Lost King by Piper Lennox (moboreader txt) 📗

It’d be wiser to go someplace Callum wouldn’t expect, and better for my emotional state to be with someone who knows what kind of person Callum is now. Frankie’s in denial. Hale would bitch nonstop about me dragging him into my drama, but he’d invite me in all the same.

And, if he had to, he’d beat the ever-loving shit out of Call.

But it’s another reflex. I’m suddenly pulling into Frankie’s driveway, without any memory of the trip. She runs out in her slippers and her boyfriend’s coat.

“What the fuck happened?” She takes note of my shivering and ushers me inside. I try to tell her that’s not why I’m shaking.

As soon as we’re in the small kitchen of her rental house, the details spill. She’s wide-eyed through most of it—then fuming.

“Ruby...I’m so sorry. You always said he was an asshole, but I had no idea he was like that.” Her hands push through her hair as she paces the tile. With a jerk, she turns and grabs her phone. “We’re calling the police.”

“He’s probably left my place by now.” I sink into one of the mismatched chairs around her dining table. Now that the adrenaline’s gone, I’m exhausted. “I shouldn’t have come here. This’ll be the first place he checks.”

“In that case,” she huffs, in full mama bear mode now, “I’m going to type 911, stand by that window, and hit Dial the second that asshole pulls up.”

I nod, glad to hand the reins to someone with a functional brain. Mine feels like an overloaded outlet.

The minutes tick past. While Frankie holds her furious vigil at the kitchen window, I text people who might be at Callum’s usual haunts. Maybe he stopped off somewhere to take care of that pesky two-hour clean streak.

Actually, part of me hopes he did. True, drugs and alcohol make him worse...but they also make him considerably slower and clumsier. At least he’ll be easy for police to catch, and me to avoid.

But when an hour passes and there’s still no sign of him, I get a strange, deep dread in my stomach.

Frankie pivots from the window with a disappointed scowl. “Where is he? Dick knows where my house is. He hit me up for money, like, two weeks ago.”

“I guess he’s finally done coming after me.” I sit back, the top slat of the chair popping.

I should be relieved. This is what I wanted: for Callum to finally listen to me, accept that we’re over, and move on.

“Maybe he thinks you went somewhere else,” Frankie says, listing a few mutual acquaintances while I nod along distractedly.

Something’s wrong. I can’t figure out what, but I know Callum. He wouldn’t let this go.

I sit straight. The shivering starts again as I pull up Theo’s number.

There’s no answer.

I try a second time, and a third, then curse when it goes straight to his voicemail.

“What are you doing?” Frankie follows me to the door. “Christ, Ruby, don’t tell me you’re going out looking for the guy.”

“I’m not.” Technically.

I debate telling her what I’m actually going to do—drive past Theo’s to check, then call the police if I see Callum’s car—but decide not to. She’ll talk me out of it and tell me to relax, and I can’t do that. Not until I know.

She tugs on the hood of my jacket when I try to step over the threshold. Through the house, her boyfriend yells at us to close the door.

Frankie rolls her eyes, then steps out onto the porch. When her back is turned to shut the door, I use my chance to escape.

“Damn it, Ruby!” she calls. “Don’t be stupid!”

“I’ll call as soon as I can,” I shout back. The wind is picking up, but the snowfall has slowed to almost nothing. I feel my boots crunch through the frozen surface of her lawn to the soft, perfect powder underneath.

“Ruby! Get your ass back here!”

I ignore her, pry open my door, and gun it out of her neighborhood.

Closer to Theo’s, the roads are slicker than I expected. I skid through a Stop sign, heart pounding as I feel the tires struggle to grip the asphalt. Thank God the intersection is empty.

I slow to a crawl outside his house. Through the ornamental grasses near the street, I scan the driveway. It looks empty. I exhale with so much gratitude I could cry.

Then I turn back to the windshield, and skid to a long, sliding stop again.

Callum’s car is hiked on the curb in front of me, just to the right of the driveway entrance.

My hands are back in flight mode. All of me is. Every movement is jerky, too forceful: yanking up my parking brake, tearing my keys from the ignition, stumbling my way out of the car and up the driveway.

The stone pavers are like ice blocks. I slip twice, catching myself on what I now think is a sprained wrist.

Footprints stagger through the snow ahead of me. Callum’s new shoes.

I use them to get traction, following the same path he took to the door.

The open door.

Out of all the shocks to my system tonight, nothing makes me freeze quite like this: the sight of that enormous, luxurious, wide-open door, so heavy it doesn’t even sway with the wind.

Unlocked, as always.

38

There’s blood on the floor of the foyer.

I stare at it a second, as though I can tell from sight alone whose it is. As though that matters. If Theo noticed even a drop, he gave Callum a serious edge.

There’s a handprint on the wall—faint pink; more blood—and the paintings are crooked. I hurry past them, my wet boots sliding and squealing.

My pulse pounds through my skull. Please, let him be okay.

When