All the Inside Howling (Hollow Folk #2)(70)

“To keep me busy, scrambling to find out what was going on. To keep me scared.”

“But I came to you about River before the dream.”

“Maybe he didn’t know that. He needed you to come to me either way. He needed you terrified for your safety and desperate for answers.”

“That macho mother-fucker,” Becca growled, tapping the pan again so hard that onions and sweet-potato splattered the counter, “needed a mother-fucking damsel in distress. That is so sexist.”

“He tortured and murdered two girls, Becca. One of them because he hated her. One of them because he wanted her. Sexist is the whipped cream on top of all his problems.”

“So he wanted me focused on River. Why? What did he want me to see?”

“Maybe it’s something to do with River,” Becca said. “Maybe River was an easy object lesson. He didn’t plan on DeHaven killing River, but once he did, Mr. Big Empty could send a clear message: here’s a nice looking guy, same build, same looks, and see what I can do to him.”

“No, it was a distraction. Think of a magician: the whole reason he brings someone on stage, the whole point of drawing attention to something, is so that people will look the other way. What was going on while you and I were looking the other way?”

Becca stirred the canned beans into the frying pan and then added spices. A smoky, savory smell filled my nose, and my stomach gave a loud, insistent groan. “Whatever it was,” Becca said, “we’re not going to find it while you’re hungry.” She spooned some of the mixture into a tortilla, topped it with lettuce and tomato, and slid it over to me. The spoon in her hand came up, pointed at me like a revolver, and Becca was a woman who didn’t take no for an answer: “Eat.”

So I ate. It was hot, and I burned my mouth on the first bite, but it was good. No, more than good. It was amazing. After months of eating cold cereal and peanut butter sandwiches and leftovers from Bighorn Burger, this was heaven: that smoky heat, the sweetness of the onions and the sweet potato, the texture of the beans. Even back in Oklahoma, Mom hadn’t ever cooked. Sometimes there had been take-out or pizza, but it had been more of the same: mac and cheese, noodles in a cup, canned chili.

I went to take another bite, but my hands, aside from a line of dribbled sour cream, were empty.

“So, I guess you liked it?” Becca asked with a smirk as she leaned over her own burrito.

“Um, yeah. It was incredible.”

“Good. I’m glad.” My stomach squirmed, and I felt my face heat, but Becca laughed. “Eat up, but you have to assemble it yourself. There’s a limit to how much gender stereotyping one girl can take in a day.”

I didn’t linger to comment on gender stereotyping. I swooped down on that frying pan like a starving eagle, and I piled two tortillas high with filling and lettuce and tomato and sour cream. Then, plopping into a seat at the counter, I devoured those burritos. Demolished them. I hit them like a garbage disposal about to burn through a motor. When I’d finished, there was only a pink smear on the plate as evidence of my destruction.

“All right,” Becca said. “I’d say those were a hit.”

“They were delicious. Thanks.”

“So, I cooked. That means you clean up.”

“Right.”

“And then you’re going to take a shower—”

“Uh.”

“—and we’re going to find some of my brother’s clothes that fit you, because I’m not sending you to your first dinner with Austin’s family looking like you dragged yourself out of a frat house. Questions?”

I shook my head.

“Soap. Brush. Sink. Towels.”

So I started washing. Becca perched on a stool at the counter, watching me. It was strangely comfortable: the hot, soapy water, my stomach full of delicious food, a warm house. I scrubbed and rinsed and dried, and it wasn’t until Becca wiped her eyes—a hurried, sideways gesture that I think she tried to conceal—that I realized I was missing something.

“What?”

For a moment, she looked at me like she’d finished watching the saddest movie in the world and just rewound it to the saddest part. Then the moment passed and she snapped, “Nothing.”

“God, it’s just that you were—”

“And I said it was nothing.”

“Are you sure? What’s going on?”

“Vie. Drop it.”

“I’m sorry?” I turned it into a question.

“God, you’re impossible. Next time you get in a fight with Austin, and he tells you it’s nothing, don’t say I’m sorry. And don’t keep asking him what’s wrong. Just let it go until he’s ready to talk to you about it. And for God’s sake, quit looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

She let out an aggravated breath and splashed soapy water on me. “I’m changing the subject: back to DeHaven.”

“Ok.”

“You said you could handle Mr. Big Empty in a dream. Could you handle DeHaven?”

“In a dream? Maybe. I’m not sure, but probably. How am I going to—”

“You entered my dream.”

“Yes.”

“Could you get inside my head while I’m awake? Don’t shake your head. Why is it any different than what you’re already doing? You pick up memories, feelings, impressions. You’re already tuning in. Why can’t you go a step farther?”