He jerks his head out of my grip with a yelp, something I feel rather than see as I tumble forward, down the steps—until I land, breathless and smarting, in a crumpled heap at the bottom.
Silence.
Pure silence.
And no matter how hard I rack my brain, no matter how creative I get, I can’t come up with a way to make this less humiliating. I am a marionette whose strings have been cut, and this is probably the worst first—second?—impression I’ve ever made in my life.
It’s tempting to simply stay here, my face squashed against the wood floor, until Aiden leaves. With a bit of adjustment I could even make myself comfortable—face down sounds pretty good right about now. But when I hear his footsteps on the stairs, they seem to be coming closer instead of further away. I think he’s coming to check on me.
Where was that concern when I was trying to use you as my human handrail, Aiden?
A sort of morbid curiosity is taking over, though, as I lie here in a heap—the desire to see what happens next. So I stay where I am, not moving, even though my body is protesting the unnatural angles going on. I remain still as Aiden’s steps draw closer and closer. I remain still when I hear him stop inches away from where I lie. I even remain still when I feel one dress-shoe-clad foot nudge me, right on top of the head.
I do not move.
And then, to my absolute outrage, I hear another sound: Aiden’s footsteps, walkingback up the stairs.
“Hey!” I say, maneuvering myself into a sitting position sofast it makes my head spin. “Hey!” I push my hair out of my eyes, sweeping it impatiently to the side.
“Hey…what?” he says. His voice is flat, his expression unperturbed. One hand is tucked casually into his pocket; the other holds a book. He looks for all the world like a man who didnotjust let his new roommate fall down the stairs—and yet there’s a flicker of wicked amusement in his eyes as he stares down at me.
“What if I was dead down here?” I say, frowning up at him. “You nudged me and I didn’t move. What if I was unconscious? What if I needed to go to the hospital?” I rub my lower back, wincing as I poke and prod.
“You twitched,” he says, as though this explains everything.
“I’m sorry?”
“When I nudged you with my foot,” he says. “You twitched.”
“I did not,” I say, narrowing my eyes.
“Yes, you did,” he says blandly. “Your left leg. It twitched.”
“And you just let me fall,” I go on, pointing to him. “I grabbed you to steady myself, and you let me fall.”
For the first time since this conversation started, an easily recognizable expression passes over his face: he looks at me like I’m nuts. Holding up the book in his hand, he says, “This is acollector’s edition, Juniper.”
“What?” I blink at him.
“It’s acollector’s edition,” he says again, waving the book in my direction—now that he mentions it, I do notice the fancy-pants gold leaf on the cover—and still looking at me like I’m crazy. “An old one, at that. The spine would probably crack if I dropped it down the stairs.”
I roll my eyes and heave myself to my feet, muttering under my breath, cursing his pretentiousness while simultaneously wondering how I can get a closer look at thatspecial edition. I climb all the way up to my attic bedroom and flop down on the bare mattress, staring at the sloped ceiling.
The room is furnished already, but I need to put on bedding and set up my desk and closet and whatnot. I need to add my own dishes to the cupboards downstairs and hang some of my own art on the walls. I can make this feel like home. I did it when I moved to the foster home my senior year; I’ve done it in every place I’ve lived since then. I’ll adapt to my surroundings.
And then I’m going to do it. I’m going to write a murder mystery. And if the gruesomely killed victim happens to be a hot young professor named Aiden?
I won’t lose any sleep.
Well, all right. Maybe a little, because I struggle with bouts of insomnia.
But I won’t losemuch.
* Autumn Grove and Center Street were heavily influenced by the little town where I live in eastern Idaho, around the Idaho Falls area.
* Turn onDanse Macabreby Camille Saint-Saëns!
* This street name is some of my children’s names combined, and the number is the result of adding up their ages at the time this was written.
