“He was bullied by the kids at his school and his parents always made fun of him. That one,” she says, pointing to a brown-haired chick with an axe, “just taunted him about it and then killed him.”
“Isn’t he the killer?” I ask, motioning to the creepy looking thing on the screen as I sit down, grabbing a handful of popcorn.
“Yes.”
“Then why are you crying?”
She bursts into tears again as the credits begin to roll. “It was so sad. He only wanted to be loved.”
“Well, okay then,” I mutter, before realising she’s alone. “I thought you were spending the morning with Scott?”
She’s suddenly interested in flicking through Netflix. “We should find a movie.”
“What happened?” I ask, leaving no room for argument.
She shifts on the sofa, facing me. “I upset him. He thinks he likes me more than I like him.”
“And if he did like you more than you liked him, what’s the problem?”
I hate this Scott already, and I’ve not even met him. They just met. They should be getting to know one another, not having a competition on who cares for whom more.
“I really like him. I do. But I think I’m doing it wrong.”
Please don’t let this be about sex.
“Doing what wrong?”
“Being a girlfriend. I keep messing up.” Her bottom lip begins to tremble.
“Does he tell you that?” I ask softly, hiding the need to yell about the piece of shit.
I can sense the lie before she even opens her mouth. Her gaze diverts to the side and she twists her fingers together in her lap.
“No. No, nothing like that.”
“Charlotte,” I warn.
“What do you want to watch?”
Sighing, I let her think I’m dropping it. I’m not. I’m going to give this Scott a real Carter greeting and let Landon know to do the same.
He’s going to feel like shit once he finds out. He loves Charlotte. They’ve been close our whole lives. I think his hero complex was drawn to her bubbly personality and naivety.
With Paisley now in his life, he’s not been around as much, and it’s starting to show. I don’t want some toss pot thinking he can take advantage of her. She’s family. No one fucks with my family.
“Why don’t we watch Grey’s Anatomy until it’s time to go out?” I offer, giving her a small smile.
“Out where?” she asks, visibly relaxing.
“I’ll explain later.” She’s definitely holding back, but until she’s ready to talk, there’s no use in trying to push her. “What episode should we watch?”
“Ooh, we could watch the episode where Izzy gets married.”
I roll my eyes. “Or the one where McDreamy dies.”
She twists her lips. “That’s not really a cheerful episode.”
“Really? You just sat here crying over a serial killer. Horror movies aren’t meant to make you cry.”
She mulls over my words before shrugging. “All right, as long as you skip to the part where she tells people he’s dead.”
“After we watch the car scene.”
“Deal.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“You are so kind to do this, Hay,” Charlotte comments as I follow the directions on the sat nav.
“I know. I love to give,” I murmur, my thoughts on the tea hamper I put together. I’m hoping it isn’t too much. It didn’t feel right turning up empty handed though. And the residents at Nightingale care home swear by the tea.
“Tell me again how you found out she witnessed a break-in and was shaken up. You didn’t answer earlier.”
For good reason. I hate lying. Sure, sometimes it’s fun to mess with people by overemphasizing or stretching out the truth, but outright lying to Charlotte seemed wrong. But sometimes, it was a necessity, like now. It’s not because she could find out what I do for a living but because I know she would worry, and when Charlotte worries, she bakes and gets chatty. It never ends well. For anyone. Especially if she’s really stressed and screams at you to try her cake. You eat that cake because, although it’s rare she ever loses her temper, when she does she’s a completely different person. But then they do say redheads have a hot temper.
Knowing it’s the only way to save my stomach from being pumped again, I answer, “Her dad is a resident at the care home. I went to take him lunch and he asked me to check in on her, said he knew she was lying about being okay over the phone.”
“You should show the others this side of you. They wouldn’t call you a witch. You’re so kind and always helping others.”
“They just hate that they aren’t me,” I tell her, knowing it was Aiden and Mark who called me a witch. They’re still sore that I got out of paying for our tab when I caused a fight between them and another group of lads.
“You’re right. I’ve always wished I was more like you,” she tells me, glancing down at her phone.
We come to a stop at a red light, so I turn to her, waiting until she meets my gaze to answer. “Don’t ever be anything but you. You are special in a way other people wish they were. Never Change.”
Her eyes dilate, filling with tears. “I won’t,” she promises, before I go back to paying attention to the road.
“We’re here,” I tell her a few minutes later. I slow down to read the house numbers.
When Rita’s, the witness’s house, comes into view, I pull into the nearest parking space.
I pull out my phone, scrolling through my emails. “I just need to double check something.”
I want to make sure I have everything right, so I don’t go up there and fuck up. After all, I’m going to pretend to be the granddaughter of the woman who was hurt when she had her house broken into.
According to the information I have, she never moved back in, which gives me a chance to pass this off.
“Are we going in?” Charlotte asks.
Or not.
“Um, Charlotte, would you mind if I just make sure it’s okay for us to be here first? I don’t want to overwhelm her.”
Or have my cover blown.
“Of course, just wave me over when you’re ready,” she tells me absently, typing away on her phone.
I go to ask her if it’s Scott but think better of it. If she gets upset when we’ve run him off, I don’t want her to think it was because I didn’t like him.
The guys can take the fall.
“Okay.”
I leave her texting and head over to the house, one door away from where we’ve parked, and up a small path.
I rap on the door with my knuckles before standing back and waiting for someone to answer.
I hear movement before a loud crash echoes through the house. Seconds later, the door opens and a woman in her mid-twenties stands on the threshold. Her cheeks are flushed with a pink tinge, and although there aren’t any tears in her sparkling blue eyes, I can simply tell she’s been crying by how swollen and bloodshot they are.
“I’m sorry, I can see this isn’t a good time. I can come back,” I tell her, sensing a deep, grieving loss. It’s the same look many of us wore when our grandparents died.