Page 11 of Heartless

“Roscoe!” I’m almost to the back of the yard now, where the back gate sits lower than the rest of the fence and leads to the community pool and neighborhood playground. His barking is louder, so I know I’m on the right track, and when I see a flurryof movement in front of me, I let out a long, low sigh of relief. “Goddamn it, dog,” I mutter as he runs frantically back and forth along the fence, barking his head off. “We’re going to get so many noise complaints, you know that?” It takes a moment, but I finally manage to grab the ring on his collar, stopping him from making another lap.

“What’s your problem, anyway?” I ask, glancing around the yard for any sign of a small animal. “You never act like this.” It takes all of my might to drag him away from the gate, and Roscoe yelps his disagreement with the action. “I could kennel you,” I threaten, though we both know it’s empty as hell. I wouldn’t be able to handle his whining all night if I tried to separate him from Scott.

He twists out of my grip again, and I reach for him with a curse. “Roscoe!” I yell, frustrated, and I turn, watching him run back to the back fence. “Roscoe, there’s nothing—” But my words die in my throat as I look at the heavy, five-foot-tall gate.

There’s someone standing on the other side of it. He’s wearing a white Halloween mask pulled over his head, obscuring every single one of his features. All I can do is stare at him, as every muscle in my body freezes with terror.

I need to get back in the house.

“Roscoe!” I scream, too afraid to get closer to the gate. It’s locked, sure, but I know for a fact the lock is half broken. Something in my tone must tell Roscoe that it’sreallytime to go. He bolts away from the gate, still barking, and when I take off at a run he follows me, right on my heels.

“Come on!” I urge as my feet hit the patio. I keep running across the stones, hopping up the two stairs to the door and yanking it open. The Doberman surges inside without stopping, and I turn, slamming it shut as fast as I can as my eyes search the yard for signs that whoever was standing there has made it past the locked gate.

But there’s nothing in the yard. Nothing except the patio furniture and the fire pit. Still, I lock the door, making sure both locks are secure before jamming the curtain shut across the glass.

“Scott!” I yell, heart pounding in my throat as my stomach twists. My hands are shaking, and belatedly I realize the stitched up wound is aching more sharply than before. “SCOTT!” I scream, following a trotting Minxy out of the kitchen. “Where are you?!”

“Right here?” Scott meets me in the hallway, bewilderment on his face as he takes a bite of the pizza in his greasy fingers. His words are a question, and his brows raise. “What’s wrong, Winnie?”

“W-we need to, umm.” My mind is racing, and I press my nails into my uninjured palm. “You need to hide. We need to call the cops. There’s someone outside, and?—”

Someone knocks hard on the glass behind me, causing my soul to nearly leave my body in fear and shock. Scott and I stare at each other, both of us unmoving as the knocking sounds again. Roscoe whines and bolts past me, heading for the door even as I yell his name in protest, my hand reaching out for his collar and missing.

“Roscoe, no!” I shriek as he noses at the curtain, pushing it back enough for us to see outside and for the person outside to seeus.

But I don’t see the white Halloween mask I’m expecting. I don’t see a tall, over six-foot-tall figure knocking at the door.

“Hello?” Reagan stares at me, perplexed, her hands on her hips. “What thefuck, Winnie? Why the hell am I locked out?”

“Reagan?” I gasp, taking a few steps toward the door and my friend who’s backlit by the motion lights.

“Yeah?” She jiggles the door handle again. “Who else would it be? Are you going to let me in, or am I going to die of exposure out here for your entertainment?”

Chapter

Six

After telling her about what I’d seen in the yard, I can’t stop Reagan from marching outside with a kitchen knife she grabbed from the block in the kitchen and surveying the yard. Nothing I say or yell or threaten has any effect on the redhead, who just grins and tells me she’s not afraid of a guy most likely playing a prank.

If only I was so sure that’s what he was, but I don’t say my suspicions out loud. Especially with Scott here, leaning against me with poorly disguised fear.

No matter where she looks and how much she calls out, nothing happens. Roscoe even chills out and heads out to patrol the yard with Reagan like it’s some kind of game. The sight of them—a Doberman trotting along behind my red-haired friend who stands maybe five-foot-three—has me pressing my lips together to ward off a small, rueful smile. With how dramatic they’re both being, they could be auditioning for a new version ofScooby-Doo.Roscoe just needs to learn how to talk.

When she comes back in and slides the glass door shut behind her, Reagan grimaces apologetically. “Didn’t find anyone,” she tells me, putting the knife back where she’d foundit. “Didn’t see anyone at all, actually. Not even Lou’s weird neighbors who always watch TV in their underwear.”

“The Blankenships aren’t weird.” I sigh, rolling my eyes and locking the door behind her. “They’re just old-fashioned.”

“Oh, yeah?” Reagan opens the fridge and scans the shelves, distracted. “Tell me, in what century was the fashion to dress in your granny panties and support hose while watchingJeopardy?” She grabs the two-liter of Dr. Pepper out of the door and pours herself a glass. She’s been here enough to know where everything is by heart, but I still roll my eyes and put the bottle back when she leaves it on the counter.

“God, didn’t I teach you anything when I babysat you? Like, how to put things back where they belong?” I close the fridge door with my hip, watching her chug half a glass.

“Uh, yeah. You taught me how not to get in trouble. But it’s been years since you babysat me, Winnie. Pretty sure the lessons have worn off.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me, prompting me to fight another roll of my eyes.

“Are you staying for a while, Reagan?” Scott walks closer to her, a smile on his face. “We were watching a movie. And we have pizza!”

“Dude.” She ruffles his hair. “I amso downfor pizza and a movie. So long as your babysitter says it’s okay.”

Both of them turn to look at me, their eyes wide and expressions pitiful. “That doesn’t work on me,” I remind them, putting away the few dishes that we’d gotten out and making sure the door is closed one more time. “But you can stay, Reagan. You aren’t on Lou’s banned list as far as I know.”

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