, his expression blank.
“Hi, John,” I call out, waving to him.
“You haven’t heard the news, have you?” His face is ashen. “My dad is dead.”
He storms off.
I give Carol a long look, zip Ginny into her cat carrier, and chase after him.
Chapter24
Murderer
Summer
Guilt twistsmy stomach as I follow him. My parents haven’t said anything, so it must have happened this afternoon.
I feel so useless.
John streaks away, his shoulders hunched, and my guilt compounds. I didn’t want his dad to die. I never wanted anyone to get hurt.
It's not my fault. Adrial did this weeks ago, and the fire happened before I even knew he was a demon.I hate how I try to convince myself this isn’t my fault.
It might have been an accident, but it was still me who bled on Zuriel. It was me who woke him, invoked him, luring Adrial here. Even if it was an accident—even if Zuriel allowed me his name—it still happened. Those events came to pass, and now John’s dad is dead.
John and I played together as kids when our parents hosted dinner parties. He was always more interested in his Hot Wheels while I preferred my books, but without a sibling of my own, in a childlike way, I could pretend he was my brother. As we grew older, we drifted apart, and as teens, we had different friends. Since I returned home, we’ve become acquaintances, friendly, working in adjacent buildings, separated by our different interests.
Maybe he’ll push me away, but at least I can offer my time, the chance to talk.
When he whips down the alley between the museum and the bakery, heading for the back door, he pulls up the hood to his coat. I tear after him before he nears the back of the building.
“John,” I call after him. “Wait! Can we talk?”
He stops at the bakery’s back door, and I jog, catching up to him.
It’s cool here, surrounded by brick walls that block the last of the daylight. Rubbish from the bakery’s ongoing repairs fills the alley with the lingering scent of ash. Worms wiggle free from the earth, climbing on the equipment. The shadows are dark, lengthening as the sun sets. I’m clammy—except for my brands. They’re warming, growing hotter by the second. Ginny yowls, rioting in her carrier, driving shivers down my spine.
I freeze.
John faces me, and when he grins, I’m greeted by an expression that isn’t his.
“Hello, Summer,” Adrial groans. His voice even sounds like John, spoken with all the wrong intonations. “The bereaved are so easy to convince that the void will provide better comfort than grief. I just had to bide my time.”
