Page 12 of Sinners Atone
“I’ve called you a taxi, okay?”
I think she’s going to protest, but instead, her upper arm tenses against mine.
“Wren?”
“Yeah?”
She lets out a stuttered breath. “Someone’s watching us.”
“Huh? Who?”
“I-I don’t know.”
I stare at her profile for a few seconds before following her gaze and glaring out at the night. Beyond the reach of the heat lamp, there’s nothing but black. Even when I blink a few times, I can’t make out the club’s gravel parking lot I know to be there or the row of willow trees that separate it from the quiet main road.
I slowly exhale and fold my hands together to keep them warm.
I’ve never been afraid of the dark, even though cautionary tales and horror movies teach us we should be. From a young age, we’re told it’s where bad things bloom. Where monsters live, sins multiply, and secrets are buried six feet under soft soil. I’m afraid of a lot of things—dying before I find The One,manmade objects at the bottom of the ocean, Rory when she inspects my recycling efforts—but never darkness.
Only, I can’t remember why.
“I can’t see anyone?”
Leah sniffs beside me. “Me neither, but I canfeelit.”
I’m about to ask whether she’s snorted or swallowed anything she shouldn’t have, when suddenly, I feel it too. Awareness, like a rough hand, brushes all the hairs on my body in the wrong direction. Stomach clenching, I squint until my eyes burn, scanning the abyss.
Nothing.
“You’re being silly,” I whisper, though now I’m conscious of how bright and hot it is under this heat lamp and how dark and cold it isout there.I flatten my bangs with my palm and tug at the hem of my coat.
“I can’t see anyone?”
“I bet it’s the Boogeyman.”
“Okay, now you’re definitely being silly.” My laugh shakes with relief. Drunk people say the weirdest things, honestly. Still, there’s a sense of unease clinging to my skin, and I can’t seem to shake it off. I pluck a lip gloss from my clutch to distract myself. “You’ve watched too many horror movies.”
Leah’s gaze warms my cheek. “You’ve never seen him?”
“The Boogeyman? From that film?” I coat my lips in gloss and smack them together. “Horror movies aren’t my thing. Besides, didn’t it get, like, a four on IMBD?”
“Nooo…” she slurs back. “I’m not talking about the film, I’m talking abouthim. The Boogeyman of the Devil’s Coast.”
I slowly twist on the cap of my gloss, eyes narrowing on Leah. She’s messing with me. I know everyone on the Coast, at least by nickname. Partly because it’s only a short coastline with three small towns, and partly because I’m the nosiest person on it.
“Well, what does he look like?”
She tilts her head against mine. Her sour breath makes my nose scrunch. “Like your worst nightmare.”
Then she doubles over and gives my boots a fresh lick of vomit.
Stifling my sigh, I return to consoling her while silently willing a taxi to swing into the parking lot. She’s in no state to converse, but that’s okay. I’m good at talking for two. I tell her about the cute out-of-towner who came into The Rusty Anchor last weekend, and the new therapy dogs they’ve brought into the children’s wing of the hospital. I’m halfway through rattling off my Christmas wishlist from my phone’s Notes app when headlights filter through the trees and sweep over gravel.
Oh, thank God. I’ve missed at least three ABBA songs and a party game by now. I sling Leah’s arm over my shoulder and help her step off the lit veranda and into the dark toward the waiting car. When I see who steps out of the driver’s side, I break into a grin.
Roger Burrows is the type of old man who thinks it’s super cool to be grumpy. Grunting is his second language, his beard is his fourth child, and if he isn’t complaining about sports, politics, or the state of his neighbors’ front lawns, then he’s probably taking a nap.
Sometimes, I think he’s Coastal Cab’s only employee who works outside of a Saturday night, because he’s the only one they send every time I call.
