Page 17 of Heartless

It’s such a fucking lie, but it’s the best I can do right now. At least until I sleep, eat, and get my hand to stop aching so much today.

Chapter

Nine

Waking up, I barely have any idea of where I am for a few seconds. My mind spins, and I flex my toes, as if I’m reaching for something that will ground me and remind me what’s going on. My chest constricts, and it feels like moments stretch into hours as I open my eyes to stare up at the dark ceiling lit only by the hall night-light.

I’m used to the quiet of an empty house. Mom is known for taking off on trips and leaving me here to watch over things in her absence. Though I’ve partially always wondered if she does it to get away from the memory of what happened to me while she denied anything was wrong.

But tonight…the quiet iswrongsomehow. It’s not as empty as usual in the house, though I can’t really explain why.

“Fuck,” I groan out, wishing I knew why I’d woken up with my heart racing and confusion making my thoughts swim. Absently, I turn, wanting to face my window instead of the blackness of my ceiling. But when I open my eyes, I don’t see my bay window that’s always been my favorite feature of this house.

At least, it’s not unobstructed like it should be.

There’s a figure in the window seat, sitting almost completely still and backlit by the moon outside. I can’t see their face, but I sit up fast with a sharp intake of breath. “Who?—”

The figure leans forward into the slanting illumination cast by the hall night-light and my heart stutters in my chest like it might just give out in the spot.

“The lock on your door is kind of pathetic,” Cassian informs me in his low, smooth voice. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him raise his voice, though it’s a weird thing to go through my head right now.

“What?” I ask dumbly, feeling frozen in place as he meets my gaze. “How did you get in here?”

“Picked the lock,” he says slowly, like he’s speaking to a toddler who might not understand the words. “On your back door.”

“You closed it, right?” My brain isn’t quite working the way it should, and I attribute it to the exhaustion that I’m still trying to shake off, even though I’ve probably been asleep for a good eight hours.

Cassian is quiet for a moment, and his expression slides into one of bemusement. “You’re asking if I closed your back door?” He sounds like he can’t quite believethat’swhat I’m choosing to say right now, but I nod my head jerkily. “Yeah. I did. The cats didn’t get out, Winnie.” He settles back, face obscured by darkness once again. “Is that really what you want to ask me right now?”

No, it isn’t. A million questions slam through my brain all at once, each wiggling uncomfortably into the space behind my eyes in an attempt to be the first to escape my lips.

Why are you here?

Did you kill Lacey?

Why did you kill your sister?

Why didn’t you kill me?

“What are you doing here?” I turn just enough to slide my fingers under my pillow, fingers searching for my phone that I always keep tethered to me for fear of not having adequate entertainment from social media drama.

Only, it isn’t there. And when Cassian pointedly clears his throat, I have an idea of what I’ll see when I turn around.

Sure enough, my phone lights up in his grip, showing a few missed messages from Reagan and what looks like a voicemail from my mom.

“Come on, Winnie.” His tone is just a bit goading, just a little amused. “You thought I wouldn’t take your phone so you couldn’t call the cops instead of talk to me?” The words and the way they’re said make me bristle, and I throw the covers off of my legs in case I need to do something dramatic.

And from the way Cassian Byers tenses, he’s expecting it too. But I force myself to stay still, my body poised to move when I feel like I might be able to get away with it.

“It’s a little embarrassing,” he admits finally, when the silence between us has stretched to its breaking point. “I’ve been coming back here for years around Halloween to reminisce. And maybe to see you, too.”

“I’ve never seen you before yesterday,” I can’t help but interject quickly.

He tilts his head to the side, just enough that one baleful eye is lit up again. “That’s because I never wanted you to. I let you see me at the diner to find out what you would do and, umm…” I swear he’s smiling now. “You didn’t disappoint. I wasn’t expecting such a dramatic reaction from you, truth be told.” His eyes flick downward, toward my hands that clench my comforter. “You certainly didn’t react like that in the psych ward.”

“That was years ago.” My words are quick and defensive, though I’m not sure what I feel insulted by. “And it was a unique set of circumstances.”

“Right,” he agrees. “The unique circumstances being that you’d just shot your father with his own gun. I remember.” Fuck, I hate how easily he knocks me off balance and keeps me guessing. I want him to be predictable, and not throw me for so many turns that I have no idea what will come out of his mouth next.

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