A gun in a safe at home, sure, but that won’t tie anyone to anything without a body or a confession. I don’t expect either. Lilac’s under control and the others are as deep in the shit as I am.
Still, since I’m erring on the side of caution… “I haven’t disposed of the weapon yet, but it alone proves nothing. Robbie’s mum isn’t going anywhere, but the story is simple. He was in trouble. He ran. Nobody’s ever going to prove anything different.”
Stefan turns his gaze to Caylon, but he’s already nodding in agreement. “Get rid of it,” he orders, and when I open my mouth to explain further, he holds up his hand. “I don’t care about the reasons. Get rid of it. If you need to bring it to me, that’s fine.”
He exhales and moves to the door, resting his fingers on the handle. “And destroy it properly. I don’t want to spend another moment thinking about this, so if you fuck up and make me, it won’t go well for you.”
The threat from anyone else would make me bristle, but from Stefan, I accept it with a nod and follow Caylon out the door.
“You gonna do it?”
I ignore Caylon and head to the bar, holding my fingers up for another two shots. They go down smoothly, but the night no longer holds any promise. “When’ll the phone be ready?”
“I’ll text you, but sometime tomorrow.”
His eyes still hold the question, but I duck out of the bar without giving him an answer. I don’t actuallyneedto keep it; so long as Lilac believes I have it, that’s enough to keep her in line. And when she finishes the tasks, I’m setting her…?
I’m sure she’ll break well before that, but even if she earns out, it won’t matter. Then I’ll destroy the weapon as Stefan asked, keeping him and Lilac happy.
CHAPTERTEN
LILAC
By Friday afternoon,it appears Zach’s efforts to label me as the town bike have taken a wrong turn. Not that anyone thinks I’m an innocent, but the slurry of scorn that followed our initial interaction has been replaced by gentle ribbing.
Helped most of all by the rugby team treating me with all the respect of an ex-girlfriend without the annoyance of having to go through a breakup.
Trent is responsible for most of it. The moment I arrive at school each morning, he makes a point of coming over to ask about my night. The day after ‘the incident’ he insisted I take his jacket again, even though I was wearing an outfit much warmer than the ridiculously inadequate silk dress.
Not one to turn down an attempt at friendship, I accepted his offer. After he bumped into me again at morning break, then yet again at lunchtime, I understood his actions were deliberate.
Whether he’s doing it out of genuine consideration for my feelings or as a backlash against his supposed friend Zach remains to be seen.
By Wednesday, the entire team was playing at the same game. Polite greetings settle into something more casual but at least five times a day, someone seeks me out for a catchup chat in an openly public setting. A clear signal to any senior that I’m under protection.
It would feel nice, except the whole charade is out of my control. As easily as Trent bestowed the friendship, it could just as quickly disappear.
“Here,” Zach says, late on Friday, tossing a box at me. I fumble the catch but stop it from hitting the floor by wedging it between my wrist and thigh. He stands by calmly as I open the wrapping to see a brand-new phone inside.
Thousands of dollars of hardware slung at me with a casual throw. My skin prickles thinking about how I might have dropped it, and I thrust it back at him. “I can’t take this.”
But he raises his hands and turns away. “Send me your number when you’ve got it hooked up,” he calls over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner.
The excitement of owning a new gadget is lost in a wave of trepidation about what he’s setting me up for next.
A sensation that increases when I return home after an afternoon spent serving at the Kuzmanic’s dairy to find a variety of parcels gathered on the coffee table.
“Show and tell,” Finley announces, giving a frustrated moan as I sweep them up and carry them into my bedroom instead. “Spoil my fun, why don’t you?”
It’s just as well I got them away from prying eyes when I spy the contents of the first package. Lingerie so scant it might as well be a spiderweb. Albeit a web that costs more than my annual wages.
A sick feeling gathers in my gut as I line up each new item of clothing—and that’s a loose use of the term—on my bed. It takes a stronger hold when I open the last box, the heaviest one, and discover it’s full of toys.
“Woah. You’ll need every plug in the house to charge that lot,” Finley calls from my doorway where she snuck when I wasn’t looking.
“Out.”
“But don’t you need—?”
