41. Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty

M eg and I are up and dressed at the buttcrack of dawn, silently slipping our belongings back into our bags. There's really no need to creep around, given the rooms are so large and spread so far apart, but it feels necessary. My heart has been tripping over itself all night, my mind playing out all the scenarios that could happen instead of letting me sleep.

We could be followed back to the manor. The builders doing the restoration work could call Nixon on sight and I'll have to explain myself to him too. The Shadowed Souls could decide I've betrayed them and refuse to speak to me again.

Placing an envelope on my pillow, I step back, chewing on my sore lip. I owe them the truth, but if I do it in person, they'll convince me to let them tag along. The photos were a clear message. Whoever has been watching doesn't like me with them. If this stalker sees Hughes Manor as of much as a sanctuary as I do, taking five guys back home might aggravate him even more.

"Ready?" Meg whispers. I nod, slipping my strap over my front. We hold our shoes, careful not to make a sound whilst tiptoeing through the mansion. The sun hasn't risen beyond the bay windows, the wait staff yet to rise. Aside from the ticking of an old grandfather clock at the base of the staircase, it's eerily still. Meg goes ahead while I pause on the top step, looking back the way I've come. I'm stalling. Hoping someone has the intuition to come stop me. Then I shake my head. I need to do this. I need to know if I've overlooked something from Mr. XO. Were there signs? Clues?

Clicking her fingers, Meg brings me back to the present. I rush down the stairs to join her. We only pause long enough to push our feet into our sneakers, moving quicker now. We're halfway to the front door when I hear the soft but unmistakable creak of leather from an armchair. A light switches on a second later and we freeze, Meg's hand already on the handle .

"You two really are as stupid as I thought," Wyatt groans. Pushing himself upright, he grabs a duffle bag which was sitting at his feet.

"And where do you think you're going?" Meg pops her hip, failing to keep her voice down.

"I'm driving you idiots back to the manor. Or did I misinterpret the sneaking-out plan?"

Wyatt emerges from the darkened corner, one eyebrow raised. He's dressed in black slacks and a white polo shirt that hugs his broad chest, complete with leather jacket. His dark brown hair is swept back, his green eyes dulled due to the lack of real lighting. If he's been awake all night, waiting for this moment, there are no dark circles under his eyes to show it. My stomach plummets as he saunters over to us, taking in our attire and demeanor.

"You're not coming," I hiss.

"Correction - I am, and I'm driving." Jingling a set of keys in his hand, I stutter, at a loss for words. Meg nudges me, silently urging me to come up with something plausible to change his mind.

"For what possible reason? You hate going home."

"No, I hate being around you. But I also don't like being lied to." Unlocking the front door, Wyatt pulls it open and waits for us to pass through first. I half-expect some sort of alarm to go off, sensing Wyatt is leading us into one trap or another. But it doesn't and I'm left scowling at the side of his face.

"I've never lied to you." In truth, I've barely spoken to him in all these years. It's a pity really, but of his own creation. Wyatt's face is illuminated by the Bentley's headlights briefly flashing.

"Good to know, but I'm talking about Nixon." Wyatt clenches his jaw, popping the trunk for our bags. Once inside, he slams it closed, making no effort to be stealthy. He looks at me briefly, but no less filled with irritation than usual. "There's something going on at the manor, and I plan on finding out what it is."

With every mile put between us and Huxley's home, the less sure I am that this was the best idea. My unease is doubled by the figure in the driver's seat, one hand on the wheel and tapping his thumb to the music of his choosing. Meg and I took the back seats, keeping our distance. For all we know, Wyatt could speed off the edge of a cliff, putting us all out of each other's misery.

Spotting the sun just about to crest on the horizon, I press my lips together. It won't be long now until my phone starts blowing up, and then I'll be the one begging for that cliff roll. But no phone calls come. Not as much as a message. I decide then that I've cut my ties for the last time. Dax won't forgive me twice. Whether it's a curse or a saving grace, my sleepless night catches up to me. I barely register my head dipping onto Meg's shoulder as images take over, plaguing my mind.

Dark rooms, flickering candles. Eyes blazing red with their anger. More people I've drawn in like moths to a flame, just to push them away and create heartache that never needed to exist. The figures talk to me, echoing back thoughts I've struggled against for too long.

Why do you do this to people? Can't you help yourself from causing pain? Why can't you just disappear? How are you so unlovable?

I wake some hours later, stretching my legs and filling my appetite at a small diner before we get back on the road. So it goes; sleep, stretch, refuel and carry on. Wyatt doesn't speak unless necessary. He pushes the Bentley to over a hundred miles an hour at any given opportunity, eating up the distance to Brookhaven. It's not the most exhilarating thirteen hours of my life, but at least Meg is there for small talk and comfort.

