Page 32 of Heartless

Before I can do more than just stare, however, he rolls the window back up, never looking away from me as the black glass slowly obscures his face once more. It’s another second before the police car starts moving, and I blink as he turns to the right at the end of my street, heading in the direction of the other cops already at the house a block away.

But all I can think about is how uncomfortable he makes me feel, and I rub my arms to disperse the goosebumps that have me shivering in the cool air of my room.

Chapter

Fourteen

Convincing Lou to leave with Dan, who’s standing silently at the door and waits for her to go through all of her worries about leaving for a few hours, takes about as long as I’d expected it to. But at last I’m able to close the door behind her with a groan while I sag against it.

“Is it true?” Scott’s voice comes from the landing, and I glance up to see him leaning over the railing at the top of the stairs. Roscoe is chewing on a toy beside him, and I wonder if Lou has a bitch of a time with the dog whenever Scott isn’t here. Bonded is an understatement for these two.

“Is what true? That your mom can worry anything to death?” I ask, locking the door instinctively behind me.

“That Lacey Clarke died that morning and it wasn’t an accident. And that two other people have been murdered since then.” He’s not quite asking, and it makes me wonder just how much he knows about the situations. But I just watch him, trying to discern any clues about his motives from his expression alone.

It doesn’t work.

He really does play it close to the vest when he wants to, and he definitely gets that from my sister.

“I probably know as much as you,” I admit. “Which isn’t much. You’ll be shocked to know that the police don’t keep me informed about their investigations or leads.” Giving him a quick, dry smile, I push away from the door and head for the kitchen. He follows me, thundering down the stairs with Roscoe at his heels. Once in the kitchen, I deftly open the sliding door, letting the Doberman shoot out into the yard happily.

When Scott doesn’t follow, I look at him, brows raised. “You don’t want to go out and patrol with him?” Normally he does, even if it’s just to follow Roscoe around the yard. But Scott shakes his head and stays inside with me.

“Hey.” I sink down on one of the stools sitting against the kitchen island and rest my chin on my palm. “What’s wrong? You can talk to me, Scott. I promise I’ll only judge you a little for whatever’s wrong.”

That gets a small smile out of him. The nine-year-old sits down at the stool beside me and focuses on a napkin he picks up to shred absently between his fingers. “People at school talk.” It’s hard to hear him when he’s mumbling, but I wait for him to go on. “They say stuff, like Lacey did something bad and…” He looks up at me shyly, then away.

“And?” I prompt, perplexed.

“And I heard the teachers talking when I was picking up construction paper for art yesterday. Mrs. Miller was telling Mrs. House something that happened a long time ago, I think.”

Suddenly I know where this is going, and I wish Lou was around to deal with it better than me. My stomach twists as Scott looks up at me guiltily, and it only cements my guess as to what he’s going to say.

“Something about you and a guy. Byers? I think that was his name. She said he killed someone. Stabbed someone, and that people are dying that way again. And she said you were there.”Scott’s words are rushed and uneven, making it seem like he feels guilty for saying them.

I tap my fingers on the counter and don’t answer right away.How can Iwhen this is absolutely blindsiding me? Scott hearing my old third-grade teacher talk about Cassian murdering Carissa was definitely not on my bingo card for this week. Or ever.

But she always was a gossip. I’d realized that when I was in high school tutoring third graders for National Honor Society service hours. Mrs. Miller would take any chance she got to go call her friends or stand around talking about the parents of the kids I was tutoring to another teacher.

“Mrs. Miller likes to talk,” I answer at last. “Honestly? She likes to talk way too much. I’m not going to lie to you. You’ll hear it eventually if you live in this town long enough.” I can’t stop drumming my fingers on the countertop, and I stare out the window to watch Roscoe amusing himself outside. “When I was a kid, my babysitter’s brother killed her in front of me. He stabbed her. I don’t know why he killed her. But I don’t know anything about him, to be honest.” I figure if I get ahead of his questions, I can maintain the narrative that I’ve never spoken to Cassian again.

Which is maybe my biggest lie of the year.

“Oh.” Scott’s eyes are wide as he looks at me, studying me as if he thinks I might suddenly fall apart. “Okay.” There’s silence in the kitchen between us that’s broken only by Minxy pushing her dry food around her bowl unhappily. The fact that she’s so clearly pissed over being on a diet is pretty relatable, though, and I grin down at where I can see her long, bottlebrush tail. “I’m sorry, Winnie.”

“Hmm?” Out of all the things he could say, that’s certainly not the one I’m expecting. “Why are you sorry, Scott? You weren’t even alive.” I force myself to stop my tapping, though it’sharder than it should be not to have some anxious movement going on while we talk about this.

“I know it’s just…it must suck having everyone remember you for something like that. That’s all I mean.” He hesitates, but I can see the gears turning in his head. “Is that how your dad died? Did it have something to do with?—”

“No.” I don’t mean to interrupt him. I really don’t. But the word comes out before I can stop it, and I see him look away at my decisive tone that leaves no room for questions.Fuck, I hadn’t meant to sound upset. I sigh and get to my feet to let Roscoe in before he can start wailing for the ASPCA to come save him from such horrid conditions, such as being out in the yard for more than five minutes on his own. “No, Scott,” I say again. “That happened later. And I don’t want to talk about it.” Ineverwant to talk about it, and most of my family is pretty happy to oblige me in that.

My mom is too guilt-filled and resentful to bring it up, though I’m never quite sure what the worst of her guilt is for; letting it happen, or the fact that some part of her still blames me. My money, quite frankly, is on the latter these days.

Lou has just never known what to say. Even now, she avoids the subject like a very contagious plague that can be spread simply by whispering of it.

“Mom’s never said anything to me about either of those things.” I close the door as Scott goes on, dreading the curiosity in his tone. “Does she know about them?”

“Yeah, bud, she knows. Now stop dredging up the past, will you? Do youwantme to cry all over our burritos while we watch the next movie on your Halloween list?” He immediately brightens at the promise of food and movies, and I can see him forget about his curiosity. At least for now. It’s lucky that we’re discussing food, because it’s the easiest way to distract him from a topic I’d rather not deal with.

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