Page 52 of Heartless

Well, I have my cats.

And now, I suppose I have Cass, too. Even though our conversation and his confession from this morning play on repeat in my brain like one of those songs that you just can’tget out of your head. It’s almost like elevator music. Always there, playing on repeat, no matter how distracted I am by other things.

He’d meant it. There’s no way around that. And no way around the fact that Cass is absolutely, without a doubt,apsychopath.

So why am I not more afraid of that realization, like I should be? Why am I not marching over toDetectiveTrudeau to tell him all the things Cass told me so he can, I don’t know, investigate him for other crimes or maybe chastise him at least?

Why am I so okay with it?

After sending back a few more half-assed apologies to Reagan, I open the messages from Cass, leaning against the counter as I read through them.

I hope you’re having a good day. Miss you.

A grin curves the corners of my mouth upward, and I tilt my head to think of an answer, even as my fingers tap on the screen.

It’s only been a few hours.

Unlike Reagan, the text flips to read instantly, and the typing bubble immediately pops up. In seconds he’s responded, and I glance up at the door, making sure I’m still alone. Not that anyone would mind me being back here for a few minutes.

You’re off in forty-five minutes, right? Can I come pick you up? I thought we’d go get dinner, if that’s okay.

God, he’s so sweet over text. I tell him that works, and stuff my phone back into my pocket before heading back out to finish my shift.

The forty-five minutes left of it feel likedays.Not just because I’m excited to see Cass and go out somewhere with him. But also because Trudeau just fucking sits there. Like a log. Like alump.

Like an ugly, toad-eyed lump I’d like to get excised as soon as possible.

At seven fifty-five, I’ve had about enough of it. My patience is as frayed as the napkin he’s been absently shredding, and while my other customers have been pretty unremarkable, even Martha has started dropping hints that maybe he couldleaveor order a second cup of coffee at the very, very least.

But he doesn’t take her hints, or Jeremy’s. He just sits there and smiles in that oily, polite way of his, and nurses an empty cup of coffee. His gaze makes me itch, and the hair on the back of my neck prickles constantly, but finally it’s time to make my last round and let my diners know that my shift is over.

“If you decide to order anything else, detective, my replacement will be around to check on you in a few minutes,” I tell him, the epitome of politeness. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your coffee. Martha said to let you know it’s on the house.” I smile sweetly at him, aware that the expression doesn’t come close to genuine.

“Where you off to?” he asks absently, looking up at me with his bulgy eyes. “Back home? Or are you planning to have a fun night out?” It’s wildly inappropriate, and not at all his business. But I only smile wider at him.

“I haven’t quite decided.”

“Isn’t that Byers’ car out in the parking lot?” He doesn’t even look out the window, and I wonder how the hell he already knows what Cass drives. I don’t fall for it or look.

I just shrug my shoulders in a show of hapless naivety. “Maybe? I don’t monitor where he goes or anything. So I guess he could be here if you say his car is outside.”

My eyes never leave his, and I fight to not look the least bit uncomfortable. I don’t want him to know how much he gets under my skin.

“This will be all for me, actually. And it’s really kind of your boss to cover it.” He nods and eases out of his seat, not leavingme a tip. I hadn’t expected him to, but my opinion of him lowers even more as he saunters out the door to the parking lot.

“What a jerk,” Jeremy mumbles in my ear, stopping to watch him go. “Not even a tip when we didn’t charge him for the coffee? Asshole.”

“At least he’s gone.” I sigh. “And so am I. Have a good Halloween, Jeremy.” It’s only two days away, and this year, I’m not dreading it nearly as much as usual.

I might even be looking forward to it, if I’m being honest.

As quickly as I can, I take my hair down and run a brush through it, then change out of my black pants and ugly but comfy shoes, into leggings and ankle boots. My shirt comes off next, replaced with an oversized hoodie that is the definition of comfortable, and maybe not very fashionable.

I’m back in the front of the diner within a few minutes, looking presentable for the outside world and smelling of fruity body spray instead of waitress suffering and contempt, like I usually do. But just as my hands land on the glass of the door, my eyes flick up and I see the problem immediately.

Trudeau is still here.

And he’s standingwaytoo close to Cass. My heart takes that moment to thud against my ribs in warning, like I’ve somehow not seen them and it needs to inform me howbadof an idea this is. Or at least, how badly this situation could go.

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