Page 29 of The Girl and the Cobra

A muscle in his scarred jaw tenses. “It’s not that. It’s… it was me.”

I don’t really know what he’s trying to say, and my eyebrows furrow. “You?”

“You think you know, but you don’t. There’s so much you don’t know about me, things that if you did know, you’d—” Tristan stops himself from saying anything more, but it’s too late. My mind is spinning with the possibilities.

He lets out a hard breath before he finishes, “You wouldn’t feel so comfortable sitting so close to me.” He says it with conviction.

I’m puzzled and morbidly curious at the same time. I already know he has a violent history, that he’s killed people—lotsof people, to use his words—so what more could there be?

“Whatever you think I did,” Tristan whispers, “it’s worse.”

“Tristan—” I say his name softly, but it’s the only word that comes out before he speaks again.

His body turns toward mine, his leg brushing against mine in the process. “Don’t. Don’t say my name like that, like…” He trails off.

“Like what?”

His gaze falls, and I swear it falls to my mouth when he says this next part. “Like you care.”

I shouldn’t. There are a million reasons why I shouldn’t, but I whisper, “I do care.” Since the day my life changed, Tristan has been the only one I’ve truly felt comfortable with. The only person in the entire world who doesn’t judge.

Dr. Wolf doesn’t, I suppose, but it’s different. It’s different with Dr. Wolf than it is with Tristan.

“No, you don’t,” Tristan tells me. I don’t know if he’s trying to convince himself or me.

“I do.”

“You shouldn’t.” As if sensing I’m about to ask him why, he goes on, “However bad you think I am, I’m worse. I’m so much worse than you could ever imagine. The things I’ve done, the people I’ve killed… the reason behind it all—I’m a monster.”

I don’t know what to say, so all I say is his name again: “Tristan.”

His movements are fast yet mechanical, almost. He grabs the sleeve on his left arm and pulls it up, revealing more scars to me. The one that catches my eye the most, however, is the name etched into his flesh.

In simple upper-case letters made of straight lines, carved into his skin so often the scar tissue is mounded up higher than the flesh around it, is a name.

Shay.

That scar was what he was staring at the first day I saw him, hunched over in his room. Countless questions pop up in my head, but before I get the chance to ask any of them, I hear the patio door open.

Everything happens fast after that. Tristan tugs down his sleeve and gets up while my dad apologizes for having to excuse himself. Tristan doesn’t look anyone in the eyes as he thanks my dad for the pizza and slips out of the house through the same door.

My dad watches him go, as do I—though we watch him leave for different reasons entirely. After a moment, my dad’s full attention is on me. “Listen, kiddo, I hate to cut this short, but I’m exhausted. I’ll call you tomorrow after work, okay?”

Though I don’t really feel like smiling, I give my dad an understanding smile and say, “Okay. Bye, Dad. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” He gives me a hug and a gentle kiss on the top of my head, and then I walk with him through the house. As he leaves, I stand in the open front door and wave.

Maybe I should be more upset that my dad cut our visit short, but I can’t stop thinking about Tristan and that scar, along with everything he said. What could be worse than killing people? I think I already know the worst of him. I doubt there’s anything more he could tell me that would make me never want to talk to him again.

It’s why, when I shut the front door, I decide to ask him.

I march through the house, to the back patio door, and step outside into the cool night air, expecting to find Tristan sitting either on the wicker furniture or somewhere on the stamped concrete. But he’s not there.

The wind blows, and my bare feet are cold on the concrete. I dash into the house to retrieve a hoodie and shoes, and soon enough I’m stepping out into the darkness once more. I make it to the edge of the patio and scan the grassy area around the house. Trees line the outer rim of the yard; I’m sure the property goes well beyond the forest.

Did Tristan go into the woods? I don’t see him anywhere. He can’t have gone too far, thanks to that collar on his neck.

I shouldn’t go after him. I shouldn’t follow him. I shouldn’t want to, but I do.

---