The Devil's Heir
Page 14
“Who the hell are you?”
“That’s enough,” he snaps and snatches a handful of my hair, his other arm wrapping around my waist, yanking me against his chest, so close I could bite him.
So I do.
Without thinking, I lean forward and sink my teeth into his shoulder. I grunt when he only flinches, groans my name.
My scalp burns as he forces my head back.
Luke’s teeth are bared. “That hurt.”
My bottom lip quivers. My breath shaking. My mind is utterly blank. All of Aunt Polly’s lessons in self-defense gone.
Either way, I can’t move my head, his fingers like steel in my hair.
“You’re hurting me,” I choke out.
His grip immediately loosens. “Are you going to bite me again?”
I shake my head, finally able to move.
Neither of us blink, afraid of what the other will do.
“I’m going to let you go.”
When he does, my entire body sags.
I have to grab onto him to keep from hitting the ground, only allowing myself a second to touch him before snatching my hand back like he’s acidic. Coating me with his lies and assuming I’ll come out unmarred, unaffected, indifferent to them.
I take a large step around him, make my way toward the bedroom door.
My head is held as high as I can hold it. Halfway across the room, my knees buckle again but I quickly regain my footing. When I make it back into the hallway, I shut the door behind me for the security of knowing if he comes back out.
Alcott is conveniently standing at the front door, ready and willing to drive me home.
“Thank you,” I whisper to him when the luxury sedan pulls up to my apartment.
Dinner is still steaming on the countertop. I must have just missed my aunt.
I drag myself down the wall, my sneakers heavier than usual. My room is empty and bare, much like Luke’s. Sitting on the edge of my bed, fixated on the Hale mirror, I almost see her.
The version of me that Luke does.
But just as I start to see her, she’s gone.
Back are the dark circles under my eyes. The pounding in my temples. My mused hair.
Anything but lively.
I take the next day off.
The pounding in my head hasn’t stopped since I left the manor. Visions of a woman I’ve never met ruined any chance of sleep. No amount of Advil or homemade chocolate chip cookies helped.
I tried to think of anything but what I saw at the manor, even debate if I overreacted. After all, I only had a quick look at the painting. I blame it on the conversation I had with Lily just before walking through the door to the manor.
But despite all that, it still wracked my brain. I even stayed up past my bedtime to watch a crappy TV show marathon with Aunt Polly after she got home. She baked more cookies and told me that she went to see Daisy’s dad. Thanked me for the introduction.
I didn’t want to think of demonology or the rumors about the Hale family. I just gave her an “uh-uh” and continued numbing my mind via the television. It was late when I went to bed so I willingly and peacefully slept through my alarm this morning. I have nothing to do today and was going to take advantage of some quiet time.
But apparently, my friends have the same idea because Daisy and Becca are standing in front of my door. I thought the knocking was in my head but the high-pitched voice on the other end tells me my imagination is real.
“You really need to get a cell phone,” Becca says when I open the door.
“Come on, we’re already late.”
“What are you guys doing here?” I ask them.
“We thought we could all use a break.”
“And what’s wrong with you?” Becca asks. “You look like you were hit by a truck.”
I feel it too.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“Well, come on. We’re losing daylight.”
For emphasis, Freddie honks from below.
I hold a finger up.
Within seconds, I’m in jeans and a long-sleeve sweater. I pocket the money my aunt leaves for me every day in case of emergency.
I follow my friends down the stairs and into the truck.
“Where are we going?”
Tyler’s the first to acknowledge me. “We’re going to the mall in the next town.”
I don’t have a chance to give my opinion because we’re already driving.
This is only my second time going out of town. There isn’t much to do on the outskirts of Diablo, so most of the kids don’t go out very often. The only worthwhile place is the Barn, and that’s only on the weekends or Friday nights.
It’s a beautiful afternoon, so all of the windows in Freddie’s truck are rolled down. It’s not dinner time yet, so there’s no traffic getting out of the town and onto the main highway.
Daisy’s hair is pulled in a high ponytail. The ends of it whip me in the face as we drive down the highway, and I’m not mad. I lean as far back as I can without squishing the girls next to me and smile when Freddie turns up the music.
I don’t know what he’s playing, but everyone else is singing the words. Instead of feeling left out, I’m oddly in sync with those around me. I found my perfect role.
Becca leans forward so she’s flush against the back of the driver’s seat and is resting her hand on Freddie’s shoulder. When he reaches up to grab his girlfriend’s hand, steering the car singlehandedly, I sigh somberly.
Wishing I could feel a fraction of the happiness they share.
Not the way I felt last night.
Like a ball of nerves. Whenever Luke’s near, I’m always on edge. Ready to defend myself against his harsh words but my skin tingling, desperate to be near him. To have his hot gaze on me.
And God, when he muttered my name?
I’ve never been able to feel someone’s emotions through their words before. I could feel the rumble emerge from his chest. His groan shot right through me.
I should be afraid of him; afraid of what he wants from me. Afraid of why he’d lie about his feelings toward me. If he even has feelings for me.
