Page 21 of Better Watch Out

“I just have to do it where neither he nor his flock of familiars will hear. The trees have ears, I swear, and every single one reports to Fletcher.” He rolls his eyes, voice dry, but I get what he’s saying. Fletcher really does have a knack for knowing everything I don’t want him to, and I’m starting to think it works the same in Boone’s case as well.

“Are we hinting that Fletcher is actually a creature of dark magic, born to destroy the human race?” I zip up my jacket and shove my hands in my pockets, walking beside Boone as I survey the diner. The only signage on the old stone building is a sign tacked to one of the windows that reads in scrolling lettersMarietta’s Place. It’s big enough to see from the street, but small enough I wonder if it’ll get torn off during the next wind-heavy blizzard. “Also I can’t believe she’s still running this place. Or alive. What is she, three hundred?”

“Fletcher is probably the antichrist. The devil’s child, found on the doorstep of a nunnery.” He shakes his head. “And I’d say she’s closer to three-fifty.”

“Oh, you’re right. I’d even go so far as to say she’s been around since the last ice age. Also…” I kick at a clump of ice on the pavement as we near the door, where Fletcher is already waiting and gazing up at the cloudy sky.

It should be illegal for him to effortlessly look so good.

“Also…?” Boone presses.

“I thought Fletcher came from a foster family in Vermont. Not a church.”

“Northern Vermont,” Fletcher clarifies, not looking down at us. “But I was born in Montreal.” Finally he looks down, gaze searching our faces. “Well, I see he didn’t go too far if you’re still up and walking with your clothes in one piece,” my blond stepbrother remarks. “Let’s stay that way, all right, you two?”

With that, he leads us into the diner, winning over the hostess with his smile and easy charm. He’s so good at that, and I can’t help but be jealous of it. I can’t help but wish I could read people like him, or adapt to be whatever will work out best for him.

It seems like a nice skill to have.

By the time we’re at a booth in the corner with three glasses of water and my frosted glass of chocolate milk, I finally realize Ireallyneed a nap. It’s obvious from the way I can barely focus on the menu, and how slow my brain seems to work. I keep zoning out, finding myself staring at Fletcher’s jaw or Boone’s hands as they sit across from me, giving me my own side of the booth free of them.

Part of me just wants to curl up on the fake wood and go to sleep with my head on my arms. It wouldn’t be comfortable, but I’d manage.

“You guys ready to order?” The waitress is young, maybe eighteen, and beams at all three of us with an authenticity that tells me she hasn’t worked here for long.

More importantly, I have no idea what I want to order. I used to know this menu like the back of my hand, but today I can barely remember which of Sitka’s ears is fluffier than the other, let alone what I ate here six-plus years ago.

Fletcher and Boone order quickly, unhesitating, before all three of them turn to look at me, signaling it’s do-or-die time.

And in my current state, the answer is going to bedie.

“I umm…” I peer down at the menu, willing to sacrifice eating something I really want for not looking like an idiot.God, why am I having such a mental block right now on just ordering lunch?

“Could you get her a baked apple and an order of biscuits and gravy?” Boone asks finally, plucking the menu out of myhands and giving it to her. “Sorry. She stayed up way too late last night...” He surveys my face. “Coffee. Give her coffee, too.”

“Sorry to be complicated,” Fletcher tells the teenager, smiling that charming smile. “Get her an iced coffee with cream and sugar, please?” The girl agrees happily, turning to give me a sympathetic smile like she can relate to my situation.

God, I really hope she can’t.

“How the hell do you know what I used to get here?” I mutter, rubbing my temples. My headache is setting in, a combination from last night’s slip and fall and my lack of sleep. “It’s been seven years. And I wasn’t drinking coffee back then. Oh, right.” I open my eyes to gaze at both of them flatly. “You’re stalkers.”

Neither of them try to deny it. Hell, Boone seems to preen under the accusation, and sips at his water.

“We’re going to set some ground rules for the rest of this week, all right?” Fletcher doesn’t respond to my barbed words, and seems to ignore my accusation. “And I figured doing it here would stop any outbursts from either of you. Mostly you.” His gaze pins me in place. “Because none of us want to make a scene.”

Obnoxiously, I suck on the straw of my chocolate milk, not replying as my cheeks hollow around it dramatically. Fletcher doesn’t look away. He doesn’t even look fazed by my display.

“First, don’t touch Cheryl’s SUV without asking. You suck at driving in the winter, and her radiator has been on the fritz. Don’t need you dying at the side of the road when it blows up again.” My arguments die on my lips at his words, and my shoulders slump. It’s hard to have a comeback against his explanation, when I know I wouldn’t have any idea what to do if the radiator really did explode with me in the Jeep.

“And don’t touch the truck, or I’llreallyhave to get mad. Second, stop trying to run away. Not because I don’t want to chase you down. I will. He will too, and he’ll enjoy it morethan is healthy.” Fletcher’s eyes flash and he gestures to Boone. “Because it’s freezing, and with our luck, you’ll drown in a snow drift before we can find you.”

“You make me sound like a five-year-old.” Absently, I reach up, rubbing the back of my head and wincing when the spot I’d hit on the column aches tenderly. “I’ve taken care of myself foryearsnow, no thanks to the two of you.”

“Third. Stop trying to get a rise out of Boone in public. I am not bailing either of you out of jail.” There’s a warning in his voice I don’t love, but I also know he’s lying. He’ll bail Boone out of jail any day of the week.

Me, though, he’d probably let rot.

“And last…” Fletcher sits up straight, leaning his shoulder affectionately against Fletcher. “Don’t ask questions you might not want the answers to, Conor. Because”—before I can pull away or argue, his ankle hooks around mine under the table and he yanks me forward so I’m on the edge of the booth, his eyes catching mine—“while you might not like the answers, that won’t stop us from giving them to you.”

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