Page 23 of Dark Wishes

I have to check the front door.

My eyes scrape over the entrance for evidence of forced entry; it’s still bolted. If anyone came in, they did it through a window.Someone going that far would mean—

A voice rumbles through the wall.The garage?On the balls of my feet, I creep to the backdoor, pressing my ear to the wood. Someone is talking inside. I recognize the lilt of Selena’s voice, the way she laughs.

She doesn’t sound petrified. That’s a good sign.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Nothing is wrong, or she wouldn’t sound like that.

I need to know for sure—not just that she’s alright, but what she’s doing in my garage. Turning the knob enough to make a gap, I peek inside. Selena is sitting on the bottom of the two steps with her back to me. Her head is blocking her phone, the glow of it bouncing off her cheeks and ears. She tilts the device, revealing a face—someone speaking to her.

She’s on a video call?

The distressed paranoia about her safety warps into barbed vines. They coil around my heart, my chest getting hotter, tighter.She was honest about the cops,I remind myself. Then a second later, I amend with,After I caught her. After I put her on the spot. She only stopped lying when her life was in danger.

Who is she speaking with in secret? Was she telling me the truth to hide something worse? How deep has she played me? The knife in my hand is slick with sweat; I shift it around, clutch the handle, adjusting the angle.I can’t kill her. I won’t kill her.Not unless there’s a reason.

You let your guard down before... remember what happened then?

I swallow the dryness lodged in my throat. Selena shakes her head, hair rustling, laughing softly like she doesn’t want to be heard.

This isn’t the same as back then.

But thanks to that time, I’m here, doing things that make no damn sense. That wretched memory is the whole reason Selena is under my wing. Without it, she’d have had her standoff with Sanford in that fetid hotel room, and I would never—

“I know, I know,” she groans. Flipping her fingers through her blonde hair, she moves it out of the way. I get my first clear look at the screen; an older woman is smiling fondly, her short, pale-straw hair cropped tight to her jawline. “I’ve watched that movie like ten times, Mom.”

I lower the knife to my hip.That’s her Mom?Relief pours through my limbs, making them heavy, as if the joints have become lead. Ever so carefully I crouch down, setting the knife on the rough cement of the garage floor, making sure it’s lined up in the corner where the wood meets the house. No one will notice it unless they know where to look.

It would be simple to slip back inside without her seeing me. Instead, I straighten up, grab the door, then give it a rough jiggle to make a puff of wind blow over her neck. Selena slaps a hand to the back of her head as she spins, openly gawking up at me. “Jamison!”

My eyes flick to her phone—she lowers it to her chest, eyes darting guiltily. The older woman on the other side calls out, “Selena? Are you okay?”

Selena is motionless. She’s wearing the same shirt as last night, but a new pair of jeans. She draws her knees to her chest and clutches the phone protectively. “I... hang on, Mom,” she mutters. “Jamison—”

I hold up my hand to quiet her. “I’m going to make some coffee. Finish your conversation.”

The fear is still in her eyes when I shut the door behind me.

Like I told her, I head into the kitchen to make coffee. It’s more to have something todothan because I want any. Listening to the appliance bubble, I lean on the counter andstare at the wall. Beyond it is the garage. The place Selena chose to hide.

Yes, hiding from me,I think grimly.She panicked when she realized I was there. She didn’t want to be seen talking to her mother. Why?

The coffee is finished long before Selena enters the kitchen. Her eyes stab at me, then to the white mugs on the counter. “Do you have any creamer?” Her voice is flat as old soda.

Wordlessly I open my fridge, putting the small container of half and half beside the mugs. Selena pours herself a cup of coffee, adding the creamer, stirring it until the rich brown becomes a pale tan. The spoon clinks on the edge of the ceramic in an endless cycle.

The noise ends abruptly. “I should explain,” she says.

“If you think there’s anything that has to be explained,” I reply.

Sighing, she sits at the kitchen table, coffee cradled in her hands. The steam floats around her forehead—she inhales it, like it’s giving her strength. “My mother always calls me on Monday mornings at 7, she’s very punctual since we’re only allowed an hour to talk.”

I glance at the clock blinking on my coffee pot. “But it’s 9:00 now.”

“Yeah. She lives in Alaska.”

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