Page 20 of Wicked Promises
Eli’s dad tsks. “She was drugged. She could’ve been confused.”
“Ifoundher!”
“How? How did you know exactly where to go? Why didn’t you call the police?”
“Fuck!” I’m tempted to jump out of the car. Of all the things, I kept the detail of Margo’s stalker leading me right to her a secret.
“Son, I’m just trying to get you to see how the prosecutor would?—”
“Yeah, I get it. Can we just…” I wave toward the road. We’re close to Margo’s house, and I’m eager to see her. And be done with this line of questioning.
He chuckles to himself. “I suppose it’s a good thing we’re going to see her now. Saves you a midnight trip.”
Ah, shit. “You know?”
“Just because youthinkyou’re quiet doesn’t mean I don’t know everything that happens in that house. But yourrunsdon’t usually end with you coming home in a reasonable time. And sometimes they involve your car.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, that may be true.”
We pull into Margo’s driveway, and he stops me from getting out with a hand on my shoulder.
“Seriously. We had the sex talk when you were fourteen. I don’t need to tell you to be safe, right? You’re smart enough to already?—”
“Yeah, we’re good.”
He drops his hand, and I get out. Lenora’s car is in the driveway. Robert’s is probably at the junkyard… or in police custody. I didn’t see it, but I have enough mental imagery to last a lifetime.
Lenora yanks the door open before I have a chance to knock.
“Caleb.” She’s decidedly unfriendly.
I narrow my eyes. “Mrs. Bryan.”
“Angela told me…” Her attention slides past me, to where Josh Black comes up behind me. “The charges were dropped?”
“I didn’t do it.” I stare at her, willing her eyes to come back to me. “I would never.”
She scoffs. “You seem to be the cause of a lot of heartache.”
“I can’t really do much about that unless you let me in to fix it,” I say quietly.
She only steps aside once Mr. Black is behind me.
The living room is empty. I glance into the kitchen, find that empty, and head up the stairs. The longest walk of my life. It’s been the longest few days of my life, actually.
My imagination runs wild. I walk down the hall to her room, and it stretches out in front of me. Her door is cracked open, and it doesn’t make a noise when I nudge it open farther.
She’s…cleaning.
Shoving papers into drawers, straightening her books. Her small trashcan is in her hand, and she periodically shoves random things—a bauble, a paper, something that appears to be a seasonal decoration—into it. Her sheets are off the mattress, balled up in the center of the room. Comforter thrown on the floor. All her clothes are stacked in a pile on top of her nightstand.
Maybe cleaning was the wrong word. She’s doing more harm than good.
And she’s sniffling.
The whole room feels different. Like I left it—and her—one way, and now I’m coming back to someone new.
“Margo.”