Page 10 of Dark Wishes (Dark Contract #2)

Jamison

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In shadow, good and evil share the same face.

I don’t mind the dark. It’s always been the great equalizer, something I could rely on to keep me safe, or allow me to do my work. Early on, I found killing in the dark was easier on my conscience. Once you see something, your mind never allows you to forget it.

Things done in darkness can be denied.

This time is different. I want the shadows to dissipate, allowing me to gaze on the evidence of last night. The urge to see Selena sprawled beside me is immense—worse than hunger or dehydration.

If I don’t look... it will be like it never happened.

That sentence has been comforting to me in the past; a shield to help me pretend that twisted, terrible deeds never occurred. Not by me. Never because of me. But tonight, it makes me restless.

I have to see her.

Selena’s breathing is perpetual as the tide.

Each inhale a gentle three count, her exhale a sharp two.

I’ve been listening to it for an hour. I can’t bear the torture anymore.

Rolling to one side, I fish my phone from the pocket of my pants where I discarded them by the bed—the same place I slipped the condom from.

I’ll put it on the lowest setting so I don’t wake her.

I freeze, noticing a message on my screen from Tusk.

T: Update?

Angling my phone so the blue light cascades across Selena’s sleeping face, I take in the glorious sight of her long neck. The blanket is loose around her stomach, her boxy shirt crinkled across her chest, exposing her left breast. The dusky nipple tempts the feral core of my being.

Across her right top-most rib is a black streak, the shape of a capitol letter F if you cut the bottom too short. She has a tattoo? I can’t tell what it’s supposed to be. I’ve seen a lot of ink, but this symbol is meaningless. It looks unfinished, as if she gave up minutes into getting the needle.

Glancing at my phone, I read Tusk’s message one more time.

The responsible thing would be to tell him what’s happened so far.

Rory might have contacted him out of caution—or to gossip, as he loves to do.

Maybe Tusk is just curious. Or nervous, I think solemnly.

He agreed to the contract, but I know how he is.

Selena is sleeping peacefully. She has no clue Tusk would prefer I kill her.

Things done in the dark can be denied.

I power my phone down, bathing the room in black again. The blue screen lingers in my vision like a phantom. I flip over to watch the ceiling; the blue imprint drags in a delayed sway, refusing to go away, Tusk’s type-font letters burning with his question.

Even when I don’t look at her, I feel her.

Gently, I slide my fingers across the blanket between us. I know where her hand is—I memorized its position like a snapshot in my mind. My fingers curl over hers; she twitches, I brace myself, preparing for her to wake. If she does, I’ll yank my hand away and pretend I’m asleep.

Selena’s breathing returns to a three count.

Ever so softly I wrap my hand around hers, enjoying the silkiness of her skin, the knobs of her knuckles. They’re nothing like mine in shape or texture or deeds. These are innocent hands.

I'll make sure they stay that way.

***

I’m awake before I open my eyes. The hint of color shines through my lids, the heavy curtains in my bedroom allowing a slip of light around the edges of the window frame.

What time is it? I’d meant to go downstairs to my couch, but I’d passed out instead.

I’ve never been this drained in—I can’t recall.

I’m a light sleeper by habit. Crashing hard with business left unfinished is new.

I twist onto my elbow, expecting to see Selena, but finding a wrinkled section of empty bed.

Jerking upwards I throw my covers aside. “Selena?” I say out loud. There’s no response from the master bathroom—the door is cracked wide; I see the shower and toilet and no sign of her.

Where the fuck did she go?

A taste like battery acid rises along my throat and tongue. In just my boxers I march out of my bedroom, striding with purpose down the hall, the stairs, searching every room for Selena.

Each square foot I explore increases my heartrate. The pit in my guts is sucking my hope away, building my panic until I’m running through the halls.

It happened. I knew it could happen.

Ever since that day, I knew this was possible.

I snatch a knife off the butcher block in the kitchen.

It’s not my preferred weapon, but I left the bedroom so hastily I didn’t grab my normal blade.

The gun from last night is under my pillow upstairs.

Her gun is still in my jacket on the granite island—an option, but I don’t know that weapon well enough to trust it.

I have to check the front door.

