Page 20 of Heartless

“I didn’t—” I begin, suddenly feeling the need to proclaim my innocence.

“I know,” he interrupts. He swears and gets to his feet, glancing back at me twice. “It’s fine, it’s—I wasn’t planning on going this far.” There’s a rueful, almost apologetic note in his voice. “I just wanted to tell you. I just needed you to know.”

“Needed me to know…?” My brain is working much too slowly right now.

Cassian’s mouth twitches in a half-grin, and he comes back to the side of the bed as I sit up so he can lean in close again.

“I needed you to know I didn’t kill her,” he purrs against my lips. Before I can even fathom the start of a reply he turns, walking to the door and opening it before disappearing down the hallway with cat-like silence while police sirens fill my ears and the red-blue lights light up the walls of my second-floor bedroom.

Chapter

Ten

By the time I’ve convinced the cops that everything is fine and whoever had called them had been mistaken, it’s almost three in the morning and I want to perish on my front porch. I’m too tired to wonder who called the cops, and why, though part of me wants to believe Cassian isn’t as skilled at breaking and entering as he thinks.

But I eventually manage to get a few more hours of sleep before my alarm screeches through my questionable dreams, forcing me back to the world of the living against my will to get ready for my next shift at the diner.

“You can’t quit your job,” I mutter as I tug open the back door that leads to the kitchen. “You cannot quit your job.” But it’s harder to convince myself of that when all I want to do is take a nap on the counter. Mom doesn’t charge me rent, no matter how many times I’ve offered to pay it, and even though I chip in for groceries, bills, and streaming services, I always feel like I’m not doing enough.

It’s fine, Winnie,my mom is always quick to tell me while waving off my concerns.This is just a jumping off point until you find your path in life.

Path in life, she says, like I’ll find it on a map. With a degree that’s not that particularly useful and zero ability to keep a relationship going for more than seventy-two hours, my path in life is shaping up to be questionably employed cat lady.

“You can’t quit your job,” I sigh, tossing my keys into my little cubby that’s marked with my name in the back of the diner. Martha can’t let go of a few old-fashioned practices, like cubbies, but I can’t complain. Not when I think it’s adorable and pretty heartfelt that she insists on doing it for everyone, no matter who they are or how long they stay working here.

“I mean, you could.” Jeremy drops his keys in the cubby next to mine with a huff. “No one is stopping you. Unlike me. Ican’tquit my job.” He grimaces, freckles standing stark against his skin that looks a little paler today.

“You need to go to the tanning bed,” I observe. “You’re looking a little anemic there, Jer-bear.” He shudders at the nickname an old girlfriend had insisted on using. She may be long gone, but I will never let the nickname die. “And yeah, you’re right. Your mom would end you if you tried to quit.”

“Death is better than Friday night shifts,” Jeremy is quick to reply, turning to look at me sullenly. “How’s your hand, by the way?” He gestures to it, and eyes the new bandage taped to my palm.

“Achey,” I admit, flexing my fingers. “Doesn’t exactly feel great when I wiggle my fingers.” To illustrate my words I curl and uncurl my pinky and ring finger, even though it makes my stitched up palm sting.

“Okay then, maybedon’t?” Jeremy recommends. “Maybe—” He’s cut off when Martha comes out of the back office quickly, her face pale and expression reminding me of someone who’s just seen a plane crash.

Not that I have personally ever met someone who’s seen a plane crashing, or seen one crash myself. Both of us watch as she nearly runs out the back door, phone clutched in her hand.

“What’s wrong with your mom?” I ask, puzzled. I’ve never seen Martha look so shaken, and I’ve watched her sit with a customer with a shattered cup stuck in his leg and burns on his hands.

Jeremy shrugs his bony shoulders just as our cook, a middle-aged veteran called Gio, rounds the corner. “She’s just runnin’ out for a bit,” the older man says in his slow drawl. “Come on, you two. Just because Martha’s not here doesn’t mean the diner isn’t opening.”

His voice is a wake-up call and I grin at him, a little embarrassed at having to be told to do my job. “Sorry, Gio,” I say, and Jeremy echoes the sentiment while Gio just rolls his shoulders in a shrug.

To my surprise, Martha isn’t back by the time we open for breakfast at seven am. Normally, her favorite part of the day is chatting with the regulars that always come in for coffee and a place to read the paper while they gossip. But today, it seems…empty. I note that a few of our regulars also aren’t here, including the woman who helped Martha clean up on Friday when I’d sliced my hand open dramatically.

From what I know of her, she’s one of Martha’s oldest customers by far. And she grew up with the diner owner. I’ve never learned her last name, no matter how many credit card receipts I’ve looked at, but I do know her first name starts with an L.

Or a C.

Maybe an A.

I shrug off the thoughts, figuring it doesn’t matter if I know her name or not, as long as I can continue to get her coffee order right.

When Martha’s car finally pulls back into the parking lot close to noon, it’s followed by a cop car that slides into the parking spot beside her; the car is sleek and newer than most of the others in front of the diner. It’s not uncommon for the local cops to eat here, but this is a state trooper, not even a county cop. Jeremy and I trade looks from across the front of the diner, and the confusion on his face shows me he doesn’t have any idea what’s going on either. We watch, both of us slowing at our tasks as Martha comes in the front way, her face pinched and drawn and tear stains on her cheeks.

“Mom?” Jeremy gravitates toward her as soon as the door opens, concern heavy in his voice. He sets down the tray he’d been carrying to reach for her, as if worried she’s going to fall over at any moment.

The officer comes in a moment later. Sunglasses obscure his eyes, even though the day is a cloudy one. He’s more in shape than half of our town police, with a mouth not made for smiling and brown hair cut in a buzz against his head. He’s the definition ofcop, and his picture could be in the dictionary for how cliche he looks.

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