Page 25 of A Pack of Pumpkins
We got groceries today, Ghost. Don’t spend money on that.
I flinch, thinking of her spending the tips she earns at that coffee shop on anything. Especially stuff for all of us.
Clara:
I’m just going to grab a couple of things. Prolly just some treats from Dandy Stuff in town.
Victor:
Grab me a pack of smokes.
I cut my gaze to him. He’s smirking down at his phone. I’m about to stand up and rip his head off, but I hardly move before the phonewhipsacross the room.
For a beat, Victor is just staring at the air where his phone had been. The rest of us stare to where it’s landed across the room.
His face flushes with rage as he looks up, then itblanks. His eyes shoot wide. The color drains from his expression.
He’s staring at something over my shoulder. I turn.
Nothing’s there.
“I-I saw—” he stutters.
A loudbang, like a door slamming upstairs, has everyone on their feet. Another bang. And another. Every door in the house is slamming shut.
Then crashing sounds. Like things being thrown.
I run for the stairs, my pack behind me. A growl rips from my throat as I take the steps two at a time. If this is the same alpha Clara scented, I’ll rip him apart for trespassing again.
The upstairs hallway is empty, every door thrown shut. The sounds are coming from Victor’s room. He lunges for the door, but it won’t open. I grab the handle and throw my weight into it. It doesn’t budge. The knob won’t even turn.
The crashing behind the door continues. Victor’s slamming his shoulder into the wood now, over and over, but it’s not even rattling. He may as well be throwing himself at a mountain.
Just as he lines up for another blow, everything stops. No more crashes. No thuds. No slamming.
Just silence.
Then… A low, dark chuckle. The door creaks slowly open on its own. No one is inside.
The mess is jaw-dropping.
Every single thing Victor owns has been tossed. His drawings are ripped and fluttering to the ground. His blankets and pillows are shredded. Clothes are strewn across the floor, leading to an open window.
Victor flings himself toward it. “No.” His strangled cry is almost heart-wrenching. “No!”
I stride to the window and peer over his shoulder. There, scattered across the ground, are the remnants of his entire computer system.
“Yikes,” Jack mutters behind us.
A tap on my shoulder. I turn. Dagan gestures to the wall above Victor’s headboard, the only piece of furniture untouched.
There, pinned above it, is the luminous face of Clara. A black and white sketch. Victor’s style. She’s in an outfit I saw her wear to work a few days ago. Coffee pot in one hand. A pumpkin barrette holding half her hair up. She’s not looking at the viewer, she’s looking slightly off-frame. At someone. Her face is full of laughter and light. It makes my chest ache.
And then I panic.
Why isthisthe only thing left untouched in the room?
I pull out my phone and start dialing. It rings a few times. Then goes to voicemail, so I text instead.
