Hands still bloody. Cat ears still perched.
And her blue eyes, wide and sharp, are locked onto mine like she could pin me just as easily as she pinned him.
My stomach drops.
I’m not wearing my mask.
Her eyes cut through me like a blade.
Not wide with fear. Not even with guilt. No—she looks at me like a predator who just realized another predator was in the room the whole time.
My pulse stutters. My breath catches. For one stupid second, I think maybe I imagined the whole thing. Maybe I didn’t just watch a woman dressed like a Halloween kitten suffocate a man with a plastic bag.
But then I glance at the table.
At the slumped body. At the blood dripping steadily down the wood, dark and slick. And I know I’m not imagining shit.
She knows I saw. I know she knows I saw. And that’s the kind of knowledge that ruins people.
I should run. Bolt. Pretend none of this ever happened.
Instead, my legs move. Straight toward the door.
The bell jingles softly as I push it open, the most absurdly cheerful sound to ever exist in a murder scene.
Willow’s eyes remain fixed on me, the terror in them obvious, her mouth parting, a curse caught on her lips.
And I hear myself say, voice dry, reckless, too calm for the chaos inside me: “If you’re going to do that in here, you should at least have curtains.” It comes off a little… angry. Maybe even annoyed.
Willow doesn’t say a word. She stands there, frozen, staring at me. Taking in every detail of my face. Memorizing me.
“Let’s get this cleaned up before anyone else just walks by and sees a body in a pool of blood,” I say to fill the silence.
The words hang in the incense-thick air, sharp and surreal.
Her chest rises and falls fast. Cat ears tilted. Guilt written over every inch of her face.
And me? I just crossed a line I can’t uncross. The body slumps forward, hands still lying on the oak table like some horror movie saint offering sacrifice.
And her.
She’s just… frozen.
Well, not completely. Her fingers flex like she’s debating snatching her daggers from the table, chest heaving. And I have to wonder: am I in danger now? Maybe she’s a violent little killer and she’ll stab anything that moves.
But her eyes are wide and locked on me like I’ve just rippedhermask off.
Fight. Flight. Freeze. And my girl here? She’s ice.
I know the look too well. Theoh-shit-it’s-overstare. The one where you see your own life ending in a courtroom or in a car trunk.
Part of me wants to laugh. I’ve been obsessed with her for months—her mouth, her sharp tarot reads, the way she leaves comments that burn hotter than any flame trick I’ve ever pulled. And now? Turns out she’s a killer.
And here’s the fucked-up part: instead of running, I’m hard as steel under the performance pants I’m still wearing, because apparently, this is exactly my type.
What does that say about me? That I grew up around bodies and blood and crime, and so much worse. Damn. Did Ieverhave a chance at falling for someone normal?
Shit. Therapy would eat me alive.
