The Dark Divine(53)

I needed to talk to Daniel myself. I needed to ask him what had really happened. It was the only way I knew how to help them. It was the only way to mend the pieces back together.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing





SUNDAY EVENING




Two days later, I slipped the key into the lock of the basement apartment door at Maryanne Duke’s house. I’d knocked and knocked, but nobody answered. It was better this way. Daniel might not let me in otherwise. The lock turned over, and I nudged open the door.

I glanced back up the narrow set of cement stairs that led down to the apartment. I’d skirted around the front porch—where I’d stood so many times with Maryanne—and gone straight to the apartment’s entrance in the back of the house. It felt weird to be so close to where Maryanne had died—almost like she was watching.

Like something was watching.

I couldn’t help thinking about what Lynn Bishop, who hadn’t stopped talking all through Sunday school this morning, had said about three different families’ pets going missing over the weekend. All of them lived in Oak Park.

I stepped inside and rebolted the door behind me. Am I crazy for being here?

It was the only solution I could think of. Daniel hadn’t come to the house again since Friday. I didn’t expect he would. Not after what happened when we kissed. And there was no way we could have this conversation at school. But still, it was getting dark, and I’d just let myself into a guy’s apartment uninvited. And not just any guy—a superpowered guy my brother accused of being a murderer.

I shook off that thought and put my backpack on the kitchen table. I put the key in my pocket. Maryanne had given it to me two weeks before when I helped her clean the apartment after her last renter had moved out. I hadn’t remembered to return it before she died.

I scanned the studio apartment. The only signs of Daniel in this place were the duffel bag and dirty laundry strewn across the powder-blue sofa bed, a couple of dishes in the sink, and an open box of plastic utensils on the kitchenette counter. Everything else about the room was the epitome of grandmother: carpet the color Maryanne called “dusty rose” but I always thought of it as “puke pink,” and wallpaper dotted with tiny daisies of the same hue. And no matter how hard I’d scrubbed, this apartment always smelled overwhelmingly like old person—like dust and decay.

I opened my backpack and pulled out a brown paper sack and two Tupperware containers. I opened the fridge. It was empty. Hopefully, that would work to my advantage. I pulled a couple of plates from the cupboard over the microwave and wondered how long I should wait before I started to put things together. But then a shadow crossed in front of the window. I sat at the table, trying to look natural—but really trying to hide the fact that my knees had started to wobble.

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should go. I heard a key in the lock. Too late.

The door swung open and closed. Daniel threw his keys on the sofa bed and kicked off his shoes. He sloughed off his coat and pulled his shirt up over his head.

I gasped.

Daniel whirled around and crouched, as if ready to pounce. His eyes flashed when he saw me. He dropped his shirt and straightened up. “Grace?”

“Hi.” My voice wavered.

His stomach muscles tensed. He brushed the stone pendant that lingered between his defined pecs. I couldn’t help noticing the way his long, lean muscles and untamed hair made him look like a wild, powerful animal. For one small second, I wished he had pounced on me.

“What are you doing here?” Daniel didn’t sound pleased.

I stood up. “I brought supplies.” I pointed at the brown paper sack.

He raised one eyebrow.

“Linseed oil and varnish.” Why is my voice so shaky? “You keep promising to show me that technique, but you never deliver.”

“You shouldn’t be here.” He held his hand over his pendant, pressing it against his chest. “Not after … And your parents … Does anyone know you’re here?”

I swallowed hard. “I brought dinner, too.” I pulled the lids off the containers. “I’ve got pork chops and rice and Mom’s turkey à la king.”

Daniel stepped closer. “That’s nice of you, Grace.” He stepped back again. “But you need to go.”

“You want one or the other? Or some of each?”

Daniel opened the paper sack on the table and pulled out the bottles. I was surprised he hadn’t put his shirt back on, but something fluttered inside of me because he didn’t.

“Some of each then?” I scooped out the leftovers. “I thought we could eat and then get started. I’ve got a couple of Masonite boards in my bag.”

Daniel wrapped his long fingers around the neck of the oil bottle—strangling it.

I picked up the plates and backed away to the kitchenette. I put one plate on the counter and turned toward the microwave with the other. But the microwave was something from the dawn of the modern age, with dials instead of buttons. “How do you work this …?” I turned back toward the table, but Daniel was suddenly beside me. My eyes were level with the lean, all-too-capable muscles in his chest.

“You don’t have to do this.” He grasped my wrist.

I dropped the plate. It crashed between our feet. Shards of glass and grains of rice scattered across the linoleum floor.