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I shook off those memories as if they were dust on my shoulder, tumbling onto the floor at my boots which thumped against the rug leading to the room at the end of the hall.

My room was exactly how I left it.

The same ornamental bedspread, the wrought iron headboard with intricate flower designs. Ruffled throw pillows and the blanket my mother knitted for me when I complained about the cold seeping through the windows one winter.

My eyes prickled as my bones felt the warmth of that blanket covering me.

I scoffed at the Twilight poster, ripping it down and crumbling it in my hands, paper fluttering to the floor. My vanity was littered with cheap makeup products, long expired. I fingered the purple glitter eyeshadow, the Juicy Tubes lip balm. Perfume bottles made by socialites and pop stars were carefully arranged like little trophies.

My mirror was decorated with Polaroids. Many of Colton and I kissing, hugging, taking lame selfies. Then there were a bunch with my friends. Us in our cheerleading uniforms, at the lake, at parties. All smiling, all obnoxious. Privileged little bitches.

I moved my attention from the photos to my reflection. I looked nothing like the girl in those Polaroids. Gone was the tan from slathering myself in baby oil and baking out in the sun. My skin was pasty, pale, covered in ink and scars. The honey-blonde hair was replaced with a deep red—the color of blood—hanging in long layers around my face, messy wild curls that I no longer spent an hour taming with a flat iron.

Heavy, smudged liner ringed my green eyes. There was no light, no innocence left in them.

I let out a sound that was a sigh mixed with a groan then turned away from the mirror, eyeing the bed.

There was a guest room. I could crash in there. Where there were no pesky memories of the girl I’d been before, no tacky scents to remind me of simpler times.

But no.

I dumped my duffle on the bed, satisfied at the way the scuffed black bag marred the frilly duvet cover.

Then I opened it up, got out my laptop, and continued my research. The sooner I found this fucking werewolf, the sooner I could pretend I was never here.

six

After a night of research and mind-numbing, fruitless internet searches, morning came fast—because I’d knocked myself out with my break glass in case of emergency combo of booze and pills.

Only vaguely deadly.

It was like playing Russian roulette with substances, reserved for dire straits. Like the time I was too late and found an entire family I’d been working with slaughtered by a wraith. Or when I’d watched a little girl be turned by a vampire while fighting the rest of the nest.

I’d had to kill her in the end too.

Not something I could repeat every night—assuming I wanted to live. Which I did, questionable life choices aside.

Waking up to birdsong, a distant mower, and soft morning light filtering through the vintage glass of my childhood window was a mindfuck.

I didn’t let myself think too hard about it. My head pounded, my nose invaded by long-expired cheap perfume and overpriced house cleaner.

I rolled out of bed, pawing through my duffel for something clean, while keeping my eyes off the décor. Mentally, I was in a motel. Temporary. Nothing dangerous on the walls.

I ran a brush over my teeth, refusing to look at my reflection in the mirror of my childhood bathroom, craving a shower but needing coffee more.

The lingering effects of my custom knockout cocktail were helpful as I descended the stairs, my surroundings fuzzy, yet the pain it caused cut through me sharper than any blade.

As I opened the front door, I winced at the glaring morning sunshine, offensive, brutal.

It took me a moment to notice him, my eyes struggling to adjust to the stark morning light. Wasn’t fall supposed to be gloomy and depressing?

My boot hovered midair for a split second when I caught sight of him. Leaning against a patrol car, in uniform, looking better than he had any right to.

I recovered quickly, sauntering down to Colton with an even expression on my face.

“Your father can’t keep a secret, it seems,” I muttered.

I wasn’t surprised that Gerald had told the Hughes family where I was, but in my head, it was a betrayal.