My eyes scrape over the entrance for evidence of forced entry; it’s still bolted. If anyone came in, they did it through a window. Someone going that far would mean—

A voice rumbles through the wall. The garage? On the balls of my feet, I creep to the backdoor, pressing my ear to the wood. Someone is talking inside. I recognize the lilt of Selena’s voice, the way she laughs.

She doesn’t sound petrified. That’s a good sign.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Nothing is wrong, or she wouldn’t sound like that.

I need to know for sure—not just that she’s alright, but what she’s doing in my garage.

Turning the knob enough to make a gap, I peek inside.

Selena is sitting on the bottom of the two steps with her back to me.

Her head is blocking her phone, the glow of it bouncing off her cheeks and ears.

She tilts the device, revealing a face—someone speaking to her.

She’s on a video call?

The distressed paranoia about her safety warps into barbed vines.

They coil around my heart, my chest getting hotter, tighter.

She was honest about the cops, I remind myself.

Then a second later, I amend with, After I caught her.

After I put her on the spot. She only stopped lying when her life was in danger.

Who is she speaking with in secret? Was she telling me the truth to hide something worse? How deep has she played me? The knife in my hand is slick with sweat; I shift it around, clutch the handle, adjusting the angle. I can’t kill her. I won’t kill her. Not unless there’s a reason.

You let your guard down before... remember what happened then?

I swallow the dryness lodged in my throat. Selena shakes her head, hair rustling, laughing softly like she doesn’t want to be heard.

This isn’t the same as back then.

But thanks to that time, I’m here, doing things that make no damn sense. That wretched memory is the whole reason Selena is under my wing. Without it, she’d have had her standoff with Sanford in that fetid hotel room, and I would never—

“I know, I know,” she groans. Flipping her fingers through her blonde hair, she moves it out of the way. I get my first clear look at the screen; an older woman is smiling fondly, her short, pale-straw hair cropped tight to her jawline. “I’ve watched that movie like ten times, Mom.”

I lower the knife to my hip. That’s her Mom?

Relief pours through my limbs, making them heavy, as if the joints have become lead.

Ever so carefully I crouch down, setting the knife on the rough cement of the garage floor, making sure it’s lined up in the corner where the wood meets the house.

No one will notice it unless they know where to look.

It would be simple to slip back inside without her seeing me. Instead, I straighten up, grab the door, then give it a rough jiggle to make a puff of wind blow over her neck. Selena slaps a hand to the back of her head as she spins, openly gawking up at me. “Jamison!”

My eyes flick to her phone—she lowers it to her chest, eyes darting guiltily. The older woman on the other side calls out, “Selena? Are you okay?”

Selena is motionless. She’s wearing the same shirt as last night, but a new pair of jeans. She draws her knees to her chest and clutches the phone protectively. “I... hang on, Mom,” she mutters. “Jamison—”

I hold up my hand to quiet her. “I’m going to make some coffee. Finish your conversation.”

The fear is still in her eyes when I shut the door behind me.

Like I told her, I head into the kitchen to make coffee. It’s more to have something to do than because I want any. Listening to the appliance bubble, I lean on the counter and stare at the wall. Beyond it is the garage. The place Selena chose to hide.

Yes, hiding from me, I think grimly. She panicked when she realized I was there. She didn’t want to be seen talking to her mother. Why?

The coffee is finished long before Selena enters the kitchen. Her eyes stab at me, then to the white mugs on the counter. “Do you have any creamer?” Her voice is flat as old soda.

Wordlessly I open my fridge, putting the small container of half and half beside the mugs. Selena pours herself a cup of coffee, adding the creamer, stirring it until the rich brown becomes a pale tan. The spoon clinks on the edge of the ceramic in an endless cycle.

The noise ends abruptly. “I should explain,” she says.

“If you think there’s anything that has to be explained,” I reply.

Sighing, she sits at the kitchen table, coffee cradled in her hands. The steam floats around her forehead—she inhales it, like it’s giving her strength. “My mother always calls me on Monday mornings at 7, she’s very punctual since we’re only allowed an hour to talk.”

I glance at the clock blinking on my coffee pot. “But it’s 9:00 now.”

“Yeah. She lives in Alaska.”

My brain twinges instantly. “That’s why you keep your phone’s time set behind.” I’d wondered about that little mystery since she caught me with her phone. None of the possible reasons were this.