Page 76 of Pleasure & Prey: Vol. 2

Finally he sighs, his eyes flicking down to mine to study my face. He takes a step closer, and it causes my heart to try to make its grand escape from beneath my ribs. My fingers tighten, nails cutting into my palms, and the stitched up wound aches.

I still can’t move, not when he leans closer, and not when his lips brush my cheek as he murmurs, “You should really get that, Winnie. It feels like Season of the Witch might not be the most appropriate song to play right now, don’t you think?”

His words snap me out of my trance and my face heats with shame. Fuck. He’s more than a little right. My ringtone is loud, and the song is definitely off-tone for the situation. Looking away from him. I hastily grab my phone, unsurprised to see that it’s Lou calling me. “H-hello?” I greet, watching as Cassian walks past me, as if all along he’d been on a walk down the sidewalk and this had just been a momentary pause.

“Are you listening? Hello?” Blinking, I realize Lou has been talking to me the whole time I’ve been staring at Cass’s retreating figure.

“Sorry. I’m sorry, Lou.” I tear my gaze away and head back towards her house, forcing my thoughts away from Cassian. “Did Scott call you?”

“Yeah. He said there were cops across the street at the Clarkes’ house. What the hell happened?” Her voice is still somewhat calm, though there’s a definite and reasonable undertone of worry.

When I’m in her yard, I stop, gazing up at the window where Reagan and Scott are watching me expectantly. “Lacey’s dead, Lou. Murdered, maybe,” I murmur. It’s a guess, but probably an accurate one if the police and yellow tape are anything to go by. Plus, of course, all the blood. “And I think…” I take a deep, nervous breath, then think better of my words. "I think you should come home soon,” I say, instead of what I'd wanted to tell her in the first place.

Ithink I know who killed her.

8

I’m at the door before Lou can open it, though her hand is out for the knob when I pull it open in her face. “Is Scott okay?” she asks immediately, brushing past me into the house.

“He’s totally fine. And he doesn’t know,” I murmur, not wanting her to say something that’s going to freak her son out more than he already is. “He and Reagan are in the back playing with Roscoe.”

“Reagan’s still here?” Lou seems a little surprised by that. “Did you ask her to come over?”

“No. I think I missed some calls from her yesterday and she showed up last night to see if I was okay.” I flex my hand, wincing at the sharp twinge of the stitches in my palm. “She stayed the night. Sorry. I really should’ve texted you.” A touch of guilt makes me bite my lip, and I hesitate. “Are you mad?”

“Hmm?” Lou looks at me, her attention already glued to the scene across the street. Dan is over there, looking jovial and polite as he talks to one of the cops. “No, you know I’m fine with Reagan. She babysits when you can’t.” Her words are absent and distracted, but I still breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t want her mad at me for letting Reagan in. And if I would’ve thought better about it, I would’ve told her last night. Unfortunately, I’d been freaking out over the person behind their yard.

And today is…not great.

“I can’t believe this,” my half-sister murmurs. “I don’t understand what could’ve happened. You really think it was…?” She glances my way and I shrug. “Maybe it was an accident. You know Lacey isn’t exactly the most responsible kid. Plus she started drinking last year. That’s what her mom told Dan, anyway.”

“I don’t know what kind of accident would’ve left that much blood. Unless she fell down the stairs and hit every step on the way down. And uh, they were covered in knives?” When Lou looks my way, I grin nervously. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be.” She shifts from one foot to the other. “I need to get our bags out of the car and figure out what I’m going to tell Scott. There’s no way he won’t ask everyone in the neighborhood, and I’d rather he hear it from us.”

Heading for the door, I shake my head. “I don’t envy you.” With my hand on the knob, I hesitate. “Lou?” She looks over at me, still glued to the window and the sight across the street.

“Hmm?” Distracted is an understatement, judging by the way her eyes keep darting back to the glass. “Something wrong? Well, more wrong than this?”

I don’t answer right away. My fingers tap against the heavy door, and I reconsider my words. “Scott, umm.” God, this is a hard subject to bring up. “He asked about Dad. My dad.”

That does the trick. She lets the curtain fall back into place and turns to look at me fully. I can feel her heavy gaze on me as I press my forehead against the door and tap my fingers in an incessant rhythm against the wood. “Oh,” Lou finally murmurs. “What did he ask?”

“He asked what happened to him. That’s the important part, anyway.” But I still don’t look at her. I can’t. Not when we’re talking about this. “I told him it was an accident, but I didn’t give him any details. Seriously, I was trying to be as vague as humanly possible.” I give her a tight, wry smile before dropping my hand to my side.

“It was an accident, Winnie,” my sister is quick to assure me. She crosses the room and wraps her arms around my shoulders, dragging me into a tight hug. “You were a kid, it wasn’t your fault. It was just…an accident.”

But I don’t reply. I stare over her shoulder at the window; able to see the cops standing outside the Clarkes’ door through a small gap in the fabric.

Lou can say it was an accident all she wants. At this point, I’m convinced it’s to make herself feel better, not me.

Because deep down she knows the truth that I’ve never denied, except in public when someone asks and I just want the question and the attention to go away.

It wasn’t an accident.

I’d planned it, found Dad’s gun, unlocked it, and waited for him to get home. But that night, before he could hurt me, I’d make sure he could never touch me again.

It wasn’t an accident.