“Fuck,” I sigh, curling up under my blankets. I’m unsure what to do about the dreams, truthfully. Or anything else in my life right now. But staying in bed hasn’t helped over the last couple of days, so I doubt it’ll work today. That and the smell of French toast propels me out of bed, though I make a stop byYoichi’s enclosure to pick up my black rat snake and drape him over my shoulders like the world’s scaliest ascot.
Out in the kitchen, I’m surprised to find Esme looking pretty normal, given our recent circumstances. I pat myself on the back for making up a story about some guy I met at work, instead of actually telling her about Larkin, and I run through the details of what I told her so far, just in case she asks about him again today.
I have to keep my shit straight, after all.
No part of me feels bad about lying to her. Telling her that Larkin knows what I did, and how she helped me, on top of havingvideoof it, would absolutely send her off the deep end without a doubt. She can’t handle it, and I can’t watch her spiral. Not again, not that she’s finally starting to come out of it.
“Good morning,” she greets, grinning at me happily. “You want French toast.” it isn’t a question, and I give her a little smile in return.
“I always want French toast when you’re making it.” I don’t remark on how her French toast is like crack. Which it is, and I’ve told her many times. But every time she just shakes her head and tells me I’m being dramatic, even though I’m not, and I could survive a nuclear winter on her French toast alone if I needed to.
Sitting down at the island on one of our stools, I watch her as Yoichi slithers down my arm, his tail still coiled around my wrist as he explores the maze of now-empty mixing bowls and paper towels there. It’s like his own little sensory playground, and I remind myself to clean it up once his fascination is exhausted. “You seem better,” I say carefully, not wanting to shatter this fragile, happier feeling in the apartment.“Areyou doing better?”
“I am.” Esme barely hesitates, but I can still hear the edge of dishonesty in her voice. Sure, she might be doingbetter, but she’s not doinggreat,I decide. She turns that dazzling smile onme and adds, “I’ve been a shitty friend lately. I’m sure you’re struggling too, and I don’t want you to think I don’t support you.”
Well, she isn’t wrong. I am struggling, but not for the reasons she’s thinking. I don’t have guilt or regrets about Alan’s death. I don’t worry about Mike Flanagan showing up again. Those things aren’t even on my radar, except as something to be aware of that’s botheringher.
No, my problems include a man who threw me into his trunk before fucking me on his couch, and dreams that point to me not being quite as reformed as I’d hoped to be. I’m not stupid. I know what my subconscious is trying to tell me, and what Alan implies every time he searches in my chest for something that he doesn’t find.
Maybe I’m not reformed at all.
Maybe, even though I’ve tried so hard to deny it, I’m still the same little girl who killed her mother with a flashlight then killed the man in the cabin down the road without a hint of remorse. In that case, the asylum didn’t fix me, and I’m still the fucked up killer my mother was so sure I was, rather than being the daughter she wanted and remembered from when I was young.
The plate of French toast shoved in front of me startles me from my thoughts and makes me glance up. I smile at Esme as she sits down beside me with her own plate, the bottle of maple syrup between us. Without looking up, she shoves it in my direction, and scoots her plate out of Yoichi’s path as he continues happily, winding around the mixing bowl like it’s a new toy Esme got just for him. On another circuit, his tail flicks out to touch her arm, and Esme absently reaches up to run her finger lightly down his scales.
“I’m going back to the island tomorrow,” I say suddenly, surprising both myself and, probably, Esme, judging by the way she glances up at me in alarm.
“Like, theisland,island?” she asks, her eyes wide and owlish. I nod my head, barely giving her a look from the corner of my eyes.
“Yeah. The island-island. I need…” I trail off and cut my French toast into little pieces instead of eating it, unsure of what to say. “I need something,” I sigh at last.
“Do you need company?Wantcompany?” Esme asks, working through her thoughts as she speaks uncertainly. I honestly can’t tell if she actually wants to go, but that won’t change my answer anyway.
“No.” My voice is soft, but firm. I don’t hesitate as I speak, and I barely glance up from my grid of French toast bites. I only look her way enough to make sure that her expression is still mostly neutral. I don’twantto explain. Hell, I’m not sure if I can explain. But if she needs me to, I’ll try for her benefit.
Thankfully, she’s just nodding. Esme fiddles with her spoon before shoving a half slice of French toast into her mouth. “If you change your mind, just let me know,” she offers at last. “Are you taking the ferry?”
“Yeah.” The answer is out before I can think of it, and a twist of something like trepidation constricts my lungs. “I’ve maybe avoided ferries for too long, don’t you think?” Even without looking at her, I can feel Esme’s worried look of concern pointed in my direction. I ignore it, however, and reach out to hook a few fingers under Yoichi and bring him back to my shoulders. Quickly, I stab all the remaining pieces of my breakfast before mopping up the maple syrup on my plate and pop the whole mess in my mouth. It’s definitely too much, and I feel like a chipmunk with puffed up cheeks full of food I’m storing for the winter. Esme snickers from my beside me, but I only shoot her a mock glare before swallowing the food and chasing it with the last bit of milk in the glass Esme had poured for me.
“What are you doing this week?” Getting up, I swipe her plate and the mixing bowls, balancing everything in one hand before dumping the lot in the sink. Our glasses are next, and before she can get up, I grab the butter and syrup to put back as well. If she cooks, the least I can do is clean.
“I’m picking up a few extra hours at work. There’s a storm coming, apparently. Supposed to be a pretty big deal? And because it’s so late in the season, there’s some special coverage about it. They want to run a segment with this weather guy from the national center or?—”
I don’t mean to let her words become white noise, but it’s hard not to today. My mind is already a little foggy, and I nod along with her while cleaning the dishes enough to go in the dish washer. Occasionally I put in a word or two in answer, able to do so on autopilot, but overall, it’s nice to just spend this time with her and be able to zone out. We haven’t had this in too long. But finally,hopefully, everything is going back to normal in our little bubble. I just need to take Larkin out of the equation before he can fuck up my algorithm even more.
That’ll make the dreams stop, right?
The internal question makes me pause, and my hands come to a complete freeze under the warm water. Soap drips from the sponge as I stare down at the shiny plate, and I can’t help as the remains of my dream from last night play like a movie in my head.
“I don’t think you have it to find, Sierra.”
I can still picture Alan’s bloody face, and I can see the blood and bone he pulls out of my chest as he looks for something deeper within. The digging doesn’t hurt; in my dream, I can’t even feel it. But it’s surreal to see my insides spilling out on the ground between us like unneeded viscera.
“I don’t think there’s anything here at all.”
Chapter
Fourteen
