Vipers and Virtuosos (Monsters & Muses, #2)(45)

Add in the fear of being found out, of being discovered as the girl who destroyed America’s once favorite rock star, and I’m pretty sure seeing a therapist would only result in me being committed.

The teakettle on the stove begins to squeal, and I remove it quickly, pouring the water into an oversized mug. Tearing open a packet of hot chocolate, I sprinkle in the powder and stir, then top it off with marshmallows.

When I take a sip, the hot liquid burns my tongue, but I revel in the sensation. Let it scald me, a silent punishment for the sins I’m trying to outrun.

I sit at the kitchen island, drinking slowly, and stare out the back windows at the cabin across the lake. A strange, jittery feeling envelops me the longer I look, waiting for something to appear.

After a few seconds, a light flickers on in the corner of the upstairs level, and I suck in a startled breath.

But when I blink, it’s gone.

Almost like it never turned on in the first place.

Leaving me to wonder if Kal was right, after all.





22





Riley sleeps with every light on downstairs, as if the lack of darkness could ever keep the monsters from coming out to play.

She went to bed an hour ago, the lamp in her bedroom flickering off and beckoning me over. I’d shoved my feet in my boots and closed the distance between our cabins, satisfaction weaving through my muscles as I evaded the security cameras she has in place.

It really isn’t difficult to tap into these systems and tamper with them. With the click of a button on my phone, I alter the camera parameters so my pathway is just beyond detection, then slip inside.

Clearly, the system is more for her peace of mind; if this were my penthouse, 911 would be dialed the second they stepped off the private elevator.

And yet, here I am, moving freely about my little liar’s home while she dreams upstairs.

Dragging my fingertips along the granite countertop in her kitchen, I narrow my gaze as I walk past the sink. There are two ceramic plates sitting in the stainless steel basin.

Two forks.

Two wineglasses, both with red stains left behind.

I lift the glasses, noting the pale pink lip gloss around one rim; the other is smudged with fingerprints, but no identifying feminine features.

Before I can stop myself, I’m imagining the man on the boardwalk with her the other day. The one who can’t seem to keep his hands to himself when he’s here, helping her with things around the cabin.

The one she drew the curtains closed for this evening, barring me from peeping in on their little rendezvous.

My fingers tighten around the mouth of the glass, and I feel it splinter beneath them before it implodes.

Glass shards burst into the air like fireworks, sharp edges embedding themselves into my skin. Somehow, that hurts less than the betrayal of her moving on, having dinner with, and entertaining another while I’ve been miserable for the last three years.

Flipping my hand over, I let the pieces clatter into the sink, then turn the faucet and rinse the smaller bits off of me. The water stings as it washes over each cut, and I allow myself to lean into it for a moment.

To remember why it is I’m here.

Wiping my hand dry on the white towel hanging on her oven handle, I leave the broken glass where it sits and continue my exploration.

Let her figure out what happened when she wakes up.

Maybe it’ll teach her not to give away things that belong to me, like her precious fucking time.

I don’t even let myself think about what else she might be offering.

There’s a small side table to the left of her staircase, and an old landline hangs on the wall above it. A red light blinks at the bottom, and I walk over, needing to sate my curiosity.

It’s not like many people know she’s here, and I can’t imagine why she’d communicate with this phone instead of the burner she keeps on her person at all times.

With my thumb, I press down on the button, adjusting the volume as the prerecorded introduction begins.

Some crackling comes over the line, and then a man’s voice. My shoulders tense, my entire body poised as it waits.

“Angel! It’s me, Caleb. I’m stuck at the gallery, and my cell died an hour ago. This is the only number listed in that old as shit phone book, and it’s not even under your name.”

My eyebrows push together, creases as deep as canyons rippling across my forehead.

Pushing the rewind button, I let the message replay, leaning in.

“Angel! It’s me, Caleb. I’m stuck—”

Rewind. Pause.

A lead weight settles in my stomach, sending sparks of hot irritation through me as it expands.

Play.

“Angel! It’s me—”

“Angel!”

Angel, Angel, Angel.

Rage boils in my chest, percolating so quickly I can hardly catch my breath as it spills over. I repeat the process—rewind, pause, play, and again—until my finger feels like it might fall off, and then I switch fingers, certain in my conviction that I’m mistaken.

That someone else isn’t calling her the name I gave her.

The one that fucking ruined me.

Scrubbing my hand over my jaw, the stubble coarse against my palm, I stare at the answering machine, my brain scrambling to process whatever the fuck is going on.

I don’t give it much time, though, too annoyed to sit and try to reason with myself.