Page 19 of Devil on the Lake

I twist to find him striding back from the cabin, sharp jaw clenched, hands shoved in the pockets of his trench coat. He cleaned off most of the fake blood, but missed some. The last of the face paint has been wiped away, too.

My stomach dips at the sight of him. I whirl around and focus on roasting my marshmallow in the flames with the long skewer.

If I’m staying, the new plan is to keep away from Dante and forget everything that happened. His stupid prank. The awful truth he confessed to me.

Most of all, what we did in the cabin.

EIGHT

DANTE

After she stormed out, I sat there in stunned silence. I couldn’t believe what I’d let slip—what I fucking admitted to her.

No one knows about my grandmother’s inhumane ultimatums and her tight leash, not even Phoenix after my failed attempt to tell him—though, I think he might suspect. His dad is a therapist. If he found out, he’d have CPS all over Grandma’s ass, but she’s still the one in control of the money. I don’t want anyone to know how messed up my life has become.

This whole weekend is going to shit.

When I blinked out of my stupor, Willow was long gone. I needed to get back, or I was in danger of wrecking the cabin to take out the frustration simmering beneath my skin. I got myself together and headed out.

At the last second, I grabbed the note she left behind.

Every trudging step I took back to the party made my teeth grind. I’m pissed off and questioning everything that just went down.

Now I’m standing three people down in front of the bonfire, roasting fucking marshmallows. All I want to do is go over to her and pull her back into the shadows with me. The note sits in my coat pocket, crinkling every time I move to remind me it’s there.

The rush of protectiveness I felt for her when I read the message has me off-kilter. I can’t get it out of my head. I don’t like what it said, or the feeling it gives me like I need to find out who the hell sent it and make them pay.

I didn’t leave Willow that stalker note, or any others. She believes I’m behind them. I get her reasoning—we’re constantly at odds with each other and messing with her is what I do best. But these aren’t from me.

So who?

My suspicious gaze moves around the party. If she gets them at school, it could be anyone here this weekend. Her creeper could be among us right now, watching her without her knowing where they’re lurking. I dismiss half of the potential suspects right away, including Phoenix and Luna.

I look at Lowell. He’s one of my best friends and I know he was annoyed with Willow for getting us suspended. Easton and Ryder talk shit about her, too. My head tilts, attention darting between them and the direction of their gazes. Eliana. They’re too absorbed in their beef with her to bother with Willow.

Lips sliding together in uncertainty, I come to a dead end on ideas of who could be behind it.

Like a magnet, my eyes are drawn to her. Her hair hides most of the evidence of what went down between us, but in the firelight I can make out the hint of the hickeys I left on her throat. The scratches she left on my body tingle. Her tentative smile falls as soon as our gazes collide.

Whatever. Let her deal with her own shit. I need to forget about her.

Even if the sounds she makes when she comes and the feel of her body against mine are now seared into my mind forever.

The fleeting thought that we could have what we did in the cabin was just me thinking with my dick. It could never really work.

I grit my teeth and glare into the flames.

My grandmother is right about me. I’m a worthless fuck up.

A hand slams down on my shoulder and squeezes, jolting me out of my dark thoughts. “Man, you need a drink. You’re bringing down the mood. It’s Halloween. Have some fucking fun.”

Lowell smirks at me and offers the bottle of whiskey we shared earlier. It’s nearly empty. I swipe it and tip my head back with a deep pull from the bottle that finishes off the remaining alcohol. Phoenix and Easton chuckle from their spots on a bench made of hay bales behind us. Ryder hollers like the heathen he is.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” he cheers.

I ignore the smooth burn and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, then chuck the bottle into the fire. It makes a satisfying sound when it breaks.

“Where’d you go, Dante?” Eliana asks.

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