Chapter 97
Camila POV
Dragging the now clean laundry basket up the stairs felt like a minor workout–l
-like my reward should’ve been a slice of cake and not a bunch of folding.
I carried the warm basket of clean clothes back to my room, the scent of detergent clinging to my fingers. It smelled better now normal. Like lavender and something that could almost pass for peace. I took my time folding each shirt, each pajama pant, each hoodie like it might disintegrate in my hands. I half expected to find another crusty surprise, but nope. This batch was safe.
At least, for now.
Once everything was neatly folded and stacked away in my wardrobe, I turned to the darker task. Literally.
The bag of stained clothes was still by my door. Just sitting there like a rotten secret. The longer I looked at it, the heavier it felt.
I grabbed the bag and muttered, “Time to cremate the evidence.”
The sun was out, annoyingly cheerful, and the birds were chirping like everything was perfect. Meanwhile, I was out here with a trash bag full of disgusting laundry, trying to figure out how to light it on fire without making a scene.
I was halfway to the firepit when I saw him.
Greg.
Standing there like some leather–skinned demon summoned straight from the worst part of my life, taking a lazy drag from his cigarette. He didn’t see me at first–thank God–but I froze like a deer, clutching the bag to my chest and silently screaming ‘turn around, turn around, turn
around‘.
Too late.
He looked up, squinting in the sun. “Camila?”
Damn it.
I plastered on the fakest smile I could manage and gave him a tiny wave. “Hey. Just… uh, doing some cleaning.”
He started walking toward me, cigarette dangling from his mouth like he was too cool to flick the ash. I turned quickly, pretending I didn’t see him, and made a beeline for the firepit.
“What’re you doing?” he asked from behind me, just as I was pulling a lighter from my pocket.
I didn’t even try to hide the irritation in my voice. “Can’t the people in this house mind their business for once?”
He chuckled. “It’s hard to mind your business when someone’s sneaking around the backyard with a trash bag like a serial killer.”
I turned, forcing a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. ‘It’s just laundry.”
He raised a brow. “Laundry that needs to be set on fire?”
“There were… stains.” I looked away, feeling a little heat crawl up my neck. Not from embarrassment–from irritation. “Bad ones.”
His eyebrows lifted like I’d just told him I found a dead rat in my sock drawer. “Stains?”
“Yeah.”
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Chapter 97
Let me see?
I didn’t want to. Not even a little. But against my better judgment, I handed him one of the shirts from the bag. One of the worst onts white one with that dried, crusty blotch near the hem.
Greg held it up, sniffed it.
Yes. Sniffed it.
I nearly gagged.
Is this also a werewolf thingy.
He stared at the fabric for a second too long before he handed it back. “I don’t know what this stain is,” he said with a weird smile.
“I never said you did,” I replied flatly.
But as I grabbed the shirt from his hand, I caught it–the twitch.
A tiny flicker in his jaw. Like he was clenching his teeth. Like something about this conversation pissed him off more than he wanted to
show.
My eyes narrowed just a little. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said too quickly.
“Mmhmm.”
I turned back to the firepit and tossed the shirt in first. Then another. And another. Greg just stood there watching like it was some kind of performance.
When the flames started licking the edges of the fabric, I didn’t look back at him. But I could feel him still there. Could feel his stare crawling up my spine.
“I’ll let you get back to your… laundry funeral,” he said after a while, voice light but strained. Then he walked off, cigarette still glowing like a slow–burning lie.
I waited until he disappeared around the side of the house before I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. The smell of smoke filled my lungs as I stared at the tiny pyre of secrets going up in flames.
And I felt it.
That same itch in the back of my neck. That same pull in my gut that told me someone was watching me.
By the time the flames died down, the sky had turned an orange kind of gold. The kind that looked soft but felt like the day was ending with more questions than answers. The burnt clothes lay in the pit, crumbling into nothing. The smell of smoke clung to my skin and hair, and even though I didn’t want to stay out here any longer, I just stood there for a bit.
Watching.
Making sure nothing was left but ashes.
Then I dusted my hands on my shorts/and turned back toward the house, shoulders heavier than they should’ve been.
Once inside, I dragged myself up the stairs, step after step, like they were fighting me back, until I reached the comfort of my room.
I sat down on my bed, pulled my phone from where I’d left it charging earlier, and stared at the screen for a second. There were no missed
Chapter 97
calls. No
texts.
Nothing
from Aunt
Anya.
She hadn’t called.
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