Page 78 of The Naturals

“What do you want me to do?” I asked, pulling my feet out of the pool and standing up so that we were eye to eye.

“You can start by getting rid of that Rose Red lipstick I gave you,” Lia said. Leave it to her to know that I still had it, that I’d carried the tube she’d given me everywhere I went since discovering an ancient tube of Rose Red, worn to a nub, in my aunt’s hand the night she died. Apparently, it had been my mother’s color of choice even as a girl. Lacey had kept it all these years.

That was what she’d carried in her pocket.

That was what she’d held as I’d spun my story about my mother’s death.

The FBI had found a dozen other lipsticks in a cabinet at her house. Keepsakes that she took from each victim. A little sister, dying to be like big sis, stealing her lipstick until the end.

She was the one who’d given the makeup to Lia. She’d bought a fresh tube of Rose Red just for me, and Lia had played right into her hands. Now that it was over, I should have thrown the lipstick away, but I couldn’t seem to bring myself to do it. It was a reminder: of the things my aunt had done, of what I’d survived, of my mother and the fact that Lacey and I had both joined the FBI in hopes of finding her killer.

A killer who was still out there. A killer who not even a psychotic, obsessive FBI agent had been able to find. Since joining the program, I’d gained and lost a mentor and seen my mother’s only other living relative shot dead. I’d helped take down a killer who’d been re-creating my mother’s death for years—but I was still no closer to finding the monster who’d actually killed her. I might never get answers.

They might never find her body.

“Well?” Lia had done a good impression of a patient person, but clearly, her capacity for waiting for me to reply had been stretched to its limit and then some. “Are you in or are you out?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “I’m in this, but I’m keeping the lipstick.”

“Rawrrrrr.” Lia made a scratching motion. “Somebody’s finally growing claws.”

“Yeah,” I said dryly. “I love you, too.”

I turned around to walk into the house, but Lia’s voice stopped me halfway there.

“I’m not saying I like you. I’m not saying I’m going to stop eating your ice cream or stealing your clothes, and I’m certainly not saying that I won’t make your life a living nightmare if you jerk Dean around, but I wouldn’t want you to leave.” Lia strode past me, then turned around and flashed me a smile. “You make things interesting. And besides, I’m kind of into the idea of Michael’s war wounds, and having my way with him will be that much sweeter knowing you’re right down the hall.”

Lia flounced back into the house. I thought of the scars Michael would have once he’d healed, thought of the kiss, the fact that he’d almost died for me—and then I thought of Dean.

Dean, who hadn’t forgiven himself for not being able to pull the trigger.

Dean, whose father was as much of a monster as my aunt.

Weeks ago, Lia had told me that every person in this house was fundamentally screwed up to the depths of our dark and shadowy souls. We all had our crosses to bear. We saw things that other people didn’t—things that people our age should never have to see.

Dean would never just be a boy. He’d always be the serial killer’s son. Michael would always be the person who’d put a round of bullets in my aunt. And part of me would never leave my mother’s blood-soaked dressing room, just like another part would always be at the safe house, with Lacey and her knife.

We would never be like other people.

“I don’t know what the back door did to you,” an amused voice told me, “but I’m sure it’s really, truly sorry.”

Michael was supposed to be using a wheelchair, but he was already trying to maneuver on crutches—an impossible feat, considering a bullet had also been lodged in his shoulder.

“I’m not glaring at the back door,” I said.

Michael raised one eyebrow, higher and higher until I caved.

“Fine,” I said. “I might have been glaring at the back door. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Like you didn’t want to talk about that kiss?” Michael’s voice was light, but this was the first time either of us had brought up that moment in my bedroom.

“Michael—”

“Don’t.” He stopped me. “If I hadn’t been so jealous of Dean, I wouldn’t have bought your little story for a second. Even as it was, I didn’t buy it for much longer than that.”

“You came after me,” I said.

“I’ll always come after you,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that made the words seem like more of a joke than a promise.