For a good, long while, we discuss the murder mystery party my mom had planned for Thanksgiving Fest. The characters are already assigned in brown envelopes, the matching attire in a box in the attic. One last extravaganza in her name. I sigh, falling back into a fitful sleep as I remember the parties from previous years, when everything seemed so simple.

Finally, I peel my eyes open to shades of gold and pink coating the sky. We're no longer on the open road but instead, we're navigating through the urban jungle of towering buildings and blinking neon signs that is the Manor's neighboring city. Beyond the tinted windows, the streets are alive with people heading out to start their weekend off the right way. Risqué outfits and beaming smiles, high heels and tiny handbags. Women line the sidewalk, all the way to the Ambassadors Theatre where a dance group similar to the Chippendales are performing tonight. Meg's face lights up as her hand squeezes mine, and Wyatt snorts in the front.

"Not a chance." Instead, he slows and turns in the opposite direction, confusing me by the back streets he takes. The car comes to a stop in an empty parking bay, adjacent to a tall building of brick and wire terraces. Five floors high, flowers potted along repetitive windows. Wyatt turns to face us, his green eyes cold and unreadable.

"We're here," he says simply before exiting the car. I frown as I climb out onto numb legs, just in time for Wyatt to throw my bag into my chest.

"What are we doing here?" Meg asks, looking up at her own home building like a stranger. The light on the third floor is on, signaling her mom is home.

"I thought we were going to the Manor?" I stomp towards Wyatt. Tossing Meg her bag, he closes the trunk and tries to return to the driver's seat. Meg is waiting on his other side so we can close him in. Wyatt sighs dramatically.

"It's too late to go snooping around in the dark, especially with a stalker on the loose. We'll go in the morning, during daylight hours when the cops are more likely to respond should anything go wrong."

"You're not staying at my place," Meg reels back as if she's been slapped. Wyatt leans back against the Bentley with a bored expression and folded arms.

"Obviously. I'll be camping out here to keep an eye out."

"You think we could have been followed," I gasp, suddenly looking all around. The street is quiet, a lamppost every twenty feet to light the road. It all hits me at once and I could roll my eyes at my own naivety. That's why Wyatt has had the pedal to the floor during most of the journey, why he passed popular service stops in favor of deserted diners with stale food, why he's been on high alert. Although that goes against everything I know to be true - Wyatt doesn't care enough to be protective of me.

At his silence, Meg and I slowly walk backwards to her steps, watching him slip back behind the driver's seat. Her shoulder leans against mine.

"Do you trust him?" I breathe clutching my bag to my front in the same way she is.

"Not in the slightest. He's probably waiting to meet your stalker so he can shake his hand and welcome him into the building."

A tentative smile crosses my lips and I relax a little. "Thanks for that."

"Anytime," Meg says, leading me up the stairs to her front door. Her mother is sitting at the small dining table when we enter, doing a jigsaw puzzle with a glass of wine and some old school dance anthems playing on the radio. Her hair is pinned up by a claw clip, brown frizzy curls exploding from the top. Cotton pajamas and fluffy, bunny ear slippers are a far cry from the pantsuit and briefcase therapist who used to visit me every Thursday for our weekly sessions.

"Hey mom," Meg kisses Keren's bobbing head, breaking the trance the jigsaw and music had over her.

"Hi sweetheart. I expected you home hours ago- Oh, Avery! It's so lovely to see you," Keren sees me and shoots up from her chair. There's an awkward pause where she morphs between an over joyous smile and then tries to reign herself in, shakily holding up her hand. I knock it aside and drag her in for a tight squeeze. There's no need for polite pleasantries at this point. This woman knows more about me than anyone else on the planet.

"Nice to see you too, Keren. I'm loving the vibe going on here." I wave a hand over her outfit and the table. "Is there space for two more to join in?"

"And wine for two more to enjoy," Meg hastily adds, heading for the kitchen. "We're going to need a shit load of wine tonight!" Keren's brow twitches and mouth opens, most likely to chastise Meg's language, but a huge grin breaks out instead.

"There's a few bottles in the refrigerator!" she calls out. "Get yourself comfortable, Avery. I want to hear all about that new school of yours." Picking my bag up from where I dropped it, I turn away as Keren's hand touches my arm. "As your friend, not your therapist," she feels the need to add. I smile warmly, jumping over this blurred line with both feet.

"Of course," I agree, seeking out Meg's room. I find it easily, marveling that I've never been to Meg's apartment before. She's always insisted on coming to the manor, and being a hermit, I've never thought to insist otherwise. Slipping into the room, I opt to leave the light off as I approach the window overlooking the street. The white Bentley sticks out sorely against the night. Inside, Wyatt has reclined the driver's seat, his arms underneath his head. Through the shadows, I trick myself into thinking he's staring directly at me. My heart skips a beat as I jerk backwards.

"Make mine a double measure!" I shout to Meg, placing a hand on my chest. Whatever it takes to get my mind off stalkers, shadows and watchful eyes.