Page 54 of Sinister Secrets

I want to say yes. I want to tell her everything’s that’s been going on with my case, spill all my worries and suspicions, let her tell me that I’m not imagining things, the way Jake normally would, but I don’t. She doesn’t need to get herself wrapped up in this. Not when it could be dangerous. Giving her a forced smile, I shake my head.

“Well, I’m here if you change your mind.”

“I’m fine. Really.”

She bites her lip, eyes flitting across my face for a moment before reaching out, touching my hand hesitantly. Takes a deep breath before wrapping it with her own.

Chelsea’s voice is barely more than a whisper as she says, “When I was growing up, whenever I tried to tell my mom about something that was bothering me, she’d dismiss how I was feeling. Tell me about all the worse things I could be experiencing instead. Eventually, I stopped trying. Just started bottling everything up inside. I think maybe you know what that’s like.”

I swallow hard at the lump of emotion that’s formed in my throat, because she’s right. Butch did his best, but he didn’t understand. Not what it was like to be a girl who needed her mom or a child who ached to be part of a family.

He thought that what I needed to silence the endless thoughts inside my head was more confidence, so that’s what he worked to give me, when what I really needed was for someone to just listen. Not to try and solve my problems for me, but simply to validate what I was feeling. Like Chelsea, I, too, eventually learned to keep things to myself.

I’m aware that I close myself off. That half the time, I’m unable to share what’s going on inside me, even with the person I love most in this world. That I’ll use every excuse under the sun to rationalize my silence. And I have no idea how to fix it.

“So please know, when I say that I’m here for you, I really am.”

I give her fingers a squeeze, her face blurred by the tears in my eyes as I say, “Thank you, Chelsea.”

Though she turns the TV back on and settles into the couch again, the mood is ruined. The show has lost its humor, the guests and their over-the-top antics no longer amusing. I see too much of my own silently brewing sadness and desperation in them now for that.

CHAPTER 30

As I make the slow rise back to consciousness, I don’t know what happened, only that, considering that my head feels like it’s been split into halves by a dull axe, it must have been bad. I’m not sure I should move. I’m obviously injured. I must have been… oh.

Shame heats my cheeks as my impromptu slumber party with Chelsea comes flooding back to me. Wincing against the sunlight streaming through the blinds, I peel myself off the couch, the room spinning as I rise into a sitting position.

Slowly, I get to my feet. Wonder if I might not be better off crawling as I stagger to the kitchen, keeping one hand braced against the wall for balance until I’m forced to cross the gap of the hallway. Debate changing course to the bedroom and hibernating for a few decades, but decide on hydrating first. Then I can analyze the wisdom of all my past decisions in life that led me to this point.

Grabbing a glass and filling it at the tap, I chug the water, the cool liquid hitting my parched throat with a sizzle. By the time I’m on my third refill, my headache has started to ease. My eyes open fully. My brain starts to work.

Obviously, drinking so much last night wasn’t smart. Had I done anything else stupid?

Glancing around, I’m surprised to see that all traces of last night’s merriment have been erased. Chelsea must have cleaned up before she left. Eyes landing on my cell phone laying screen down on the table, I make my way over to it, collapsing into one of the chairs. Reach for it with trembling hands. Wake the device, finding a text.

Hey, I really hope you’re feeling better this morning. Anytime you need a shoulder, both of mine are free. ~ Chels

I groan, straining to think if I’d said anything that could come back and haunt me later. I don’t think it’s likely, but then again, I wouldn’t have thought I’d have gone on the bender to end all benders with someone who’s basically a stranger, either. Obviously, my discretion went on a road trip last night.

The fact that Chelsea’s message is the only one I’ve received reminds me why—Jake left. It’s not that I don’t believe what he said about needing to pull critical overtime at work to keep Delores Kennedy’s project from falling apart. It’s that the niggling feeling worming its way through my gut is saying that it’s not the full story, and that whatever part he’s leaving out, I won’t like.

Misery coils around me like a snake, tightening its grip with each passing second until I slam my palm down on the table, making my phone bounce on the wooden surface. I don’t have the time, or any more brain cells, to waste on throwing myself another pity party. Putting on a pot of coffee to brew, I tell myself it will be my reward as I force myself out into the bright, humid day and set to work feeding and watering the animals.

Two hours later, chores done, shower had, and second cup of caffeine entering my bloodstream, I’m starting to feel human again—and by human I mean antsy and anxious. Though last night’s festivities may have sidetracked me from my worries, they’re back in full force now, and they’re multiplying.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I pace across the living room, refusing to look at the boxes lining the hall that I know I should unpack, phone pressed to my ear. Just when I think he isn’t going to answer, the ringing stops.

“Yeah?”

“Sheriff Kingston? It’s Cassidy.”

“I know who it is. It’s Sunday. What do you want?”

My free hand fists and flexes as I come to a stop. “I want to know how the case is coming. Did you have a chance to contact the places on the list I gave you?”

“Yeah.”

“And? Have any of them given you their surveillance footage yet?”