“Cynthia,” he says, the name ripped out of him. “That’s her name. She was hysterical, but she wasn’t alone. So I left them to it.”
“Who was she with?”
He exhales, the sound of a man deflating. “Rourke. Her boyfriend.”
I still.
“You mean… Detective Rourke?”
“But of course,” he says weakly, a sheen of sweat on his upper lip. “Is there another Rourke I don’t know about?”
I stand, pushing the chair back. “Thank you,” I say, already opening the door.
“St. Clair—” he calls. “You forgot your paper.”
* * *
I give the can one last shake, then I tag the brick. The R gets a real nasty curl at the end, and I let a fat drip slide down toward the pavement.My masterpiece.
WELCOME TO THIS YEAR’S FUNERAL : A NIGHT TO DISMEMBER.
The black paint looks like blood, thick and wet, clinging and twisting around the edges of the old tape lines where the Formal banner used to hang—now ripped and crumpled on the ground.Good riddance.
I lean back, hands on my hips, and soak it in.
The bell rings and the first shriek is a bonus, comes faster than I expected, followed immediately by some girl’s gasp. “No fucking way,” some dude yells, and just like that, a crowd forms. A perfect, gawking audience. They’re pointing and laughing, whispering like a bunch of damn gossips. One of them reads it out loud, all dramatic, and their heads swivel, hungry for the culprit.
I’m already front and center, spray can dangling from my fingers. The artist at his own fucking gallery.
More people push in, voices getting louder. “What the hell—” “Oh my god, he didn’t.” “He did.”
And then, the voice I’m waiting for. “Jax?”
I finally turn, a grin spreading across my face. Sisk is standing at the edge of my little circus, arms crossed so tight she might pop, eyes burning a hole right through me. She’s wearing that dark green sweater I like, the one that makes her skin look like warm honey, and her hair’s pulled back just enough to make me want to pull the tie out and watch it fall all over her shoulders.
“Hello,” I say, cool as shit. Like we’re bumping into each other at a party.
She closes the distance, stopping just before the wet paint like it’s some kind of infectious disease. “You’re not even trying to pretend anymore, are you?”
“Pretend what?” I play dumb, but I know exactly where this is going. It’s always the same dance with her.
“That you don’t want attention,” she shoots back. “That you’re not pulling this shit just because you know you’ll get away with it.” Her eyes flash with that familiar fire, the one that tells me she’s both pissed and, let’s be honest, trying damn hard not to be into it. “Because you’re a St. Clair and everyone else has to play by the rules and you don’t.”
I glance up. “Well… it is my name up there, isn’t it?”
Her glare could cut glass. “You think that’s funny?”
“I sure do.”
“You think this is going to stop me from going to the Formal with Ivan?”
I let a real slow grin spread across my face. “Nah. But it might make you reconsider the theme. ‘A Night to Dismember’ has a nice ring to it, right?”
“You’re such an asshole.”
I lean in a little, lowering my voice. “Thought girls liked the bad guys.”
She scoffs, but it’s a little shaky. “You’re not a bad guy, Jax. You’re just lonely.”