Page 68 of Heartless

But as good as it is, it means I won’t get to see Cassian tonight. There’s no way Lou won’t kill him, and I can’t handle more of that tonight. He answers when I text, though, apologizing again for not coming to the hospital.

I promise I’ll explain, he texts back.I’m sorry. I love you.

I’m not even mad. Not really. I just miss him, and I stare at my phone, reading the words again.

I love you.

Do I love him too?

What if I don’t love you?I text back finally, and his answer is quick and free of any anger that I can see.

I’ll present to you my six-step plan in the morning of how I’ll change that. Can you try to get some sleep for me, princess? You have to be tired, and I know your head hurts.We already discussed my lack of a concussion, and my killer headache that feels like it’s going to be a migraine.

While I really do want him here, I can’t help but admit that more than anything I just want to pass out and leave this headache behind.

You’d better be doing something important, I finally tell him, curling my legs up while trying not to disturb Minxy too much.

Really important. I wouldn’t be away from you for anything else.

And you owe me. I smile up at Lou when she makes a comment about what we’re watching, though I’m not really sure what she said.

I owe you the stars, and I’ll give you every single one.Good night, princess. I’ll say it again for you: I love you.

I’ll consider if I love you too.That’s the best I’ll give him, at least for tonight.

Knowing it’s the end of the conversation, I place my phone on the end table and pick up my drink, fingers stroking over Minxy’s ears as the cat purrs in satisfaction. My sleepy attention drifts back to whatever Halloween movie Lou has on, content to zone out in contentment.

Chapter

Twenty-Nine

It’s only because I can’t sleep that I catch the five am special news report which interrupts some entirely un-relatable celebrity reality show that’s predictable as hell. In my tired haze, it takes me a few seconds to realize what’s happening on screen. By the time I do mentally tune in, the stern-looking woman on the screen is halfway into what she’s saying.

“—in a gruesome scene this morning. There are no leads so far, and his estranged wife has not released any statement. We ask the community to respect the loss of one of our finest, as Detective Mike Trudeau served over a dozen years with Akron law enforcement.”

I stare blankly at the television, listening as the news anchor proceeds to mention how the police suspect gang involvement with the detective’s death. She then reassures her viewers that despite the murders in Hayden Fields lately, this one took place in Akron, so no one should worry about it becoming a spree.

My hands feel numb as I get to my feet, and I barely manage to text Lou before I’m outside and waiting for an Uber to take me home. Since, as far as I know, my car is still at Sophie’s house from last night.

Shivering in my hoodie, I fiddle with my phone, considering texting Cass but ultimately not doing it. Notyet. But the minutes pass like hours, even though I know it can’t be more than eight minutes before my car rolls up.

I barely register when the driver greets me, and I don’t say a word on the fifteen minute trip back to my mom’s house.

“Thanks,” I manage to murmur, when I step out of the car. Whatever the driver says is lost in the fog of my mind, and only when I’m up on the small porch do I realize my car is in the driveway. Probably thanks to Cass, if I were to guess.

After all, it’s not like the friendly neighborhood detective is around to do me any favors.

Gazing at the door, I stare at the handle before reaching for it, somehow knowing it won’t be locked like it should be. Sure enough, the door swings open easily. I step inside, eyes fixed on the floor where traces of crimson footprints show me the path the killer took through the house.

Naturally, that path leads me up the stairs. I follow the prints, covering them with my shoes as I go, like I’m trying to walk theexactsame way he had, down to the centimeter. The cream carpet makes the traces visible in the near-dark, and I’m suddenly grateful for the nightlights I jammed into the hallway sockets after falling up and down the staircase of the usually empty house enough times.

My door is open, but it’s too dark in my room for me to see anything. Instead, it feels like the darkness is unnatural, like a black hole swallowing everything that enters.

But I enter anyway, barely pushing the door any more open than it already is. Finally, thanks to the light from the bay window near my bed, I see a huddled figure on the bench. But I don’t say a word, and I certainly don’t turn the light on.

Everything seems so surreal as I kick off my shoes and yank off the hoodie I’m still wearing. It’s warm and soft, and absently I consider telling him it’s mine now

Not that I think my killer will mind.

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