Page 10 of Dark Wishes

“I could use the fresh air and exercise. I’ve been stuck in cars and tiny buildings with you for almost two days.” As I talk, I catch his eyes narrowing. “Why are you acting weird?” I ask.

His hand falls from the banister, tucking behind his back. Now he looks... guilty. “Fine. I’ll go with you.”

“There’s no need,” I say, stepping down until I’m at his eye level on the stair above him. “Your neighborhood is like something out of a Hallmark movie. Unless you’re still paranoid I’ll vanish into the night? Bring the cops down on you?”

He turns away, walking stiffly around a corner. “Let’s get this over with.”

I quickly grab my backpack and chase him to the other side of the house. The front door is a large, solid rectangle with a small device near the hinge; a ring camera. On both sides of the door are large windows, but the curtains are drawn shut, blocking out the sun. Only the recessed lights are glowing.

Jamison rips a black, leather jacket off a hanger on the wall, similar to the one he left in the kitchen. He shoves his arms in the holes, glaring at me the whole time. “You’re sure this can’t wait until the morning?”

“I don’t know, ask me in a ruder tone and see what I say.” We eye each other, but it’s not a fair standoff, because he won’t tell mewhywe’re battling. “This not trusting me thing—”

“It’s not that,” he grumbles.

“Then what’s with the mood? Pouting because I said no more kissing?”

Ignoring my question, he crouches down by a small bookshelf near the coat rack. I don’t see what he does, but I think he’s grabbing something. Back on his feet he opens the front door and motions me to go through.

I debate getting the light cardigan out of my own from my backpack, but the weather outside is refreshing in a welcoming way. The sun hasn’t set yet, just tinged the cloudless sky lavender and orange. Jamison shuts the door behind us; I hear the lock turn. “Follow me,” he says, hurrying down the pale grey sidewalk.

Chapter Four

Selena

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The path from the front door curves like a snake up to a gate. It’s a mini duplicate of what he drove his car through. I take the opportunity to scan his front yard; the grass is lush, he must have a gardener because I can’t picture him keeping up with the work. There are a few fig trees lining the property. Massive hedges rise high enough to block my view of the neighbors on either side.

At the gate, he taps the buttons on a playing-card size digital pad. He holds it open, allowing me onto the sidewalk. “Thanks,” I say, sidling around him with as wide of a berth as possible.

The street has a stillness to it. The rows of arched lamps aren’t lit yet, but the moment is on the horizon as the hour crawls towards 7. Every driveway we pass has a gate like Jamison’s; there aren’t any vehicles parked on the skinny street.I bet there’s a local law against street parking here. Typical rich jerk behavior.

Jamison’s eyes flick side to side, surveying everything around.Am I crazy, or is he searching for something?A car honks; he cranes his neck to look.Nope. Not crazy. But what could he be looking for?

“Is something wrong?” I ask.

Jamison focuses on me fully. “Just on the lookout for any cops.”

“You think they’re actively hunting me?” Unease rolls up my spine as I scan the sidewalks.

“If you’re a suspect, then every cop in the city has your photo right now. They don’t need a warrant to drag you in, either. Just a petty arrest they can make up on the spot.”

My tongue tastes like ash. I wipe it over my lips, drying them out instead of moistening them. “No jaywalking, got it.”

He nods in an exaggerated way. His body presses me to the inside of the sidewalk, placing him closest to the street. His hands remain deep in his pockets. To an outsider, we look like a couple on an evening stroll.

“You live here long?” I ask.

“A while.”

What a non-answer.Frowning, I gaze down at the crop of buildings coming into view at the base of the hill. The height we’re at creates a lovely view of the distant Getty Villa, as well as the winding mess of highways. The traffic is light on the hill, but the two-lane row below is glowing with headlights. “Everyone must be getting home from work.”

“There’s always congestion at this intersection,” he says in an annoyed tone. His shoulders are pushed higher, eyes narrowed; he’s getting more irritated. Why, though? At the base of the street, he ushers me to one side. “Here, this is the pharmacy.”

I let him nudge me through the glass doors as they slide apart. The Walgreens is cool, the AC turned on too high. I’m boiling with nervous heat so I’m thankful.

Jamison tails me through the store. There are too many aisles here, all of them packed with products, but I stay on target. “This should work,” I say, thumbing over the boxes of silver toner. I look up, noticing he’s not paying attention to me—his eyes are focused on the end of the aisle.

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