Page 64 of Cruel Abandon (Fallen Royals 5)

We ride in silence until Taryn’s apartment, and she scrambles out. She gives me a short wave, then disappears inside. We don’t move for several seconds.

“You okay?” the cop asks me.

“I don’t know.”

He nods once and takes me home.

I climb out, slowly closing the door. My muscles have gotten stiff in the car, and every joint screams at me.

“Skylar?”

I rotate back toward the officer.

He extends his card to me. “Call if you need anything, okay?”

A friendly neighborhood watchdog.

I take the card. Much like McAdams’s partner’s, I tuck it into my pocket. All I want right now is a hot shower. My limbs are numb, and a chill has settled into my bones. It takes me two tries to unlock the front door, and another few attempts at my apartment door.

Weakly, I type in the alarm code and then reset it. The apartment feels different. Quiet, for one. There’s a note on the fridge from Whitney, telling me she’s gone home for the weekend and she’ll be back for classes on Monday.

Nice of her to leave a note, I suppose.

It means the apartment will be mine for the foreseeable future, so I make quick work stripping off my clothes and turning on the shower. A rinse and then a bath sounds like a good afternoon.

It’s already almost four o’clock.

We lost hours in the woods, and it felt like only moments.

I set my phone on the counter and hop in, groaning under the hot spray. I used to think that showers would solve all of life’s mysteries—or at least unlock the mysteries hidden in my brain.

Alas… that never happened.

Those boxes in my head stay sealed up.

Once my hair is thoroughly washed, the cut avoided, and my body somewhat more pliable, I plug the drain and fill the tub with hot water. I exhale slowly as I submerge, stopping when the water reaches my chin.

I close my eyes and try not to replay my afternoon. The fall was bad, but finding Natalie is something I don’t think I’ll ever get over.

I brush my fingers on my throat, imagining how it would feel to be flayed open, pumping out blood. Tears burn behind my closed eyelids, and my throat closes. Soon enough, it’ll be all over the news.

My phone’s ringtone is jarring.

I lean over and dry my hand, then pick it up. An unfamiliar New York City number flashes at me. Or it could be someone from Rose Hill. Same area code.

It could also be a spam caller.

After a moment of debate, I answer it. “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Skylar?”

I bite my lip.

The man continues, “We met a long time ago. My name is Jim Masters, I’m a detective with the Rose Hill Police Department.”

His voice sounds vaguely familiar, but anxiety pricks along my skin.

“What can I do for you, Detective?”