Page 9 of Dead Pretty

“You’re missing out.”

“Scary shows aren’t really my thing.” I shrug.

Honestly, I avoid watching anything remotely scary now. I have enough scary memories trapped in my head without adding to them.

“It’s not scary.”

“No?” I tip my head to the side in question. “What is your definition of scary?”

“The Witches.”

“The witches?”

“Yeah,” he deadpans. “From the Roald Dahl book. Well, not the book. The movie. Those freaky, toeless, bald-headed witches used to scare the absolute shit out of me when I was a kid.” He squares his shoulders. “And I am man enough to admit that they still freak me out now.”

He shudders, a wry grin on his lips, and a laugh flies out of my mouth.

It shocks the hell out of me. I can’t actually remember the last time I laughed.

When I was still the old me.

My laughter dies as quickly as it appeared.

I place my hand on the door, ready to close it.

He seems to understand the gesture, as he moves away. “Well, thanks again for looking out for Eleven.”

“No problem.” I shut the door before he even starts to walk away.

I lean back up against it and squeeze my eyes shut.

How can a laugh make me feel so off-kilter?

It’s pathetic.

Not even taking into account that the whole conversation with Jack was the longest exchange that I have had with another person since I moved here.

And my weekly calls with my brother don’t count.

I know it’s my choice not to get close to people.

But it’s the only choice.

Only … I didn’t realize until now just how starved for conversation I actually am.

And Jack seems harmless.

I bet Ted Bundy did at first too.

But do I actually think this guy is a serial killer?

No.

Possibly.

Oh, I don’t know.

I don’t know anything anymore.