Don't Be Scared

Instead, to my absolute surprise, he doesn’t. Phoenix waits, watching me pay and take my bag with all the judgment of God himself, causing the back of my neck to prickle as I try not to look like it bothers me.

Then, when I turn, I see he’s walking away, as if all he’d wanted was to make me squirm under his scrutiny. But I’m not letting him get away that easily. Not with my curiosity burning at the back of my throat so sharply that I can taste it.

Not when there are so many things I want to ask them, and only about half of them are concerningmurder. My steps are quicker than his to match his long strides, and I catch the door that he doesn’t bother to hold open for me, as if giving me a very clear, silent warning about following him.

But I don’t care. I follow Phoenix anyway, needing about twenty seconds to catch up to him on the deserted street where houses and businesses meet and mesh, where the neighborhoods of Hollow Bridge end and downtown begins.

“Are you mad at me?” It’s not the question I’d thought I’d ask. It’s not even the first one that had come to mind. But it is the one that still keeps me up, especially now that I can see Phoenix’s dark gaze that pins mine, and the shrewd coolness he has every time we interact.

I don’t realize that I’m holding onto his arm until he looks pointedly down at it, and I feel his biceps flex under my fingers, another reminder of what I’m doing and what he wants me to do. Not that I let go. He can’t frighten me into letting go, and now that the question is out of my lips…I don’t even want to take it back.

Because I need toknow.

I’ve needed to know for years.

“Mad at you?” Phoenix tilts his head to the side in a motion that strikes me as cute, his eyes narrowing. “Because of the sugar thing?”

“No,” I tell him flatly, unimpressed. There’s no way he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, but I don’t expect the sudden ache behind my eyes that has me pressing them closed tight.

God, this has been such a bad Halloween season, and it’s barely started.

“For Daisy,” I force myself to say, the words grating up my throat like blades. “Are you mad at me for letting Daisy—”

I definitely don’t expect him to cover my mouth with one of his long-fingered, tattoo-covered hands. I don’t expect his fingers to curl around my face, his palm warm against my lips. “Stop,” Phoenix murmurs, in a voice that’s both so dreadfully cold and yet laced with a heat that I don’t understand.

Is it anger? Annoyance or severe frustration? His hand gentles against my mouth, and I have a wild urge to lick him that I thankfully don’t act on.

“I have never been mad at you for that,” he tells me in a calm, cool tone that doesn’t match the look in his eyes. “Notever, Bailey. Do you hear me?”

I nod, and he slides his hand from my lips, dropping it to his side again as he just watches me. I don’t get it, nor do I understand why it’s so easy to stare at him, to meet his dark gaze, to ignore the nipping breeze that catches at my fingers and throat.

And yet again, I can’t help but think that it’s him. ThatPhoenixis the one killing people, and that the accidents aren’t, well, accidents. After all, I’ve never seen him the moment a murder was committed, have I?

Unless Jack was killed last night, instead of earlier in the day yesterday. But even that seems unlikely, given that his body wasn’t dumped in the middle of town or on the sheriff’s doorstep. Surely it took them hours and hours to find him.

“Are you sorry about their deaths?” I turn as he walks away from me, though I don’t expect him to stop mid-step before relaxing onto his heels with a sigh. “Jack’s and Emily’s—”

“I know who you mean,” he breaks in smoothly, still not turning to look at me. The silence stretches between us, until the birds in the orange and red trees overhead are the only things I can hear. I’m about to either ask again or walk away when Phoenix says, in a voice as clear as can be, “There is nothing in this world that could make me sorry about them. But whether I’m sorry or not doesn’t give you a reason to ask the next question that I’msureyou’re just dying to ask. Aren’t you, Bailey?”

My hands clench and unclench at my sides, the handle of the bag around my wrist, and I feel like the wind is picking up, creating a small pocket of air that drags me forward. Closer to my dead best friend’s older brother that has always,alwaysknown me better than he should.

“I don’t—”

“Yeah.” He turns and glances at me with eyes as forgiving as black ice. “Let’s maybe keep it that way, don’t you think?” Phoenix doesn’t give me the opportunity to answer, though I’m not sure what’s left to even say.He starts walking again, as nonchalantly as if none of this had ever happened, and I wasn’t about to accuse him of being a murderer.

But what if I had?The thought is a whisper as I turn and walk away, back around the store to step foot back on my street and toward my house with my bag of orange juice and sugar clenched between my fingers. My eyes stray to the side, back to the wall with the bits of writing, and fall on a splotch of black that looks suspiciously, ominously, like a sideways crow.

Chapter12

My fingers flex under me against the hardness of the bench, curling around the metal slat closest to the edge. Around me, wind whips my hair into a mess around my face, though I try not to give it more thought than I have to.

I don’t know why I’m here again. It’s not like I’m going to magically find some bit of evidence that shows me who the killer is, or at least, who the killerisn’t. Especially in the daylight. Nothing happens when the sun is up, and nothing ever happens in the Hollow Bridge community park.

With a groan I get to my feet, fingers coming up to zip and unzip the jacket I wear over my tee. It’s not nearly heavy enough—a trend I’ve come to accept as one of my flaws in dressing for the weather—but it’s better than nothing.

“You’re so dumb, Bailey,” I can’t help but sigh, looking at the bench where Phoenix and Rory had sat a few nights ago. “No inspiration is going to strike, and you’re not about to magically learn to see the past or future.” Though, that would be pretty cool in a lot of situations.

I hesitate still, stuffing my hands in my pocket before mentally relenting. I should just go home, if my entire plan is to stare at a bench and hope for the best.