Page 66 of Creeping Lily
Relief floods me in shaky bursts, but it tangles with something colder, sharper. He’s gone now, but it’s temporary. He’ll be back. He always comes back. And that knowledge gnaws at me, picking and pulling like sharp teeth scraping against bone.
Because his connection to the Walkers isn’t just suspicion—it’s real. A pulse I can feel in the air when he looks at them. Athim.That stare he leveled at the man beside me—long, searching, like he was hunting for answers only he could see—wasn’t empty. It was thick with meaning. With history.
He told me to stay away from them. That should’ve been enough to scare me into obedience. But instead it does the opposite. It feeds the hunger clawing at my chest, the desperate need to understandwhy.What secret ties them together? What truth is buried so deep that even my stalker wants me kept from it?
I need to know. I need to dig.
“Why did you come here, Bentley? The truth, now.”
Bentley’s jaw tenses. I can tell he’s holding something back, weighing whether to say it. Finally, he exhales, gaze steady on mine.
“The three men who were there the night of…” Bentley’s voice drops, like he’s dragging the words up from somewhere deep and painful. “…the incident? They’re dead.”
The sentence hits me like a sledgehammer to the ribs. Air rushes out of my lungs in a startled gasp I can’t stop. For a moment, I can only stare at him, searching for the crack—the twitch of an eye, the tremor in a lip—that would tell me he’s lying.
But there’s nothing. Just that grim, steady look that makes my stomach knot.
“What do you mean—they’re dead?”
He exhales slowly, like he’s bracing for my reaction. “On paper, the deaths look clean. Normal. The kind people write off as bad luck or bad timing. But I know better.” His eyes shift away, scanning the empty air beyond my shoulder, as if he’s seeing something—someone—that’s not here.
“There’s something else at play. Something… deliberate.”
The words slide down my spine like a cold blade.
I shake my head, not understanding, not wanting to. “Bentley, what does this have to do with?—”
He cuts me off, his gaze snapping back to mine. “I don’t think they were accidents,” he says, voice low and certain. “I think someone killed them. Intentionally.”
My pulse spikes, a sick rush of adrenaline heating my face. I take a step back, the ground tilting slightly under my feet.
“You think… they were murdered?” My voice comes out thinner than I want, almost childlike. And then the truth clicks into place, sharp and unforgiving. “And you think you’re next?”
His gaze hardens into something darker, heavier. “I don’t think,” he says, his voice stripped of any doubt. “I know.”
That’s why he’s here. Not just to dredge up the past. Not just to remind me of every scar I’ve been trying to bury. He’s here because he’s looking for something—penance, maybe. And answers.
The problem is, I don’t have either.
Four men committed a crime that night. Three of them are in the ground. What are the odds?
The question falls from my mouth before I can stop it.
“And do you think their murders are connected to Lincoln’s death?”
The words feel like they scorch the air between us. I mean—what are the chances? Murders. Lincoln. His name and their blood in the same breath makes my skin crawl. I believe in coincidence, sure, but this? This is tipping into something darker, something that makes the hairs rise on my arms as if the night itself is listening.
I half expect him to laugh it off, to tell me I’m being dramatic. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even flinch. The silence is worse than any denial.
My stomach twists, a coil winding tighter and tighter. I bite back the dozen other questions clawing at my throat—questions about Lincoln, about the fire, about the stranger in the mask, about everything that no one seems willing to give me straight answers to. The weight of them presses hard against my ribs, each unspoken word a bruise.
We fall back into step, walking toward my dorm, but itdoesn’t feel like walking. It feels like dragging chains through wet cement. Every step is heavier than the last. The silence presses down on me like a storm cloud about to break, thick and charged, the air tasting metallic.
I glance sideways, searching his face for anything—any crack, any tell. His jaw is tight, his eyes fixed ahead like he’s marching toward some invisible finish line only he can see. My pulse won’t slow, beating like a trapped thing in my throat.
The lamps along the path flicker in the night breeze, throwing us in and out of shadow, as though the world itself is split between what I know and what I’m not allowed to see.
I want to scream at him. I want to demand answers, claw them out if I have to. But instead, I swallow them whole, choking on the taste of my own restraint.