But I’m not afraid.
And that’s what scares me the most.
Instead, I’m just confused. More confused than I’ve ever been in my life.
God.
When we approach the edge of town, my shoulders finally relax. From behind us, I hear the piercing sound of a siren. Everyone turns around to see a police car signaling us to pull to the side over the speaker.
“What the fuck?” Becca asks. “Did you forget to pay your registration?”
“Of course not.” Freddie snorts and gently pulls the truck over. “My dad handles everything.”
I look around the cabin at equally confused faces. With Freddie’s dad being the sheriff, I doubt any of them have had any experiences with law enforcement. My heart drops when I see Officer Valencia step out of the vehicle, and I actually curse.
“Whoa,” Daisy says, “that was a strong response. Maybe he’s here to ask for my number. He was totally checking me out on Wednesday when I was stretching out on the field.”
I don’t respond to her. My spine slides down the worn leather seat and I cover my eyes with one hand, praying I can get out of this situation.
As if my day can get any worse.
Officer Valencia approaches the truck and peers inside, catching my eyes from my slumped position. He jerks his head, indicating for me to get out of the vehicle. Freddie rolls down the window, “Can we help you, Officer?”
The dark eyed officer props himself up against the truck and barely acknowledges anyone else in the cabin. “I’m here to take Calla Jones in for further questioning.”
The silence chokes me. “What are the charges?”
From my still seated position, I can still see his malicious smile. “Murder.”
“She’s been cleared of all charges. We all were,” Daisy insists.
“Get out of the car, Miss Jones,”
the officer says in an egotistical tone I’ve only heard from Luke.
I clear my throat and sit up straight. “It’s okay, guys. Can someone call my aunt for me?”
“Yeah, of course,” Daisy says breathlessly.
When the back door pops open, it’s rusted hinges squeaking, Becca shoves her boyfriend. “Call your dad!”
My feet hit the dusty road and I try my best to channel Aunt Polly. I slam the door behind me and glare at Officer Valencia. “Lead the way.”
He smirks and looks at me with pity. Like he knows what’s about to happen and I obviously do not. He reads me my Miranda rights.
I slip into the back seat of the police car, for the umpteenth time, and don’t even flinch when the door shuts, sealing me inside. An innocent person has nothing to be afraid of.
But man am I tired. Tired from the night I had. And definitely tired of the sterile-smelling leather in police vehicles.
When Officer Valencia meets my eyes in the rearview mirror, there’s no sympathy in them. In fact, I don’t see much of anything.
When he turns on the siren and brings the car around to head back into Diablo, I cross my arms over my chest and lean back against the seat. I allow my eyes to close and play my life over and over again during the short ride to the police station.
From the moment I was found sitting in my own mother’s blood, to curled up in my grandmother’s favorite rocking chair cover in her blood, to becoming a dead body whisperer. Something magnetic draws me toward the sinful, the sinister, the malevolent, and continues to punish me for it. Even though I’m the most innocent person I know. I’ve never done any of the crimes thrust upon me, yet, my dreams cast me as the person I fight so hard not to be.
Whether Officer Valencia can see past the version of myself I try to be and into that darkness continuing to creep into me, or I’m secretly a sleep walking murderer, I don’t know.
God, what is Aunt Polly going to think this time? How many times can she pick me up from the police station and not think there’s something wrong with me? I can’t lose her. I don’t know what I’ll do if they take me away from her.
I bite the inside of my lip to keep from making any sounds, tasting blood on my tongue by the time the car comes to a permanent stop.
A breeze washes over the side of my face when the door opens and I finally open my eyes.
“This way, Miss Jones.”
I heave a sigh and ignore the hand reaching out to assist me out of the car. Instead of following him, I lead my damn self into the police station. I pause by the locked door leading further into the station, where the interrogation rooms and holding cells are located. When the door buzzes, I wait for the officer to hold it open for me and step into room C.
The metal chair screeches when I pull it out from underneath and table and take a seat in it.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
I glower up at him, still standing in the doorway, “Some water and a phone call would be great.”
“The call’s already been made on your behalf. I’ll get you some water. Get comfortable, we’re going to be in here for a while.”
When the door closes and he’s far enough that he can’t hear me anymore, I allow myself the smallest cry. Not of fear, or worry, but of total frustration. Is my luck truly this bad or did my mother perform some type of satanic ritual when she was pregnant with me like my grandmother once suggested? Neither of those theories will free me now.
Either the walls are soundproofed or the station is eerily quiet. On the opposite wall, the minute hand glides over the plastic face of a cheap clock. Thirty minutes have passed. Thirty-five. Forty. Forty-five minutes have gone by without a single person coming in to check on me.
At this rate, I’ll die from dehydration before they can further question me.
The door opens and the officer steps back into the interrogation room holding only a small water bottle and a large folder. Officer Valencia drops the folder onto the metal table. Its echo rings in my ears.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting.” He takes the seat across from me and hands me the small plastic bottle.
“Not a problem.”
He releases a long, satisfied, sigh. “We both know why you’re here, so let’s get started, shall we?”
