Page 52 of Where the Darkness Goes

She’s not mine.

I grab the bag of cookies, walk over to the trash can, and step on the lever, dangling them over the bag. Then I groan and take them back to the counter. Even when I’m furious with her, I still want to make her happy.

What is that about?

I tell myself it’s not a big deal. That Will would’ve done the same thing. He would’ve let her go on the date with a guy who doesn’t know herat-fucking-allbecausefree willor some shit. And then he would’ve gotten dressed when he was dog-tired, driven twenty-seven minutes across town and back just to get these stupid, fucking cookies and bring them home to her. When she didn’t ask. When she probably doesn’t even want them. Just tomaybesee her smile.

He definitely would have.

Probably.

I think.

Otherwise, it’s just pathetic.

I storm out of the room, scrubbing up my mess in a vengeful haze until my fingers hurt, and the floor is probably cleaner than it’s ever been.This girl makes me lose my mind.Nothing new there. I return to my pacing, every flash of light as a car drives past making my heart lurch. I should’ve never let her leave. I should’ve fought it somehow. There’s a killer on the loose, for goodness’ sake.

Maybe.

Sort of.

God.I scrub my face with my hands.Snap out of it. She’s a grown woman. She can make decisions on her own.

Still, I can’t help feeling protective over her for numerous reasons. Then again, I was getting ready to tell her about the stolen jewelry if the knock on the door hadn’t interrupted us, so maybe this is a better way to end the evening. Maybe I’ll just go to bed and pretend this entire night never happened.

Once I tell her, I have no idea how she’ll react. Maybe she’ll never talk to us again. Maybe she’ll turn us in to the police.

These past several years without talking to her other than an occasional holiday or birthday text have been enough to drive me crazy. The few times she’s visited—knowing she was just down the street at Frannie’s, with Will, and I couldn’t do anything about it—were nothing short of torture. Now that I have her back, I’m not sure I could handle putting myself through it again.

Still, she deserves the truth. As much of it as I understand.

I check the clock again. I should really text her. Just to, you know, make sure she’s okay. Ask if I should leave the door unlocked.

Did she bring her keys? Nope. They’re in the bowl next to the door.

So, logical question,Are you coming home? Should I leave the door unlocked, you know, since you don’t have keys?

She can’t fault me for asking. Any reasonable person would.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I’m pretty sure it’s the exact image you’d find next to “stress” in the dictionary. My hair is frazzled from running my hands through it, eyes red from rubbing them. My back looks as if I’ve never bent it a day in my life, shoulders stick straight and stiff.

I could just go to the restaurant. Just show up at Joanie’s and pretend I didn’t realize where they were going. If I don’t hear back from her quickly, maybe that’s what I’ll do.For her safety.

I won’t interrupt. Maybe I’ll just watch. Make sure she’s safe.

A light catches my eye outside, and this time the vehicle turns down our street and slows in front of our house.

My heart jumps in my chest, apparently participating in some sort of triathlon I wasn’t made aware of with the way it’s racing. My entire body floods with a mix of relief and new concern—did she have a nice time? Will she be a little wine drunk, lips red from being kissed?I swallow, bile climbing in my throat as my thoughts descend the stairs of my own personal hell.

Will she be seeing him again? Tomorrow, maybe?

Then, worst of all:Did he touch her?

Did she want him to?

Did she sleep with him?

My blood boils at the thought, and by the time he walks her up to the door, I’m practically balancing on a razor blade, I’m so on edge. I can’t breathe right as I watch him lean in for a kiss.

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