Page 92 of What Happened on Roslyn Street?
He turns his head to the side, his eyes meeting mine with desperation. My heart stops. He’s afraid. Of course, he’s afraid; a hungry vampire towers over him, and she’s salivating from her fangs.
“Wait!” The words come from my lips without permission.
I’m possessed, a softness still curled up in my heart for Caldwell… and it makes me sick. I tear my gaze from him, turning to Margaux.
“Why should I?” Margaux asks.
“We should call the investigators,” I say. “This isn’t… you don’t want to…Idon’t want you to regret this.”
“Regret doing away with the man who killed Poppy?” She scoffs. “I would never. I’m not that weak.”
“You told me you’ve never killed someone before,” I say softly.
“I—” She falters. “Well… that was the truth, but I think this is a good first time, don’t you?”
I shake my head.
As much as I want to see Poppy avenged, it can’t be done if it hurts Margaux in the process. Margaux is strong, but that doesn’t mean she’s a killer.
I can see in the way her expression softens, as if she’s looking to me for permission.
Our guards are down. It’s the perfect time to strike, but Caldwell remains on the floor, with his hands lifted in surrender.
“If I may?” he asks, speaking for the first time.
Margaux and I exchange anuneasy look.
We shouldn’t let him talk; we don’t know the extent of his magic, and we know for a fact he’s not to be trusted. But… as it tends to, my curiosity gets the best of me.
“Make it quick.” I turn to Caldwell and fix him with a blank look. “These may be your final words.” A bluff, of course, but we must do something to keep the upper hand.
Trembling like a leaf, he reaches into his pocket and takes out the watch I’ve come to know so well. With his back still pressed to the floor, he lifts it and lets it dangle over his head.
“If you’re willing to hear me out,” he says, “I can prove I’m not the killer.”
Chapter Twenty
“Why do you have so many ropes on hand?”
In the weirdest turn of events imaginable, I find myself watching warily as Margaux ties Caldwell to a chair.
“You don’t want to know.” She pulls the ropes at his wrists tighter.
The pocket watch—now in my hands—burns with each of her movements. I don’t want to do this, but against my better judgment, I agree. At the very least, it can keep him busy until someone comes to take him off our hands.
“But I’ll tell you anyway,” she says. “One word: werewolves.”
I hate seeing Caldwell like this. He’s a worn-down shell of himself. Doubts creep in.
No matter how pathetic he looks, there’s nothing to explain the blood on his hands or the way he held the mask. Those are the small things I cling to, but the truth is…
I don’t know how to feel. I’m holding my breath as Iwait for answers, and it’s too easy to let Margaux take the lead.
“Werewolves.” I echo blandly. “Do ropes work to keep them in place?”
Ropes aren’t the strongest restraint.
“No,” she says. “We learned that the hard way, but… these are the last of the ropes from the wolf fiasco. They should work just fine for a witch.”
