He snorts out a soft laugh. “You haven’t considered that maybe I’m the real danger here?”
I let loose a laugh of my own as he tucks his knife into his pocket. There isn’t much that’s intimidating about him, especially now with that blade out of his hand. “Come on, California. Let’s go get something to eat.”
“Shiloh.”
“Shiloh,” I repeat, his name as soft as his voice as it leaves my mouth. “I’m Donovan, but everyone here calls me Donny.” A fact I despise but can’t be bothered to correct every single time it happens. Which is a lot of fucking times. Whether I like it or not, hockey players always seem to collect shitty nicknames, and it seems like here, mine is Donny. Could be worse, I suppose. The last name of one of my teammates is Buttrill and everyone calls him Buttsy.
“No.” He wrinkles his nose. “Not Donny. Donovan,” he whispers, tilting his head to the side as he scrutinizes my face carefully. “It’s perfect for you.”
I don’t really know how to respond to that, but something inside me warms up a bit as he offers me a small smile. Nodding his way, I head for the loose board in the fence and poke my head through. I do a quick scan of the surrounding alley, just in case someone is lurking in the shadows waiting to pounce, but find nothing that looks super dangerous.
“Looks good to me,” I comment, turning back to catch a small grin on his lips.
He nods and I make my way through the fence first, holding the loose board in place so he can crawl through after me. As silent as a cat, he slips through the hole and moves to stand alongside me in the dim moonlight.
“Where’s the diner?” he asks, looking past me out to the street beyond the alley.
“Just over there,” I comment, pointing in the direction we’ll need to go. The streets are bright outside the mouth of the alley, the overhead lights glimmering on the snow that covers the sidewalks. It’s like a different world out there, and I find myself drawn toward it instead of being pushed away. Having company helps, I suppose. “It’s not a long walk, we’ll be out of this cold soon enough. Stick close, okay?”
Shiloh doesn’t respond.
When I turn to look at him, he isn’t there.
“Shiloh?” I call out, looking around the darkened alleyway. “Hey? Where’d you go?”
No response.
I call his name a couple more times, but he doesn’t appear. He’s not hiding in any of the darkened corners of the alley, and when I peek back into the yard by the abandoned building, I don’t find him in there either.
He’s gone.
And when I reach for my back pocket, I realize my wallet and my keys are also gone.
Fuck my life.
CHAPTER THREE
SHILOH
I lieon my bed with a plastic card held between my fingers, catching the light that filters in from outside.
Artificial. Streetlights. A glare on a pretty face. The tiny picture of Donovan William Myers on his driver’s license doesn’t do justice to how perfect he is.
It does tell me his full name, his age, his height. The freshly printed plastic tells me his address, and that he only moved here five months ago. He had a few other cards in there, a little piece of paper to redeem for free sandwiches, and a little string that I left tucked in the pocket. I was only interested in the driver’s license… or really, his address.
With his wallet and keys missing, there’s every chance that he’s already called his super to come change the locks for him… but if I know anything about cheap apartment buildings, it’s that they’ll probably give him a spare key and take a few days to follow up with the changes.
I left him standing in the alley and told myself it was because that was a terrible place to kill him. It would be much easier to do in his apartment. I could probably frame someone else, ormake it look like an accident or a tragedy. Pretty boy, moved from Canada and all alone… I could get away with it.
Wanting to kill him is theonlyreason I have for getting up and skipping my first class so I can catch a bus and make my way to his apartment building. I’ll be smart and wait until I see him leave—if I see him leave—before I do anything. If I’m not careful, I could really fuck up.
Again.
There’s every chance a lot of things could go wrong. I’mnotan impulsive person. I’m methodical and careful. Except for when I’m not.
But Donovan’s freckles are apparently a road map to disaster and bad decisions, because after I see him leave the apartment, I pull out his keys and jog inside. There’s only three keys and a plastic penguin on the ring. Apartment… car… I wonder what the third is for.
Hehadto know I was the one who took his wallet and keys, unless he thinks he left it back at his little fishbowl where he practices?
