Trail of Dead (Scarlett Bernard #2)(59)

“I’m not going to be home; she won’t be able to find me. And I need the sunset. Please, Jesse.”

The “please” did it. “Okay, okay,” he said reluctantly. “What about that?” he asked, nodding back toward the little cottage. “What do you want to do?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“I could help you—”

“I will take care of it.”

He looked at me for a long moment, and I saw him understand. Then I saw him resign himself. “There’s something else you need to know,” he said. He told me about Kirsten’s party and what they wanted me to do.

“The party’s at seven,” he finished. “Can you do it?”

I was beyond decision making, so I just nodded. I ignored the deeply concerned expression on his face. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but after a moment of hesitation he just stood up.

“I’ll pick you up at six,” he said, and left.

I waited until the Corolla had turned the corner, and then I counted to a hundred. I got a few things from the toolbox in the back of Will’s truck and headed back into the basement.

Then I burned the goddamned house down.





Chapter 21


“Molly. Molly!” I shook her shoulder gently. Then a little harder. Finally, her eyes opened.

“Whaaat?” she said irritably.

“Wake up. I need you.”

She looked at me for the first time and sat up, swinging her long legs over the side of the bed. She wore pink flannel boxer shorts and a Hello Kitty shirt, with Hello Kitty dressed as a goth punk. Vampire or not, her blonde hair seemed to rumple adorably. “What happened?”

As quickly as I could, I told her about the house in Silver Lake—the photos of me, the pictures of her, Eli, Jesse, and my brother.

“You have a brother?” she asked incredulously.

I sighed. Whoops. Molly was a decent friend to me, but anything I did or said could easily end up getting back to Dashiell, so I’d never told her about Jack. But that horse was already out of the barn—Dashiell had given Jack a job specifically to remind me that he could f*ck with my last remaining family member anytime he wanted to—and I had bigger problems right now, anyway. “Yes. We’re not really…close. But I need your help with something. I’ll explain on the way.” I hopped off the bed and turned toward the door.

“Uh, can I get dressed first?”

“Oh. Right.” I turned to face the wall, which made Molly giggle, as usual, while she donned jeans and a long-sleeved thermal shirt that read Spanky’s House of Pain. How may we hurt you? I chose not to comment.

I hadn’t talked to Jack since Thanksgiving, when we’d gone out to dinner at the Stinking Rose, a garlic-lovers’ restaurant on La Cienega. (No, it wasn’t a big anti-vampire statement or anything. I just really like garlic. And restaurants that are open on Thanksgiving.) Things were weird between us: Jack didn’t know that our parents had been murdered because of me. I always cringed with guilt when I saw him, which made him think he was doing something wrong, which usually just snowballed into awkwardness and stammering. But we’d managed to pull it together for one night, at least. We’d avoided talking about Thanksgivings past, sticking to his job, movies, and current events. For once, things between us were actually kind of okay.

And now I was about to ruin it.

Jack lived in the Valley, in one-half of a tiny duplex on the outskirts of Sherman Oaks. I knocked on his door at 5:00 p.m. on the dot, praying that he’d be home. There was a wreath hanging at eye level, and while I waited for him to answer I leaned forward to smell it. The fresh scent of pine needles hit my nose and traveled straight to wherever my memories are kept. He’d gotten a real wreath with a red velvet bow, just like our mother always had. If they didn’t wither away at the end of every winter, I could swear that this was the same one.

Get it together, Scarlett.

My brother is a few inches taller than I am—five eleven, with our father’s dark-red hair. Unlike our dad, though, Jack keeps it buzzed close to his head. He has my green eyes, a narrow build, and the snow-white complexion that comes from being inside all day. If he’s not working full-time for Dashiell’s hematology laboratory, he’s taking med school classes at night. When the door popped open with a weather-stripping hiss, he was wearing sweatpants, a Chicago Bears T-shirt (our dad had been a fan), and a dish towel over one shoulder. “Hey, Scarbo,” he said with some surprise. In the three months Jack had lived in LA, I had never initiated contact. “Um, who’s your pretty friend?”

“Jack, this is Molly. Molly, this is my big brother, Jack.”

He suddenly noticed the dish towel on his chest and snatched it down, blushing. After wiping his hands, he held one out to Molly. “You must be Scarlett’s roommate. She’s told me a lot about you.”

Molly shook, arching an eyebrow at me. “Really? Wish I could say the same.”

I ignored her. “Can we come in for a minute?”

“Of course.” He stepped back, ushering us into the dining room. He didn’t comment on Molly’s shirt. Good for him.

I took the seat nearest the window and pulled the shades down. Jack gave me a funny look but didn’t ask. “I was just finishing the dishes. I gotta be back on campus for study group at seven, so dinner was early tonight.”