Page 101 of Bound to a Killer
There’s no point in trying to spin another lie. She’ll catch on, just like she did with the funeral story. I can’t lie again. Not to her.
It’ll only push us farther apart, the lies tangling, strings twisted and knotted so heavily that we can’t even see each other through them.
But it’s not like I can tell her the complete truth, either.
“So…” she says slowly, brows dipping, eyes narrowing as she studies me, arms crossed over her chest. “If hooking up with an older guy is what you’re worried about telling me, you don’t have to sweat it. I get the daddy appeal of it all. Smashing Jayce’s phone after he caught him going after you? So hot.”
“Clara,” I manage, my pulse climbing as the words edge past the lump in my throat. If Jayce told her, then that means he could’ve told anybody else.
Mischief glints in her eyes, grinning like she’s uncovered my secret. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
My heartbeat soars to a dangerous limit as I jerk forward, hands twisted into the duvet as my thoughts start to circle back, catching up. “Wait, what else did Jayce tell you? You don’t think he told any of the teachers or staff anything, do you?”
She scrunches her chin. “Um, I don’t think so.”
The pressure releases from my chest as I breathe out, the points of my fingers and toes already numb from the suddenpossibility of him being reported. He almost risked himself in order to help me.
“It’d bruise his ego too much to say anything, so I wouldn’t worry about it. The only reason I knew was because I wouldn’t get off his back when I saw him without you.”
I can’t believe I’m even thinking it, butthank God for that. Everything will be fine. The tension eases from my neck and spine.
She knocks her knuckles into my shoulder to get my attention again, her grin curling back into place. “So, how old is he?”
My brows pull together. “I-I’m actually not sure. I think… twenties?”
I’d never given our ages much thought beyond the first time I saw him. Everything that followed was too chaotic, too charged with fear and panic for survival to leave room for anything else. He didn’t seemthatold to me. Though his stern features, towering height, and intimidating tattoos did highlight the difference a bit more.
She tongues her cheek, her gaze dipping for a second before she lets out a soft, amused huff, like she expected a juicier answer. “Well, either way, you have my approval. Just so you know. I never judge.”
My throat swells. Instead of attempting to say something back, I nod with a slight stretch across my face that’s supposed to resemble a smile, though I know there’s no heart behind it. I haven’t outright lied to my best friend, but I know the truth. She’d never be able to look at me the same if she knew who I’m covering for, or worse, that I have undeniable feelings for him.
The linesinside my sketchbook grow harder to make out as the light filtering through my window dims, casting longshadows across the page. It’s time to set down my pencil, let the night’s quiet take over, and start winding down for bed.
I’m still in my outfit from earlier, a flowy, ivory, babydoll top and fitted jeans with a butterfly embroidery stitched on one of the pockets. Time has barely registered since Clara left. My mind has sunk into its usual evening spiral, chasing the joy of watching scattered scribbles evolve into full-fledged rooms with layered, multidimensional designs.
Losing track of time like this isn’t unusual for me, especially on days off from the cafe. Becca cut down my hours recently, and while I typically would’ve protested, lately I don’t mind. My focus slips too easily behind the espresso machine anyway, so I know it was the right move. There were only so many times I could get scolded for milk bubbling over the pitcher, burning my hands, and making a mess before something had to change.
But at home, my thoughts can drift uninterrupted all they want, although I usually fall into a pretty steady trance whenever my nose digs into my sketchpad, my worries slipping away as I vanish into a world of interior design and creation. Nothing else matters besides what I’m pouring onto the page. On paper, I’m free. On paper, I can finally dare to dream big.
I let out a yawn and snap my sketchbook shut, tucking the pencil into the spiral binding. Rising to my feet with a stretch, I twist side to side as my spine cracks in protest. A faint rush of relief follows, blood finally returning to my limbs after hours of being curled over in bed.
My eyes drift toward the closet as I roll my neck, still halfway stretched, searching for something more comfortable to change into, when a loud, abrupt bang echoes from the door downstairs.
My heart leaps in my throat as I snap upright, then stand frozen as a corpse, ears straining. Another series of bangs makes me flinch. Concerned, I reach for my phone at the foot of the bed, snatching it off the duvet before creeping out myroom, hovering over the side of the railing to look at the door below.
It shudders with each blow, the hinges rattling before the knob begins to twist. A wave of hot, white panic shoots down my legs, numbing them in place.
Someone’s trying to break in.
My fingers tremble as I swipe open my phone, ready to dial 911. The door suddenly swings open on the last bang, before I even get the chance, and I yelp, almost losing my grip on the phone.
Stumbling through the doorway is a frail, thin-boned woman, her dark knotted strands of hair obscuring her face as she’s kicked inside by someone behind her. She crashes to the floor with another sharp cry that shoots straight into my chest, coiling around my racing heart. I recognize her instantly.
“Mom?” I force out, my throat closing up, voice strained.
I completely forgot she was back. We haven’t seen or spoken to each other since the day she came back with my car.
She doesn’t look up, instead scrambling on her hands and knees, sobbing, as a much larger figure raises a muddied boot to her back, pressing her forward to make room for himself to step inside.
