The Devil Inside

12: Lie

Calla stood poised on the threshold of Vincent's house, her finger hovering over the doorbell.

I want to know the truth.

The dogs hadn't yet caught her scent. She could still turn around. Turn around and—

And what? Ignore him? Pretend that he isn't breathing down your neck, ready to expose all your secrets?

She pressed the doorbell, only to realize that the damn thing didn't work. So she rapped her knuckles against the screen door instead, and grimaced when the chorus of dogs immediately sprang to life.

He doesn't know what he's getting into. She'd told herself this again and again, each time she caught her reflection in the mirror—and the cold, dark look in her eyes. He doesn't realize what's waiting at the end of this rainbow.

Vincent would find no pot of gold, no glorious truth revealed. He would find only darkness and death.

He would damn them all.

"Back!" Vincent's harsh order reached her before his shuffling footsteps did. And then he was pulling back the door and glaring through the screen—

"Hey," she offered lamely.

"Calla!" He immediately stepped outside, struggling with the broken screen door and fighting to keep the pack of dogs at bay—a mixture of hounds and retrievers. While Vincent's back was turned, she pinned the nearest dog with a narrow-eyed glare. Its bark faded off into a low whine.

"Sorry," she muttered as he finally wrestled the door into place, panting. He wore only gray sweatpants and a white tank top, which emphasized his chest in a manner that was far too distracting, given their current predicament.

A predicament he hasn't brought to your doorstep yet. Why hadn't he approached her with his wild theories? Did he suspect the truth? Did he fear her?

But as he gazed down at her, she saw no fear. Only embarrassment. "Hey. I wasn't..."

"I know." She wrapped her arms around his middle. He immediately embraced her, sighing into her hair.

"I'm glad you came," he murmured, the sound of the dogs nearly drowning out his words. "Wanna get out of here?"

"Only if you do." She smiled up at him. His broad grin told her that was exactly what he wanted to do.

He nodded to his truck. "Wait in the truck. The keys are inside." He shoved aside the screen door and disappeared back into the house, cursing at the dogs as he went.

Smiling to herself, Calla turned and trotted down the steps, onto the cracked walkway below. The front yard looked as it always did—littered with an assortment of beer cans and fast food wrappers, most of it overflowing from the garbage bin near the road. She wrinkled her nose at the mess, and at the man who had caused it, sitting somewhere within that wretched house.

She'd met Vincent's father only once. The encounter had been an unpleasant one, with the din of the dogs as their backdrop. The reek of alcohol on his breath, the red rimming his eyes, the stains on his shirt...none of it had had much effect on her.

It was the way he spoke to his son. The way Vincent sometimes flinched if the man so much as spoke.

He'd grunted at her from right there on that porch, muttered something about another one, eh? to his son, and that had been that. He'd disappeared inside without another word, leaving Vincent standing in the front yard, fuming, with his arm around her waist.

Calla climbed into the passenger seat and started the engine, rubbing her hands together to ward off the frigid air. Vincent no doubt had gone to grab a jacket, maybe even an overnight bag. He had the art of packing down to a science.