I peer up at Vandy, positioning herself on the side of the sma
ll overhang under her window. When it came time to get out of the house for the fourth rite, V wanted to legit sneak out. Now that we’re here, I see the fear in her eyes.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, hating that spark of terror in her eyes. “You can go back. Tell your mom Sydney is having some kind of crisis, and just get Emory to drive you to the school.”
“No,” she says with a determinedly set jaw, “I want to do this on my own, the right way.”
I’m not sure she knows what that means, but everything we do is backwards, so I get it.
“Then jump.” I shift on the ground beneath her, holding out my arms. “I’ll catch you.”
She wiggles forward, until she’s almost dangling. She peers over the edge, eyes widening. “What if I fall and I can’t walk, and I won’t have any explanation when—”
“Come on, baby, look at me.” I make sure I look like I’m patiently waiting, but patient is the last thing I feel. If her dad comes out here, or if Jerry drives by, I’m fucked. I wait until her apprehensive eyes meet mine to say, “I promise I won’t let that happen. You’ve got this. Remember the fence?”
She sucks in a shuddering breath and I see when she finally crosses that line, eyes clenching closed. Despite everything I just said, I still feel this sharp spike of panic when she releases her grip, pitching forward and falling.
I lunge, catching her with both arms, body folding quietly around hers.
Her face is still tightly scrunched, bracing for impact. “Did I hit the ground?”
“Nope.”
She opens her eyes and looks up at me, face smoothing into a soft, relieved smile. “Thank you.”
I ease her feet to the ground, hands on her hips, making sure she’s steady. “They don’t call me a wide receiver for nothing. Catching stuff is my job.”
Her head tilts. “Did you just call me wide?”
“If I’m calling you anything,” I press a kiss to the tip of her nose, “it’s beautiful.”
She rolls her eyes, and I love it. I love that she doesn’t put up with bullshit.
We don’t linger, hopping in the Jeep and heading out to the school. I’m less nervous driving her now—less anxious in general, I suppose. Maybe it’s the better quality of sleep, or the fact that Vandy keeps leaving me food in my car, or maybe it’s just her. Things are going really well with Vandy. The rituals are almost over, and homecoming is around the corner. In a perfect world, I’d ask her to go as my date, but my world isn’t perfect.
I’ll take what I can get.
Finding the pills was pretty fucked up, though. She looked so panicked when she saw them in my hand, like her whole world was crashing down. I hate being judged on shit from my past and I’m not going to do it with her. Jesus, if she looked in the drawer in my room at all the shit I’ve nicked since I’ve been home? I don’t want to be on the other side of that judgment. My girl may not be perfect, but she’s perfect for me and that’s all I care about.
“Did you bring your stamp?” she asks, pulling the small box and the little card that came with it out of her hoodie pocket.
“Yeah.” I gesture toward the storage area behind the gear shift. “So, miss investigative journalist. Any leads on who’s leaving this shit in our lockers?”
“Or even making them up.” She turns the stamp around in her hand. It came with a small inkpad and instructions about where we were specifically supposed to leave it. For us, that’s on the back of a framed photograph of Martha Preston, the founder’s wife, which is located in the Langford room. “It seems like all of this would take a fair amount of organization. And work. And influence.”
“Someone is definitely committed to the Devil legacy.”
“Yeah,” she says, but she’s shifting uncomfortably, not looking my way. “I actually have to talk to you about something.”
I give a quick flick of my eyes. “Sounds ominous.”
“No, it’s not—” She pushes out this huge sigh that isn’t very reassuring. “This place is on the historical register or whatever, and the things inside are artifacts. Like, super rare, well documented. If something goes missing…” She trails off, but I don’t exactly need a billboard to pick up what she’s putting down.
“You think I’m going to take something,” I slowly realize. “I can control myself, you know.”
“No, I know that,” she argues, and I can see her head shake in my periphery. “I actually read this article about kleptomaniacs, and it said if there’s a chance of you getting caught, then the likelihood of you—”
I bite out a sharp, “I’m not a fucking maniac.”