Prey Drive by Jen Stevens
Chapter 10
the lamb
flying across town from gig to gig, I haven't had a moment to think about the mysterious light in the garage since the night I found it. When I checked again the following morning, the light was off, and I could only deduce that the bulb either burnt out, or I imagined the whole thing. Which isn't too far-fetched considering how exhausted I've been.
Except, when I think about the mystery man standing in my backyard the following night, the pieces fall together too nicely for my liking.
He hasn’t returned this week. Granted, I’ve been getting out of work much later, desperate to collect any extra wages I can to cover my bills. I don’t allow myself any time to look around when I pull into my driveway late at night, and dash over to the front door like Freddy is on my tail. I’ve also invested in some new, thicker window coverings from Goodwill to go over the sliding glass doors and back window. They’re a little worn and out of date, but they do the job. I make a point to close them before I leave each day, and don’t bother opening them again until I’m home long enough to enjoy any of the scarce sunlight they let in.
Perhaps he has come back, and I just haven’t allowed myself to see him.
Is that the healthiest approach to having a potential stalker? No. But I’m sure it’s not the worst thing I could do.
I don't have much time to obsess over it today, either. It's my first full day off in weeks, and Halen is coming over to hang out. If I mention anything about a weird noise, a mysterious light, or a creepy guy in my backyard, she'll be packing my bags herself.
“Have you talked to Mom recently?” she asks from the dining room table as I'm walking our lunches over from the kitchen. She's making her best attempt at seeming casual, but I don't miss the way her fingers lock together beneath the table, or how her heel is incessantly tapping against the floor.
“Nope.” I haven't spoken to my mother in almost a year, and she's made no attempt to reach out to me, either.
Why would she, after what she did? Or I should say, what she was unsuccessful at doing.
I carefully set her plate down in front of her before I take my seat across the table. We're having grilled cheese and tomato soup—the same meal I always made for us when we were younger. Mostly because a loaf of bread, cheese, and a can of soup were some of the few things I could scrape together enough food stamps to buy that would last longer than one meal before Mom sold them off for cash.
I assume it's what led Halen to bring up our mother. She's always had a warped view of the past. Where the meal reminds me of a time when I was forced to mature well beyond my years to ensure both mine and Halen's survival while our mother lay passed out on the couch, she probably sees it and thinks of how she would eat it beside her sleeping form.
Memories can be tricky like that.
“We never know how much time we'll have with her. Especially with how far downhill her health has gone in the past few months,” she begins to guilt, as she always does when the topic comes up.
I hold up my palm to signal for her to stop talking and roll my eyes. Truthfully, I don't give a fuck how long my mother has to live, and I'd rather pour this boiling, acidic soup in my eyes before I ever see her again. Especially after what she's done to me. If I had to wager a guess, I'd say she'll outlive both of us, just so she can torture us with her manipulation.
“She's family, Jovie,” Halen adds. I can tell she has more to say on the matter, but thinks better of it when I shoot her a warning glare.
“Keep your relationship with her all you want. Just don't drag me down with you.” My tone has a stern finality to it that lets her know the conversation is over.
Her thoughts play clear across her face, but she never puts a voice to them. Instead, she asks, “Have you heard from him?”
It seems like a change in subject—and as far as Halen should know, it is—but it's not. And it's not the first time she relates my mother to my ex-boyfriend in a conversation, alluding to the fact that she knows more about what happened that night than she should.
Casting a long, suspicious glare at her, I bring my soup spoon to my lips and slurp. “Nope,” I finally say, popping the ‘p’ at the end.
Gabe didn't take our breakup well. He didn't want things to end and didn't see anything wrong with what he did. But that's the thing about living in a free country—I don't have to give a shit about his feelings. I was done.
Done with the arguments. Done with hiding the cuts and bruises. Done pretending I deserved it all.
With a satisfied nod, Halen drops her eyes back to her plate and busies herself with eating. She may not agree with me distancing myself from our mother, but she sure as hell is glad I'm done with Gabe. They never got along.
We finish the final half of our meal in silence as the cloud of anger lingers over our heads. I hate that our mother can do this to us. That she has so much influence over Halen, she can drive a wedge between us without even lifting a finger. It's the way it's always been. She keeps us divided because that makes it easier to manipulate the situation.
Halen is the first to break the silence. She points toward the kitchen, her eyes squinted in confusion.
“What is that?”
I turn in my chair to look at whatever she's seeing, scanning the area for anything out of place. When I come up short, I turn back to face her. “What?”
Halen stands, and I watch with rapt attention as she walks to the corner beside the fridge and picks up a piece of fruit. At least, I think it's fruit. I've never seen it before.
“Since when did you start eating figs?” she asks playfully, her lips breaking into a smile as she holds the purple thing up in her palm.
It's a running joke between us and Kennedy that I'm a picky eater. So picky, in fact, that Kennedy refuses to cook for me. I blame it on the fact that I grew up only being exposed to basic meals with minimal ingredients. Less ingredients equals less cost, and every cent matters when you're trying to fill an empty stomach with spare change. That bland palette has followed me into adulthood, unfortunately. So no, I would never have picked a fig out in the store and wasted money on it just for it to sit on my counter.
How the fuck do you even eat a fig, anyway?
For some reason, I can't bring myself to tell Halen any of that. There's a revelation rolling through my bones as she holds up the odd fruit and examines it like it's going to sprout legs and run off. My blood stills in my veins for a millisecond as I realize there's only one other person who could have left something like that here. Out in the open, yet tucked away enough for me to find at the perfect moment.
Him.
It's no coincidence that he chose a fig. The infamous forbidden fruit.
It's a message. That much is clear. I just can't piece together what it might mean through the blood pumping into my brain and whooshing in my ears.
The fear jolting through my body fights beneath my skin to lash out and take Halen under with me. I refuse, though. Dropping my face into an emotionless mask, I grab the fruit from Halen's hands and toss it into the air, catching it in my palm like a baseball. I just want to get it away from her. I hate the idea of her touching anything he did, spreading his darkness onto her.
“I saw it in the store and thought it looked weird enough to try. I figure if I don't eat it, I'll let it sit on my counter for decoration.” A perfectly formed lie within seconds. I can thank Gabe for that skill.
I may not have an abusive ex-boyfriend anymore, but I do have a stalker. One that has now made it nearly impossible to believe is only a part of my imagination like I so desperately want to.
I can't decide which is worse.