Page 117 of Wicked Games

I force a laugh. “I know it’s bad, but there’s no need to gawk.”

“No, it’s pretty good, actually. Sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night.” She bounces on her heels. “Why are you painting Caleb?”

I narrow my eyes. “How do you know it’s him?”

“Because I’ve seen him, dummy. And who else would you paint?”

“We had to partner up for an art class,” I tell her. “He has to paint me, too.”

She takes a sip of her water. Then another, and another, until the glass is empty. “I thought you might’ve painted him a little more gloom and doom. Based on what happened anyway.”

“A lot has changed.”

Between both of us. I don’t know what I’m doing right now, with her. I don’t know how to navigate this conversation. It’s dancing around, out of my control, and every time I think I’ve got a grasp, she throws a curveball.

It’s the kind of shit she used to pull with our foster parents, although she once said she had no idea she was doing it.

Her attention tears away from the painting, to my face. “A lot has changed for you?”

She must feel the same way I do—that we’ve slipped away from each other. We used to be inseparable. Now look at us.

“I should get going,” she says abruptly. “Return the car before my foster parents notice I’m gone.”

Ah, see? She didn’t actually ask them.

Same old, same old.

“It was good to see you.” I wrap my arms around her. It takes her a second to hug me back, but I ignore the hesitation. It’s just normal weirdness. “Next time, bring Hanna.”

Claire giggles and pats my cheek. “Sometimes I think you like her more than me.”

I rear back. “What? No.”

Her expression turns serious. “You’re always asking about her.”

I do—because Claire is solid in front of me, and I have no way of knowing how her twelve-year-old sister is. One of us has to bring her up, or else I’d never know.

“I’m sorry you think that means I care more about her than you.” My voice is stiff, and I’m suddenly glad that Claire is on her way out. I take the glass from her hand, set it down next to my painting, and lead her out. At the front door, I pause. “I hope you know it isn’t true.”

Her face falls. “I know. I just get moments of jealousy sometimes.”

I stifle a sigh.

She throws her arms around me one more time. Her lips touch my cheek briefly, and then she pulls away. I stand in the door and watch her trot to the sleek black car parked at the curb. It’s fancier than I imagined.

She revs the engine and takes off, tires squealing, and it proves that not getting in the car with her was a smart decision.

I return to my painting. My groove is thrown off, so I don’t even try. I cover the paints on my palette with plastic wrap and leave it where it is, determined to try again tomorrow. Instead, I flop on the couch and close my eyes. There’s pain in my chest from her judgment, like a steady second heartbeat.

I just need to put it out of my mind.

Past

Two scrawny girls entered the house. They carried black garbage bags with them, and they held on to each other with grubby fingers. I tried not to analyze their stringy, greasy hair, or the way the older one’s eyes darted around.

She found me hidden on the stairs, but she didn’t say anything. Her attention just snapped back to my foster mom and the case worker standing next to them.

I was rather abruptly yanked out of my last home and placed with Cindy and Jeff. I’d been here a few weeks and was settling in well according to Ms. McCaw. I sometimes had nightmares of people in gray suits forcibly removing me from the home. One or two nights, I woke up sweating. But they had been kind to me so far, and the nightmares were easing.

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