I take three sips of the water bottle and push it to the side. Considering I’ve already been interrogated for the same crime, I expect this to be a similar, dysfunctional hour. “I don’t know how many times I have to be asked. I didn’t do it. I was with my friends.”
“Oh, no,” Officer Valencia says, “we’re here to talk about you. Why is Calla Jones always the girl trouble seems to follow around?”
“I’ve been asking the same question for seventeen years.”
He seems amused. “You’re not quite the saintly Catholic schoolgirl you want everyone to think you are, huh?”
Luke said something similar to me once and I took it as a compliment, but here, in the station, I’m sure it’s not meant to be. “I’m not sure I know what you’re referring to.”
“Allow me to refresh your memory.” He opens a file. A photo of me as a baby is sitting on top. “You were still living with your mother at this time, correct?”
I don’t know how he found this photo. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it. Grandmother wanted no reminders of my “previous” life with my “pathetic” excuse of a mother. But I know the tiny, dark haired baby girl is me.
From what I could gather over the years, I had only been living with my birth parents for mere months before they were killed in a motel room. Apparently, I was found sitting in their blood on the bathroom floor. “Where did you find this?”
I can hear the smug expression on his face forming. “We all have our special talents. Mine happens to be tracking down the untraceable. What about you, Calla? What is your special talent?”
Instead of giving him the answer I know he’s expecting, I decide to go with a sarcastic one, “I plead the fifth.”
To my delight, he does look momentarily surprised before I realize my mistake of choosing to battle with him.
“Well, allow me to guess. You excel in the art of deception. You use the cards bestowed upon you by the Almighty God himself to advance yourself in life…am I right? Am I getting warm?”
My arms cross over my chest, mimicking his posture. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. What cards are we talking about?”
The corner of his lips lift. “I mean being born to a doped-up mother and then forced to live out her sins underneath your deity loving grandmother. Neither were exactly your choice.”
“These are facts, Officer Valencia.” My own eyes narrow at him. “I still don’t understand what these have to do with the murders happening in Diablo.”
“I’m talking about the fact your grandmother had the exact same wound as the rest of the victims.” I inhale sharply, my breath halting altogether. “But you already know, don’t you, Calla?”
My tongue bleeds from biting it, so I won’t show any outward signs of shock. I don’t want to give him an inch.
I’m able to keep my voice even, calm, despite being the opposite.
“I wasn’t anywhere near the bodies, as you well know from reading the reports.”
My fingers rub a small, minuscule, circle on the jeans of my leg to keep them occupied but not noticeable enough he’d take my nervousness as something larger than it is — being interrogated for murder is nerve racking in itself.
“But you were found in your grandmother’s blood, were you not?” His words are sharp, slicing right through the barrier I built to keep that memory from recurring. He picks up a packet from his folder and begins reading from it. “Calla Jones, granddaughter of the deceased, was discovered crouched in a corner on her grandmother’s rocking chair covered in her blood. Jones later insisted she was trying to clean up the blood because Grandmother would be furious if it left a stain on the kitchen floor. Jones shows several signs of mental abuse.”
I make sure to meet his eyes. “Grandmother always said everything that happened was God’s plan.”
“And what exactly was your plan? Kill your grandmother, free yourself, and move across the country only to continue your newfound habit?” He leans forward to lean onto the table. “I’m not here to judge you, Calla. So you like stabbing people with a burning blade so hot it singes the skin. Interesting choice, but who am I to judge? I’ve done some bad things too. I’m only here to find the truth and make sure it doesn’t draw any further attention to this town.”
“I plead the fifth.”
“Is that what you wanted, Calla? To finally get rid of your grandmother?”
My throat tightens. “I plead the fifth.”
“Did you murder your grandmother and fake signs of abuse to get away with it?”
I want to fly over the table and slam his head into the metal table, over and over and over and over again until his head cracks open. I can envision it, blood coating his thick eyelashes as it trickles from the deep cut in his forehead. And when he smiles, his usual white teeth will be coated in his own blood and I’ll take pleasure in knowing I did that. I have the power to make a man bleed.
But he would probably be amused.
“I think your time for fun is almost over, Miss Jones.” He opens the folder and displays photos out in front of me. “Look what you’ve done.”
Across the table are the photos from my grandmother’s murder investigation. I peek at them through my eyelashes, not completely ready to transport back to that day.
I had sprinted home due to my after-school project going over time, dreading what was going to be waiting for me on the other side of the front door. I would have called, but my grandmother had no friends or relatives to speak to, so she never bothered to get a landline. I was expected to be home at a certain time, and if I was late…well, punishment depended on how many minutes I was late. And that day I was more than thirty minutes late.
When I walked in the door with my eyes down and breath halted, I knew something was wrong when my name wasn’t immediately called out. By the time I looked up and saw her on the floor of the kitchen, with her eyes aimed at the door, exactly where she knew I’d be walking through, I was more concerned at the shattered porcelain around the kitchen. It seemed like she broke every single dish we owned, and I knew she’d want me to clean it.