Page 56 of Wicked Beasts
“What happened to the body?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
“What body?” Mortimer’s voice cuts through the air as he steps into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind him. His head tilts slightly, and his eyes narrow, waiting for me toexplain. His face looks even more hollow, his eyes bulging with exhaustion—there’s something off about the both of them, like the house itself is feeding on them in Gisella’s absence.
“The body outside Gisella’s window,” I say, forcing strength into my words. “The dead man. The reason she left.”
Mortimer presses his bony fingers together, his long, dark suit blending into the shadows, as though he’s sinking deeper into the gloom. “He was not dead,” he replies, his voice calm and cold. “The ambulance came and took him away. He was still alive, as far as I know.”
I can’t tell if he’s lying.
“Who cleaned up the blood?”
“Manu,” Mrs. Wong interrupts, her voice unnervingly calm compared to how she greeted me at the door. “He always takes good care of the garden and the grounds.”
There are so many secrets in this house.
You shouldn’t stay either, Amara. It’s not safe. It’s not safe.
Forty-Nine
Later that afternoon, I stand quietly in the hallway, watching Tristan say his goodbyes to his project partner. My arms are crossed as I lean against the doorframe, studying his every move. Tristan’s posture is stiff, even as he shuts the door. One hand slips his glasses from his face, and the other presses against his tired eyes, then moves to his temple. He leans forward and knocks his forehead against the wood.
Once. Twice.
I take a step forward on the third.
“Are you alright?” I ask gently.
Tristan pulls away from the door, startled by the sound of my voice. He quickly tucks his glasses into the collar of his shirt, blinking rapidly, as if trying to shake off whatever worries just passed through him. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
“Is everything okay?”
“I’m fine,” he snaps, his voice sharp, slicing through the silence. It’s a command—loud and final. A fleeting shadow crosses his face, a darkness so deep, it seems to pull the air from the room. For a split second, there’s something primal in his eyes, a simmering rage that furrows between his brows. And then, just as quickly, it’s gone—vanished in the blink ofan eye. Perhaps it’s nothing. Maybe I’m just imagining it. After all, they are brothers. The resemblance has always been there, unmistakable, especially now. Part of me wonders why it took me this long to see it. But as I gaze into his eyes, something shifts. A subtle ache blooms in my chest. There’s a growing emptiness in them—like the dimming of a sunset, a fading light in the hazel depths. His face remains unchanged, carved in stone. Unreadable.
“I’m fine,” he says again, but this time, it’s softer—calmer, quieter. He looks away, as if ashamed of his outburst. He takes a sharp breath, his broad shoulders lifting with the motion, before releasing it slowly, as though trying to rid himself of some lingering weight that seeks to drag him down. He glances back at me, his eyes heavy with fatigue. Everyone looks so tired. “How’s your writing coming along?”
I frown, confusion furrowing my brows. “My what?”
A weary smile tugs at the corner of his lips, almost as though it costs him something to show it. He tilts his head, his gaze searching mine, the exhaustion in his eyes deepening. “Youarea writer, aren’t you?” he asks, though he clearly knows the answer. He’s teasing me.
“Oh, right. I haven’t been able to concentrate much. Not sure if I’ll ever have something for you to read at this rate.” I acknowledge my head with a twirl of my hand in a vague gesture as I only glance in his general direction but refuse to make eye contact. “There’s just a lot going on, especially with the body and Gisella leaving. I miss her.” I reach for his wrist suddenly. “Therewasa body, right?”
Tristan looks down at my grip on his arm before lifting his gaze to meet mine.“Yes,” he says finally, studying my face. “Areyoualright, Miss Amara?”
I’ve been better, I think, but I don’t want to burden him with my problems. He seems as though he’s going through enough.Cordelia’s name sticks to the back of my throat. Part of me wants to ask about her, but another,strongerpart of me is afraid of what he might say if I do. I don’t really want to know what happened between them. I don’t really want to know if he still cares for her. The certainty of the truth is tempting, but the fear of being hurt by it is overwhelming. I want to sit in my fantasy for a moment longer, even if it isn’t real.
“I’m worried about you,” I blurt as I turn to him. “I know that you’re not well, and I feel like…” I don’t want to say he looks like he’s getting weaker, or losing the glow he once had when I first arrived. “I know it’s not any of my business, but…please. I don’t know what’s going on, and I know everyone’s keeping secrets from me. Can youpleasetell me what’s wrong? Are you going to be okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s wrong?”
He gives a skeptical sort of smile as he glances down at my hand still clutching his wrist.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he says quietly.
“Try me. Because I feel like my imagination is making all of this much worse than it needs to be.”
“Well, what do you write about?” he asks, lifting his gaze to meet mine. “What do you imagine?”
