Page 3 of The Wolves Come at Night
“Should we call the police?” she asked.
“We just witnessed a murder. Maybe a murder. A shooting, for sure. Of course we call the police,” Carson said. She was trying to be calm, to be an adult, when in actuality, she wanted to scream and cry and call her mother to come get her, right now, no questions asked, like the contract she’d signed in high school about drinking and driving proclaimed. Her mother swore it up and down: “You will never get into trouble calling me for a ride if you’ve been drinking, though there will be repercussions.”
Her mother, the doctor. Repercussions were often day trips to the morgue or a shadow shift at the emergency room. Her mother wanted her to be a doctor—you’re so studious, darling, you’re so smart. Carson knew in her soul she would never, ever commit to that life. It wasn’t her. She had no idea what was her, what her life held, but she knew what she didn’t want. She didn’t want to be tied down. She didn’t want to have to report for duty. She didn’t want a uniform. She didn’t want to witness the pain and the loss on a daily basis. She wanted life on her terms.
Still. Mom’s arms and clucking sounded pretty damn good about now.
“My mom’s going to kill me,” Izz said.
“I hardly think that’s the case. Do you want to talk to her first? Before we call?”
“I think we should stay out of it.” There. Now having spoken the verboten words aloud, Izz halted, arms down at her sides, her stance pugilistic. The idea floated in the air between them.
So easy. Such an easy path. Ignore. Pretend. Stay out of it. Don’t take a chance.
It’s how so many lived these days anyway, afraid to put a head above the crowd for fear of it being shot off. They all lived in the trenches of an unseen, highly consequential psychological war, children and adults alike.
But having an opinion that wasn’t compatible with the on-campus au courant was entirely different than witnessing someone lose their life.
At least, Carson thought the woman was dead.
“Izz. No. We can’t pretend it didn’t happen. We should have gone back to check, and instead, we ran. That woman was probably killed. We have to say something. I’m calling now.”
Izz put her hand over Carson’s. “Wait. We need to plan. We need to talk this out. I think it would be dangerous for us to get involved.”
“We have to call. We have to tell someone.” A pause. “I think he saw me.”
“He saw you?” The edge of hysteria in her roommate’s voice made Carson grit her teeth.
There was a knock on their door, and Izz screamed. Carson rolled her eyes.
“Come on, he couldn’t have followed us to our room. He doesn’t have a keycard to the front door.”
She sounded much braver than she felt.
She flung open the door to see Simeon Chase, app developer extraordinaire, in the flesh, looking down at her with concern in his whisky-brown eyes. Up close he was even more impressive than witnessed across the dining hall or wandering the quad. Six feet two inches of swimmer’s physique, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, a straight nose, plush, kissable lips… Carson flushed, speechless.
Izz draped herself over her roomie’s shoulder, though, suddenly all good with the scenario. Carson dropped her right shoulder so Izz couldn’t use her as a coatrack.
“Hey, Simeon,” Izz drawled, as if she knew this glorious creature intimately.
“Um, hullo. I wanted to check on you two. I saw on the app that you set off on an adventure earlier, but you never checked in after you hit your coordinates. I was worried. But since I see you’re okay...” He turned slightly as if to walk away, and Izz stamped on Carson’s toe, gesturing at the god’s departing back.
“Tell him,” she stage-whispered.
Simeon whipped around. “Tell me what?”
Carson stared at Izz for a moment, then shrugged. “Not out here. Come in.”
Simeon smelled like pine needles and blue sky, and Carson had a moment’s disequilibrium, standing so near him. Her practical mind said aloud, “Can I get you a soda or something?” while her animal mind darted longingly toward the bed. She’d once seen a meme online that made her giggle, of a totally hot guy standing shirtless in a kitchen with a frying pan, smiling charmingly, overlaid with the headline “How do you like your eggs?” and the woman in the frame below with a shit-eating grin on her face—“Fertilized!”
That’s how she felt in the presence of Simeon Chase.
Simeon, not realizing the effect he was having on her hormones, plopped down on their little couch and tossed a leg onto the arm.
Oh, to be so in command of yourself that you don’t think about the space you take up in the world.
“Uh, no. I’m fine. What did you see out there? You two seem a little…spooked.”
