Page 7 of Heartless

“No problem. But I gotta go. See you in a bit.” I hang up and shove my phone back into my pocket, the nurse looking at me as if I’ve committed a mortal sin by being on the phone in the urgent care center.

“I have your discharge papers,” she sighs heavily, like she’s carrying the weight of the world on her unskilled fingers. “And your prescription has been sent in. You’re all good to go.” She sets down a few papers on the counter, waving at them. “Those are for you.”

“Thank you.” I don’t toss the papers in the first trashcan I see, even though I want to. Instead, I wait to chuck them into thebin outside as I open my phone to call an Uber to take me back to the diner where I can pick up my car.

If I’m fast, I’ll be at Lou’s in forty-five minutes with blankets, movies, and an unlimited pizza and brownies budget. It’s not exactly everyone’s ideal example of a perfect Friday night, but I certainly have no complaints.

Not as long as I can get pineapple on my pizza.

Chapter

Four

It takes fifty-two minutes for me to get my car, go home, change, and drive to my sister’s house. My hand throbs with dull, aching pain at every movement, and it’s hard to focus on anything else when I’m alone with nothing but my questionable playlist of the day thrumming through my car’s abused speakers and the pain in my hand.

Martha had been worried, so now two large cups of coffee sit in my console, as if caffeine can cure all of my problems and not just ninety-eight percent of them. But she knows how much I love coffee and sent me on my way with enough of it to last for at least the next few hours, if I can keep my caffeine addiction at bay.

“You can do this,” I murmur, trying not to think of Scott’s most memorable ‘pranks’ over the last couple of years. One of which had left me with a bloody nose and gotten him grounded for a month. Normally he really is a sweet kid, and most of the time, I don’t have any issues with him.

But with Halloween in a few weeks and his lust for blood and candy growing, things usually get dicey this time of year. Especially when his school starts whipping out the Halloween themed lessons and decorations. If they haven’t already.

Groaning, I kick open the door of my car, pulling both cups of iced coffee out of my console to set on the shiny black roof of my Mustang. It takes a few moments of rummaging in my console to find my keys, then extricate them from the abyss of hair ties and coffee receipts that litter my car. Last, I grab my phone, shoving it in the pocket of my sweatpants along with my keys before closing the driver’s door with my hip and plucking my coffee from the roof.

“You like your nephew,” I mumble to remind myself of that fact. I don’t mind babysitting for my sister, Louise, but after the events of today, I’d much rather be passed out face down on my bed for the entire weekend. “Youlikeyour nephew most of the time,” I clarify, just before I lift my elbow to knock on her door, since my hands are full of heavily doctored coffee.

I hear footsteps thundering towards the door of Lou’s very nice suburban house, and seconds later it opens, revealing a blond, grinning boy of nine. “Winnie!” he greets happily, launching forward to wrap his arms around my waist as I tighten my grip on my coffee to avoid spilling it over us both.

“Hey Scott,” I greet, a smile on my face. Absently I admire the fall-themed wreath on her door, and note that it’s one of the very few things that sets her house apart from the others on this block full of cookie-cutter homes that regularly sell for way too much.

But at least she has a cool backyard and patio. A dog’s loud, intimidating bark meets my ears, and I brace myself as Roscoe rounds the corner, all eighty-six pounds of Doberman launching itself at me with the same enthusiasm as Scott. “Let me set my coffee down in the kitchen,” I beg, fending him off by turning away to protect the caffeine. “Then you both can climb all over me, okay?” I breeze through the foyer and into the living room, glancing around at the Halloween decor tastefully put up around the house. Though I know for a fact neither Lou nor her husbandDan were responsible. They definitely had their housekeeper do it for them. Just like last year and the year before.

They aren’t exactly the DIY kind of people.

“Lou?” I call, when I’ve reached the kitchen without any sign of her. I set one cup of coffee in the fridge and keep the other one with me, turning to scratch Roscoe’s ears when he bounds to a stop at my side. “Where’s your mom?” I ask my nephew, who’s also loving on his favorite creature in the world.

“In the office, I think,” he tells me absently. “Can I try that?” he points at the coffee and I shrug.

“Sure,” I reply, handing it to him just as my older sister, Lou, breezes into the room and eyes us curiously.

“You’re not going to like that,” she informs her son, heading for the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water out of the door.

“He might,” I disagree, grinning at her. We don’t look much alike, honestly. We never have. And lately, for some reason, I’ve been noticing it more and more. With her black hair and my blonde, with her brown eyes and my blue, we don’t share many similar features from our mom. It seems both of us inherited most of our looks from our different dads.

Our personalities couldn’t be more different, either.

“He might,” I say again. “Because let’s be honest, I drink mostly flavored milk with a hint of coffee.” If I can actually taste the coffee, I’m clearly doing something wrong.

“It’s not bad,” Scott says, taking a second sip of my coffee. “What flavor is it supposed to be?” he hands the plastic cup back to me after sneaking a third sip of it while his mother isn’t looking, and I grin.

“Cookie dough,” I answer. “It’s my favorite.”

“It doesn’t taste like cookie dough,” the nine-year-old replies, kneeling down on the floor with Roscoe.

I look at the pale liquid in the plastic cup and take a long swallow of it. “Yeah,” I eventually agree with a sigh. “It reallydoesn’t. Definitely does not score points for accuracy, but I’m still addicted.”

“Which is something youdon’twant to be,” Lou tells her son, walking past and ruffling his curly black hair. “I sent you money to your PayPal,” she tells me, glancing my way. “Do you need anything before Dan and I leave?”

“A million dollars?” I ask, bumping my hand against the counter and grimacing with a soft hiss of discomfort.

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