“Um…” My cheeks are warming up, and I have no idea what the hell to do. I want to get up, but I’m stuck in place, my own fucking curiosity still trying to see how far it can push my luck.
“She makes four figures a month. For this.” He keeps scrolling. “I helped her with her marketing. Shit’s piss easy once you got it figured out.”
I stare, rapt, as he scrolls through a seemingly endless collection of photos of some girl’s…feet.
Bare feet.
Feet in gorgeous high heels.
Feet with their toes being painted.
I see so many of them, they stop looking like feet.
I’ve definitely inhaled too much smoke. My skin isn’t itchy anymore. It’s trying to crawl off my flesh like it’s seen this horror movie and knows how it ends.
As in, badly.
“…not some kind of impulsive frenzy. It wasn’t a slaughterhouse, but a grisly collection of his most prized exhibits…”
Blake tugs at his jeans like he’s getting uncomfortable.
Is he…is he getting a hard on?
Oh my fucking God.
“Yeah…I’m gonna go.”
“If you’re looking for some extra cash, I could help you out.”
I was busy standing, and pause halfway, my butt sticking out, that’s how shocked I am. “Ex-cuse me?”
He sits back, his eyes on his phone as he keeps scrolling, the white glow making the bruise on his jaw stand out even more. “This chick doesn’t spend more than a few hours a week takingpics, and she’s making a killing. Sure you could use the money, right?”
“I have money,” I half-mumble, turning so I can keep an eye on Blake as I back up toward the front door.
He glances up, frowns. “You’re leaving?”
“Got an early start tomorrow.” My shoulder knocks into the archway. I try not to let the jolt distract me from my retreat.
Kai isn’t coming back here. Not after what he did to Blake, I don’t think. Either way, I can’t afford to hang around here and wait. I can’t arrive at Milo’s food truck hungoverandsleep deprived.
So where would Kai be if he couldn’t go home?
Where did he always go?
The only place either of us ever felt safe.
It’s a long shot, but I need to find him.
I need to make him admit what he did.
If I don’t, then I know where I’ll end up.
And it’s almost as terrifying a thought as whatever happened to the murder victims in that true crime documentary Blake’s watching.
As I hurry to the front door, one last snippet from the TV reaches me as my clammy hand wrestles with the doorknob.
I pause to listen, because I swear to God, I recognize the voice on the TV…and it sounds just like Deputy Thatcher.
