Page 30 of The Lies We Steal

“The black ones. I do remember things you know?” I call as my feet carry me down the steps and out the front door.

The foot traffic is slow, leaving me with some peace and quiet as I light a Marlboro Red, letting the familiar smoke fill my lungs with the first draw.

I thought I was going to have peace and quiet.

My phone started buzzing in my front pocket on my second puff and I can’t not answer. Not with everything going on.

I place the smoke on my lip, holding it between my teeth as I slide my finger across the screen, placing the speaker to my ear,

“Yes, wife?”

I hear a scoff, “If I was your wife you wouldn’t dress like a retired motorcycle club president with a drinking problem.” Thatcher informs me.

“You sure do bitch like a wife.” I slide down the wall, squatting down and resting my back against the floor to ceiling windows outside the shop, “Why are you calling me?”

“Better question, where are you?”

“Why?” I answer his question with one of my own.

“Because you’re supposed to be here helping us supervise Rook. You know, making sure he doesn’t blow my house to tiny million-dollar pieces, while he makes chloroform in my basement.”

Fuck.

I forgot about that.

Granted, it was pretty important, but I’m sure they could handle this one thing without having me be there.

Chris Crawford, the teacher’s assistant our snitching drug dealer told us about, was the only lead we had left. Saying it like that made us sound like vengeful detectives. Taking the law in our own hands, save the badge and give us knives.

All week we’d been following him around, just trying to catch him doing something out of the ordinary and we’d almost stopped, gave up on him, until Thatcher scored pictures of him going through product in his car after school. Whether he was our killer was to be determined. But he was supplying the drugs that killed Rose and that was better than nothing.

We had to have something to cling to. Anything. If we didn’t, I was scared of what Silas would do.

“He’s a chemistry major, Thatcher. It’s just acetone and bleach, your dead grandma could do it. As long as he doesn’t get trigger happy, you’ll be fine without me for a few hours.”

As hungry as I was for retaliation, I couldn’t help but hope this was the end. That Chris drugged Rosemary trying to get in her pants and it ended terribly. We could torture him until he died slowly. Then we could get on with our lives.

Except Silas, of course. It would take him years.

I’d watched them grow up together, Rose and him. She was the only one who really understood his schizophrenia. When they were together, it was like they were in their own little, twisted world.

I wasn’t sure how long it would take for him to get over. If ever.

“You never answered my original question, Alistair.”

Oh, here it comes.

“I thought I made it very clear you’d make a shitty wife.” Trying to distract him, but it’s all in vain, I should know that by now.

“Where are you?” He deadpans, making it clear he doesn’t want to ask again.

“I’m out.” I exhale, looking around me.

Yeah, I could tell my best friend I was at a tattoo shop where I was doing an apprenticeship. It’s not like I’m doing a drive-by, but it’s the principle.

The fact I have this one thing to myself. Something I don’t need to share or worry about being taken.

You never know how good ownership feels until you’re the one who is never allowed to have anything, the one who’s always being taken from.

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