Black Bird of the Gallows(20)
Fiona wrinkles her nose and brings it close to Roger, then rears back when he tries to lay one on her.
Paxton scratches Roger in the rolls of his neck, exactly where he likes it. “May we please play with him?”
I hesitate, look up at Reece. This is exactly what I want—a reason to loiter around this house. To observe and see if anything seems off. Roger, who is a good judge of people, is clearly telling me everything is fine, but I’m determined to find answers. “I can let him off the leash, but it’s up to you. We were headed for a walk in the woods, so he might leave a present on your lawn.”
Reece shrugs. “That’s okay. If you’re sure he won’t run away.”
Perfect. “He won’t.” I unclip Roger’s leash, and he bounds across the frosty lawn in unbridled joy. Paxton runs to the garage and returns with an old tennis ball—which was probably originally Roger’s—and hurls it as far as he can. My dog leaps after it, gloriously happy.
“They’re your siblings?” I ask.
“Yeah. We’re adopted.” He says it in an automatic sort of way, probably used to curiosity about the differences in skin color between the children. He watches the children fondly. “There’re five of us including our older sister, Brooke, and our little brother, James.”
My brows go up. “That’s quite an age range.”
“It is,” he replies. “It’s been hard since our dad passed away.”
“When did that happen?”
“A few months ago.”
His words—the remote coolness of them—scratch through me like flat notes in a song. As someone who has lost a parent, I know there’s no way to not have feelings about it. If his father died a few months ago—even if the man was a monster—discussing his death would evoke something. But Reece’s voice is hollow. His words sound rehearsed. No emotion, but I’ve seen Reece with emotion and he’s quite expressive. I’ve seen him frightened and sad and angry and surprised. I’ve seen him confront a creature with a mouthful of bees and a face that transforms every thirty seconds or so. So I’m not sure I believe him, and that’s an uncomfortable thought, considering my own history.
I eye him closely, searching for a physical tell to reveal sadness, hidden grief, something, but there’s nothing. No slight pinch of the mouth, no tightening of the hands. Not a glimmer of the grief he revealed the first time we met at the bus stop. His voice sounds painfully empty. Painful only to me, apparently, as he seems perfectly at ease. I swallow heavily, searching for the right response. I won’t call him a liar—that’s just unthinkable.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say quietly.
“Thank you. Everyday life is the hardest part. Just…going through the motions of it all.”
Now that was the only part that felt like the truth. The rest of his words sounded like poorly delivered lines, read from a script. The implication that he’s not telling the truth about the death of his father makes me a little light-headed. Why would someone do that?
“Is it?” I’m seriously questioning the wisdom of coming here. Who is this boy? Who are these people? I may not want these answers. Whatever illusion I had been weaving about this being a normal family can’t be true. This is a family, yes, but one putting on an elaborate show to appear to be something they are not. “Everyday life can’t be so bad,” I say lightly, eager to change the subject before I start luring myself down a hole. “You have a beautiful home, a nice family. You’re popular at school. Kiera Shaw certainly likes you.”
He turns his gaze to me, slowly. “Kiera Shaw? You think I like her?”
“I don’t know what you like.” I don’t blink. I don’t look away. “I know only what I’ve seen.”
Reece leans close, gently entering my personal space. Close enough to put me on edge, but not close enough to intimidate. His voice is silk on gravel. His narrowed eyes glitter down at me. “And what, exactly, have you seen, Angie?”
Shivers race up my skin. I want to defuse this so badly, but I feel like this is a challenge I can’t lose. “I’ve seen and heard things that don’t make sense. Things I can’t understand.” I shift my gaze to my crow sitting on a branch above my head. It watches me with an intensity that would scare me if I wasn’t accustomed to it. “Tell me about the crows.”
He shakes his head. “Sorry. Either you know about them or you don’t.”
My jaw tightens, even as I step toward him. I can feel his body heat. His clean, guy scent fills my senses with a unique magnetism that draws me close. Closer still. “I will find out.”
His gaze sweeps my face, lingering on my lips. “I hope not.” His breath warms my temple, sending a shiver under my skin. “There are worse things out there than a few watchful birds.”
“Like what?” I’m breathless, damn him. My words are barely audible.
His lashes fan low over his eyes. The narrow space between us crackles with tension. “Oh Angie, you don’t want to know.”
It’s exciting, frustrating, and exhausting, this coded language we speak. Worse, I may be the only one speaking it, and it’s hard to keep my thoughts coherent when he stands so close. The boy is overloading to the senses, but maybe that’s his intention—to get me so flustered I can’t ask the questions I want. Of course, I really can’t ask many questions, since Angie Dovage wasn’t in the parking lot behind The Strip Mall on Friday night. That was Sparo, who is cool and arty and free of the baggage that Angie carries around. Sparo, whom he finds attractive. Sparo, whom I want to claim so badly, I have to clamp my lips together to keep from blurting out my secret.