Page 126 of Broken Pact

She sets the glass down on the counter with a clink. “I think you’re the one who needs to leave. This is my man’s house, not yours.”

Alarm bells are ringing so loud inside my head, I can barely hear myself talk. “I know exactly who’s house it is. I’ve been practically living here,” I snarl. “Get out, or I’m calling the cops.” I waggle my phone in the air.

“Good. I’ll tell them you were trespassing, and I’ll be filing charges.” She lifts her brows and drops them quickly, as if to say how do you like that? She sighs and does that shaking thing again, an odd smile on her face. “Honestly, I’m embarrassed for you, Coraline. I’m in everything around this house, and you never once picked up on it.”

“Bullshit.”

“The matcha machine? Jasper doesn’t even drink matcha, but you know who does? Me.” She nods toward the shelf behind her. “The healthy dessert cookbooks? Me again. I’m vegan. The floating platform, the lack of curtains on the window, the balcony furniture,” she says, holding out a finger for each thing, like she’s counting.

My eyes widen as the woman rattles off details about Jasper’s house—details that suggest an intimate familiarity. I feel like I’ve been sucker punched, the air rushing out of my lungs. I don’t believe her—I don’t.

But she knows so much about this house, about our lives, that I don’t know what to believe. All I know is that I need to get out of here.

Because this—her—feels dangerous in an entirely unexpected way.

I back away slowly, my heart racing and hands shaking. “I don’t believe you. Jasper wouldn’t do that to me.”

The woman’s knowing smirk only fuels my growing unease. “Believe what you want. It doesn’t really matter much to me either way,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand.

I stumble back a step, my hand reaching blindly for my purse on the counter. "I have to go."

Her victory smile is the last thing I see as I quickly walk toward the front door. Pudding sits expectantly next to a pair of Jasper’s boots, and I do something reckless. Fueled by instinct, I scoop up my cat and dash out the front door.

I clutch Pudding to my chest as I practically run to my car, my heart thundering against my ribcage. Fumbling with my keys, I finally manage to unlock the door and slide into the driver’s seat, slamming it shut behind me.

Pudding meows in protest at the abrupt movement, but I shush him gently, my hands shaking as I turn the key in the ignition. The engine roars to life, and I speed out of the driveway, tires squealing against the pavement.

As I drive home, I try to call Jasper again. It goes to his voicemail after four rings.

“Jasper. It’s me. There’s, uh, something is—just call me back. Please.” My voice cracks on the last word and I hang up, tossing my phone in the cupholder.

I drive into town on autopilot, detouring to a cat-friendly pet store as an afterthought. I can’t believe I just took his cat. But there was something off about her, something weird. It didn’t feel right to leave Pudding there.

Ten minutes later, we’re back in the car with some cat necessities and on the way to my apartment. Where I can sit down and try to figure out what the fuck just happened.

57

JASPER

I’m in the worst fuckin’ mood of my life, and the only person that can turn it around texted me three hours ago, telling me she’s going to my house. And then she left me a cryptic voicemail an hour later. Which would be fine, except that I misplaced my phone at the garage and only just found it five fucking minutes ago. I thought working on cars in the fucking oven we call a garage would be the best way to work through some of this shit festering inside of me.

And it was. Until I accidentally misplaced my fucking phone in Mrs. Otto’s old beamer like a fucking rookie. And now I can’t shake the impenetrable feeling that something is very, very wrong.

Urgency thrums under my skin, a persistent, quickening beat with every mile I drive closer to my house.

This morning, our conversation, her face—they’ve all been playing on repeat in my mind for the last few hours. Tumbling around and around, their sharp edges nicking my gut with every pass. I feel like I should look like a broken, bloody mess.

I tear down my driveway, gravel spraying under my tires as I skid to a stop. I don't even bother pulling into the garage, leaving my truck haphazardly parked at an angle. I'm out of the vehicle before the engine even finishes sputtering to silence.

"Coraline!" I bellow as I burst through the front door. Her name echoes through the quiet house, bouncing off the walls and mocking me with its unanswered plea.

I storm inside, my boots thudding heavily on the hardwood floors. Not even Pudding comes to greet me, which is fucking odd. The only thing he loves more than Coraline is greeting me at the door.

Something is wrong.

I hear thumping coming from the living room, and without hesitation, I jog down the hall and burst through the kitchen. “Coraline?”

But instead of the stunning shade of brunette that sparkles red in the sun, it’s a flat, mousy brown.

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