My blood pumps loud in my ears. But I can still hear the hissing of the house, over and over, like a sick nursery rhyme.
Get them.
Get them.
Make them pay!
Chapter 30
The bi-weekly town meeting is a banal affair held in the historic community center. It seats eighty, sits in a dozy street, and hosts a shitload of community services. The Whitmans show up every Monday morning for the popular beekeeping workshop. Kay Potts attends Wednesday morning Gentle Exercise for Mature Ages. And Emily volunteers most Sunday afternoons to teach Computers for Beginners.
The meeting is held every second Monday night, at 6:30p.m.sharp, and attended by the same core group of busybodies in desperate need of authority and something to bitch about for four hours a month.
And by the time I reach the parking lot at 7:20, I’m crying and absolutely shit-faced. Watch me give them something to talk about for decades to come.
I burst into the room like a bomb and stand with my back to the only exit, blocking the bastards in. I flatten my back against the wooden door, and the knob sticks uncomfortably into the small of my back. Everybody in the room looks up. Some gasp; some step back, hands over their hearts like I’ve given them an almighty scare. Just wait, I think.Just wait.
Dimly, I register how beautiful it is in here. Dark wood and soft lights. It’s pretty enough to hold a wedding. An expensive redwood table sits to my right, covered with plates of biscuits and sandwiches cut into charming triangles. It smells like coffee and polished wood. The attendeeshave already drained their coffee cups, and they stand in groups of three or four, watching me uneasily.
Every time I blink, I see Reaper. I see him wide-eyed and bloody. Gasping for breath. I am raging mad, half-drunk, and ready to make someone pay.
And I find him.
Tears drip freely down my cheeks. I raise my hand, and it shakes so badly I have to support it with my other arm. Jeff Johnson stands in a pack of three, hands tucked into his jeans’ pockets. He looks completely unconcerned, even amused.
“You.”
Nobody moves. You’d think I was holding a gun on them. Mr. Whitman places a calming hand on the shoulder of the woman beside him. She has close-cropped hair and red-brown lipstick, and she looks like she wants to get the hell away from me.
“What did you do to my cat?” I choke out. I can’t get enough air in. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.
Jeff steps forward, raises an eyebrow. He’s dressed smart—camel suede sneakers, thigh-length wool coat the color of ash. I see myself in the bookcase door and flinch. Streams of mascara run down my face and neck. My hair’s in a messy bun, bits of hair sticking up like chicken feathers. My face is sweating and red, and I’m missing a shoe.
I look crazy.
But I’m not. I’m not.
“My cat,” I say through gritted teeth, stepping forward. “He’s fighting for his life, you absolute fuck.”
An elderly woman with a pixie cut flinches when I swear, making me want to say it again.
“Sorry to hear it,” he says flatly. Mr. and Mrs. Whitman peer at me from behind him, saying nothing. The rest of the residents look desperately uncomfortable, eyes flicking to the door or to Jeff. Like he’s their attack dog and they’re the cowardly sheep in need of protection.
From me.
I’m struck again by how young he is. He’s half the age of everyone else in here, and yet he commands the room. And theylet him.
The Johnsons run this town.
“You poisoned him,” I roar, and someone gasps. I step forward, my stomach cramping with rage and nerves. “You poisoned my cat.”
“Hold on, there!” he says sternly, palms up. “I didn’t even know youhada cat.” He gives the other attendees a conspiratorial look that says,This woman’s crazy, isn’t she?
“Yes, you did! Youdid!” I yell it so loud that Mrs. Whitman clamps her hands over her ears and cowers. “You came to my house. You saw Reaper!”
“I never went to that godforsaken house,” he says. “Why would I?” And he raises his voice a little louder for their benefit, “Black Wood should be destroyed.”
Some of the residents mutter their quiet agreement. Others stare at the floor, nodding sadly.
