Page 86 of Creeping Lily
Too late, I realize I’ve stepped in it.
Her head turns slowly, her eyes locking on mine like a predator sizing up prey. The silence stretches—thick, loaded—until it’s almost painful. Then, without warning, she unleashes. Her voice lashes out like a whip, sharp and searing, every word flung at me with the precision of someone who’s been storing this up for far too long. The venom in her tone burns hotter than any slap could, and I can feel each syllable sink in, leaving its sting behind.
“And what is it exactly that you do?”
“You remember that deal we made back at the house?” I ask her.
She remembers, all right. I watch her bite her lip, dying inside to continue, but she decides to turn away from me and say nothing more.
It’s me turning to the radio when the strains of Boys of Summer comes on, and as though on auto pilot whenever I hear this song, I flip the volume until the sound is vibrating through the car and my fingers are strumming on the steering wheel.
Lily lowers her window, and I feel the frantic breeze as it envelopes us. I watch as she throws her arm out to feel the wind, then lays her head back against the headrest, her eyes closed. Her head dances back and forth as she gets lost in the moment, wordlessly mouthing the lyrics as the song plays. I don’t know what she’s thinking about, but for a moment I’m transported to a time and place far removed from this moment. This song holds so much power over me, but for all the wrong reasons.
She startles abruptly when I switch the radio off and turns to me with wide eyes.
“We’re almost there.”
“Where’s there?” she asks.
“Nice try, Lily.”
45
TITAN
“Remember our agreement,” I say, as I hop out of the car. My voice is low but firm, a quiet reminder of the boundaries I’ve set. Or rather, the boundaries I’ve enforced. She earned the privilege of sitting uncuffed in the car, but it hinges on her compliance. If she tries to leave, it won’t end here. I’ll find her and bring her back, no matter how far she runs. That’s the part Lily Snow, with all her cleverness, can’t seem to grasp—she belongs to me now. Fully. Irrevocably. And I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure she stays where she belongs.
“I remember,” she murmurs, her tone subdued, barely audible over the thrum of my pulse.
I pause at the driver’s side door before shutting it, my eyes lingering on her. The way she refuses to look directly at me stirs something unexpected in my chest, like the uneven swing of a pendulum. Her profile, illuminated by the soft glow of the fading sun, locks itself in my memory. The delicate curve of her pout presses against my resolve.
“We’ll get something to eat as soon as I’m done,” I say, offering a tentative peace. A crumb of normalcy to wipe away that subtle, heartbreaking defiance on her lips.
The stone path crunches beneath my boots as I make my way to the back door of the weathered house. It stands solitary and quiet, its exterior worn by decades of rain and neglect. The door is a relic of another time—its wooden frame cracked and faded, with glass panels clouded by age and concealed by dingy, stained curtains. They hang limp, heavy with the weight of time.
I knock, my knuckles rapping against the brittle wood. The silence stretches for a beat too long before the curtain twitches aside. A shadowed face peers out briefly, eyes glinting with curiosity, before the fabric falls back into place. The door creaks open, revealing a woman in her forties. Her hand rests on the doorframe, fingers curling into the chipped paint, while her other hand finds its place on her hip. Her posture speaks of a sharp-edged confidence, though the lines on her face suggest she’s weathered more storms than most.
She narrows her eyes at me, her gaze flicking briefly toward the car in the driveway. Then her lips curl into a slow, knowing smile, one that promises more questions than answers.
“Well, darlin’, how can I help you, gorgeous?” she drawls, her faux Southern accent dripping with syrupy charm. Her brown hair is teased into a towering beehive, and the layers of makeup on her face do little to mask the passage of time.
A hollow laugh escapes me—low, cold, and devoid of humor—as I push the door open and step inside, cutting off whatever pretense of hospitality she might have had.
“He—” she starts, but she doesn’t get the chance to finish. I pull the syringe from my pocket and jab it into her neck with practiced precision. Her eyes widen in shock, a garbled sound slipping from her lips before her body goes slack in my arms. I ease her to the floor just as I hear the shuffle of footsteps deeper inside the house.
“Sheila?” a man’s voice calls out, sharp with concern. Thesound grows louder as he approaches. I don’t bother hiding—I step away from her limp form, waiting.
When he storms into view, his expression twists in a mix of confusion and panic as he spots his wife crumpled on the ground. “What the—?” he starts, but he doesn’t get any further. He lunges at me, wild and desperate, but his movements are clumsy, fueled by rage rather than skill.
I meet him with a swift uppercut, the impact snapping his head back. He drops like a sack of potatoes, hitting the floor with a dull thud.
It always surprises me how soft these predators are. They’re formidable when preying on the vulnerable, but face-to-face with someone stronger, they crumble.
Larry Shine.The name is burned into my brain like a hot iron, seared so deep I’ll never forget it.
Goliath doesn’t go after whispers or rumors—we move on facts. And the facts against Larry and his wife, Sheila, are undeniable. Shallow graves hidden on their property. Too many children who never made it home because of them. The kind of evil that can’t be forgiven, can’t be undone. They’ve signed their own death warrants.
On the floor, Larry groans and shifts, his body curling before he pushes himself upright. His face twists into pure hatred, his lip curling like he’s about to bite.
