Page 22 of Kane

“Sweet dreams, Pumpkin,” I say, closing my eyes as exhaustion hits me hard, and suddenly I can barely keep my eyes open.

And as I lay there on my couch, in the darkness with a cat purring against my neck, I let sleep drag me into wordless, warm submission.

Chapter Eight

Ryder

“How was work?” Claire calls out as I make it through the door. I stomp the snow off my shoes before I take them off. The house smells amazing, and I can’t deny I’m starving. These twelve hour shifts are killing me, and I’m over the sugar crash from binging pastries to get through to the end of my shift.

“Fine,” I call back, heading down the hallway into the living room, only to be met by the deadly stare of Tori, who I can only describe as the physical embodiment of a black cat or a cursed crow.

When Claire offered for me to move in with her, I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea because of Tori. She doesn’t live here; but she’s here all the time.

Sometimes I think she’s got it out for me because my sister asked me to move in instead of her, but I can’t really prove that. Tori’s not the talkative type. Not like my sister.

“Tori,” I say, giving my best fake smile. I swear she can smell fear.

She gives me a suspicious glance. “Ryder.”

I swear I feel a bead of sweat break out as I slide past her, noting she’s got one of those true crime documentaries on again. It’s all she watches and listens to. Apparently that’s how she and my sister met—at the bookstore, in the true crime section.

I don’t know how they find that stuff so interesting, but then again, I guess my extracurricular activities aren’t any better.

I make my way into the kitchen, where Claire happily greets me by shoving a pan of uncooked lasagna at me. I sigh, taking in the sight of the kitchen—which looks like a bomb went off in it. Which isn’t uncommon, actually. There’s open containers and ingredients strewn about on every surface, and it’s hotter than hell in here because our kitchen’s tiny and the oven is like a furnace sometimes.

“How long?” I ask.

“Four-twenty-five, thirty minutes,” she says, dismissing me with a wave. I scoot past her as best I can and do as she asks, sliding the pan into the oven.

“Anything else you want me to do, your highness?” I tease her.

She smiles, her amber eyes glittering in the kitchenlight.

“Could you chop up the onions?” she asks sweetly, batting her eyelashes at me. “For the salad?”

I sigh and scan the kitchen for any sign of onions, and finally find them barely perched on the ledge of the kitchen table. I grab them before they can topple over in protest.

“Sure.”

As usual, Tori sticks to her beloved documentaries, while Claire and I work on getting dinner ready, which is fine with me. I’m not sure I trust her around the knives, even if they are dull.

“So, anything interesting happen today at the buzzing little beehive?”

She teases me as she swipes an olive from the cutting board where I’m working. I glare at her.

“Careful, or you’re going to lose a finger,” I warn her.

“Ryder, you’d have to saw my finger for hours with a butterknife to even cut through the surface,” she jokes.

“I don’t want to know how you know that,” I say, and it’s the truth.

I’d rather stay ignorant in case one day I have to appear in court. I think that’s a solid defense.

“Tori told me.”

Of course she did. Because on top of her serial killer obsession, she’s a med student and knows all kinds of weird shit that most people would find creepy. But my sister seems to be pretty into it, so I guess there’s a lid for every pot.

Every black cat needs their golden retriever.