My mom. The two little words I thought I’d burned and buried. “I don’t know.”
He nods, spends a moment checking the bike’s fuel line. “It bothers me that you don’t tell me the truth. You had your mom, Carson, the guys from school . . . all this stuff and you didn’t tell me any of it. It makes me feel like I don’t matter.”
“I didn’t tell you because you do matter.”
“You lied.”
“I didn’t—it wasn’t—”
It was. I stare at Griff and the knowledge stains me. “I’m sorry, Griff. I was afraid.”
His eyes jerk to mine. “Why? I know what you are in the dark, Wick. I’ve seen it and you’ve seen me. I want you for you.”
“I didn’t . . . think you would.” I hiccup and cover my mouth with my sleeve. I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry. “I was . . . ashamed and I know how much I have to lose and . . .”
I want you for you.
I hiccup again, smile behind my balled-up hand. “How have we never talked about this?”
“You never wanted to talk about it. I was waiting for you to be ready, but you’re dealing with all that PTSD shit and you’re healing—”
“You think I’m damaged?”
He says nothing and the nothing says everything. “It isn’t flattering that you think I’m fragile.”
“It’s not . . . okay, yeah.” He forks one hand through his dark hair, spiking it. “You’re not fragile. This shit does . . . damage you, Wicked. I can’t keep watching that.”
“You won’t have to anymore.” I drop my hand, grin even though tears are still crowding my eyes. “He won’t be able to touch me ever again—not if I upload that virus.”
Griff rubs one palm against his chest. “You kill me, you know that? I can’t breathe when you smile.”
He sounds pissed and sad . . . and amazed.
“Can we try again?” I whisper.
“I never stopped.” Griff cups my face in his hand. “No matter how this turns out, Wicked, remember I was the lucky one. When it comes to you . . . I am so lucky.”
Griff touches his lips to mine and I press into him, realizing that this kiss might be what I really came for. I hook my hands into his shirt, feeling his breathing go uneven and fast. I will fix this.
No matter the cost.
I watch Griff drive off, and once I can no longer hear his bike’s exhaust, I head inside. I’m staring at my feet, thinking first about the Bays and then about Carson. I don’t even notice how the porch is dark until I’m up the steps, reaching for the door handle.
And that’s when I see it.
Someone’s nailed a dead rat to my front door.
22
Move.
I can’t.
Move now.
I wrench my feet forward and check the front door’s locks. They don’t look damaged. I check the windows; the inside rooms don’t look disturbed.
The porch light is out though. I feel around in the lantern and the bulb still seems to be intact. Someone must have loosened it, using the shadows for better coverage. I give it a twist and the yellow light returns to life. I’m thrilled until I realize I am now up close and personal with the rat. Thanks to the newly restored light, I can see my tiny reflection in its glassy eyes and the splash of blood on the welcome mat. Uck.
What the hell is going on here? If it’s a scare tactic, it worked. I’m scared.
I’m also pissed.
I am so going to find out who did this.
After I get rid of the evidence. Bren and Lily will be home soon. There’s no explanation in the world that will dismiss this, which means . . .
I stare at the rat, shudder. I’m going to have to touch it. Worse, I’m going to have to un-impale it from the door. Using what? Not my bare hands, that’s for damn sure.
I unlock the front door and dump my stuff in the hallway. It takes me a minute, but I find some of Bren’s Williams-Sonoma oven mitts in a drawer. I stare at them for a bit, trying to decide if I’m really going to do it. I think you go to rich people hell for stuff like this.
Screw it. I put on both gloves and try not to squeal like a three-year-old girl when I pull the rat off the door. Even through the heavy fabric, I can feel its bones and muscles give beneath my fingers. Giving, not breaking free. Shit. The body doesn’t want to move. I’m going to have to pull harder.
I fight a dry heave and yank. Hard. The body gives, coming away from the door and into my hands.
“Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod!” I whimper, realizing I should’ve brought a trash bag and now I have nowhere to put the rat. I carry it into Bren’s office, dump the body in her wastepaper basket, and pitch the gloves in after it.
If Bren asks about the oven mitts, I’ll pretend to know nothing. It won’t be much of a stretch. I avoid the kitchen at all costs.
After bundling up the body and burying it in the outside garbage bin, I clean everything: the porch, the mat, the door. I use enough bleach to kill every brain cell I have. Even after I finish, I still feel dirty.