Page 126 of Wicked Little Secret
I’ve never raised my voice like this before.
Not at her.
She’s rightfully startled.
And though, as my sister, I’d never hurt her, she sees the side of me she rarely has before—the darker, impassioned, intense man that I am beneath my cold mask of composure.
“Oh god,” she sighs, splotches of color on her face and neck. “I wish you’d let me help you.”
“You need to go. This is none of your concern.”
She goes to collect the photos, but I slam my hand down on the desk.
“Leave them.”
Theo tosses several hurt looks over her shoulder on herway out. The second she’s gone, I rush toward the door and twist the lock.
What the hell is going on?! Who has been watching us? Who’s been… inside Nyssa’s apartment to snap such intimate photos of her and her space?
Other than me.
“It wasn’t me,” I whisper to myself. “I didn’t… but… but who?”
I race home, going thirty over the speed limit. My first instinct was to head straight to Nyssa’s apartment—she had no classes this afternoon—but then I stopped myself. If someone’s been watching us, then that’s exactly what they’d expect me to do.
Instead, I head home, firing off several texts to her. She had some kind of social engagement tonight with the likes of the Fairchilds and other well-to-do families in Castlebury. I could certainly show up myself as an Adler, citing I’ve come in my father’s absence.
But I’m much more preoccupied with her apartment and what the hell’s going on.
Atticus whines as he chases up the stairs after me. Normally, when I come home early on Fridays, I take him to the park and we play fetch.
“Not today, Atty,” I snap. “I’ll make it up to you this weekend.”
The sunny golden retriever lays down on the floor and lowers his head between his paws, his tail flopping morosely side to side.
I rip off my put-together professor clothing—the crispbutton-up shirt and well-fitted pants. The tweed blazer gets tossed onto my bed. I stride straight into the dark mouth that’s my closet and emerge only once I’m in my disguise.
A hoodie with jeans and the skeleton mask I’d used the night I followed Nyssa and Jackson Wicker.
Checking my phone, I’m unsurprised to see Nyssa hasn’t responded to me.
A bad habit of hers she takes on from time to time. That I’ll have to address next time we’re in the bedroom…
For now, I try to keep my messages even keeled and nondescript.
I read an article about Chauncey Ives and his artwork. Couldn’t help thinking about you…
The sun has set and drizzle’s started up by the time I leave the house. My first order of business is figuring out what the hell’s going on inside Nyssa’s apartment. Who else would’ve had access to film her in that way?
I might’ve set up my own means of watching her, but that was because I was looking out for her. I was making sure she wasn’t entertaining Wicker and that she wasn’t in harm’s way. My surveillance might have been intrusive and a violation of trust, but it was warranted.
For Nyssa’s own good.
These rationalizations and more play out in my head on the drive over.
Her apartment windows are dark. She’s nowhere insight. I check her iCloud and verify she’s en route to the Fairchild’s dinner party.
The rest of the five-story apartment building feels quiet and unpopulated.