Page 117 of Under the Bed

Deep breaths help me get a hold of myself. Once I’m ready, I pad to the apartment I think is the right one.

There’s a soft dragging sound coming from the inside.

Then, a whooshing sound, followed by abump. Bump, bump. Bump.

A body being rolled into a rug. I’m sure this is it.

I’m sure this is Kaleb’s new home. Where he’ll hide the body for the night.

I hope he’ll wait until tomorrow. Back in Professor Dempsey’s office, I asked him to stay put for the night. He wasn’t thrilled about it, but he agreed. He gave me his word.

That has to count for something.

As quietly as humanly possible, I slide down to the floor by his door. The tiles in the hall are harsh and cold against mybruised ass. Against the fresh cuts that have my dress clinging to my body.

That’s okay.

My mission takes precedence over everything else.

In a few minutes or hours, I’ll be inside Kaleb’s home. In his bed.

On top of the hottest and simultaneously coldest man I’ve ever known.

He won’t fight me on this after tonight. He’ll understand what worrying about him has turned me into. That I’m just as dark and depraved as he is.

He’ll listen. He will.

I’m not going anywhere before he does.

Kaleb hasn’t leftthe apartment since I camped out here. Hasn’t put himself at risk.

He’s been listening to me.

Rationally, I know it should comfort me.

Problem is, he’s also been awake for hours. Meaning I’ve been awake for hours.

Alone. Out here.

I’ve had too much time on my hands. After the jarring evening Kaleb and I shared, thinking for so long has done awful things to my psyche.

Worst of all are the memories I’ve long since locked away.

Memories of our five months together.

The five best months I’ve ever had. When he was my big brother. The one person who truly paid attention to me. The only one who cared.

“Shiloh,” Kaleb said my name in a strange way. An affectionate way, as much as a boy like him could be affectionate.

It was one of those afternoons that we spent in his room instead of mine. I was particularly upset since it was the first anniversary of my mom’s death since a ski accident had taken her life. She’d never been warm to me. Never hugged me or read me bedtime stories.

She had, however, defended me when Dad was in one of his moods. I missed her presence, how she’d get him to watch his favorite show instead of yelling at me. How he’d listen to her.

Those days were gone.

My memories of her were starting to fade.

Dad hadn’t even mentioned that it’d been a year at breakfast or at all.

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