Page 30 of Haven't Killed in Years
“It’s corn syrup.” I grabbed the sponge from the sink.
He hovered back by the door. “Next for what?”
“How should I know?” I grunted. “Grab the paper towels, will you?”
He huffed but stomped off toward the kitchen when I ignored his protest.
I closed the door once it was clean and took a fistful of dirty paper towels into the kitchen while Porter flopped down on the couch.
“I don’t know why you won’t tell me what’s going on,” he said. “It’s sketchy.”
“You’re the cat killer,” I yelled from the kitchen, eager to deflect.
“I wasn’t trying to kill it,” he moaned. “Is that what they think of me? Does my family think I’m a sociopath? That’s what they say, right? People who kill animals are sociopaths.”
“I thought you weren’t trying to kill it,” I reminded him.
“I know, but what if my sister hadn’t woken up? What if I had held him in there for too long?”
I moved into the doorway so he could see me. “I guess we’ll never know.”
“Ugh,” he grumbled. “You aren’t helping.”
I went to the couch and sat beside him so he could lean his head on my shoulder. I could tell he was craving comfort and for me to tell him he wasn’t the next Jack the Ripper. “How do you feel now?” I asked.
“Like a total monster.”
“See?” I said. “Sociopaths don’t feel bad.” I scratched his freshly buzzed scalp, a comfortable affection, my touchstone to humanity. “I have great news for you.”
He looked up at me—doe-eyed, desperate.
“You’re just a dumbass who needs to cool it on the party drugs.”
Porter shook his head at me, a judgmental smile escaping—a familiar reaction to my nagging tendencies—and it was a moment of relief for both of us. He relaxed his head against the back of the couch before his phone lit up and he lurched forward to grab it.
“Who is it?” I asked.
“Eric.”
“Who’s Eric?”
“He’s one of the guys. He’s cool.”
“Don’t answer it,” I said.
He silenced his phone and threw it down on the table, nuzzling back into my shoulder with a heavy sigh.
We were silent for a minute. If only it had stayed that way.
“I have to tell you something,” said Porter. “I wrote a letter to Abel Haggerty.”
I jerked away from him, forcing him to sit up before falling.
“It’s not a big deal,” he insisted. “He hasn’t responded or anything.”
“What did you say?”God dammit, Porter.I should never have brought him on that tour. This was my fault. He was clearly looking for a place to fit in, a group to belong to, and this was not the right one. It was dangerous for him and increasingly inconvenient for me.
“Nothing, really. I said that I was a friend of Elyse’s. Dominic says he always asks about her. I want to see if he’ll write back.”
