Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set

Chapter 7

The square of butter sizzled as Grant guided it around the pan with a wooden spatula. Paige sat on a barstool at the kitchen island, skillets and copper sauce pans of every size dangling above her head from a hanging pot rack.

“Mild cheddar or Jack?” Grant asked.

“You don’t remember?”

“American cheese it is.”

Grant opened the door to the fridge. Not exactly a wellspring of food—just a half-empty jug of skim milk two weeks past expiration, the usual condiments, three cardboard pizza boxes, a colony of leftover Chinese cartons, and yes, a stack of plastic-wrapped slices.

He returned to the stove with the mayo and Kraft Singles, trying but failing to remember the last time he’d made a grilled cheese sandwich, even for himself. Wondered if that had been a subconscious thing. This had once been their meal of choice, if not necessity. Just the smell of browning butter conjured up that year they’d fled foster care and lived on their own in a drafty single-wide on the outskirts of Tacoma. Grant fifteen, Paige thirteen. They’d lasted nine months before Social Services caught up with them.

Cold, broke, always hungry, yet it surpassed, in every way, living with strangers.

Grant eased the sandwiches onto the skillet and left them to sizzle.

Sat across from Paige at the island.

Under the brighter recessed lighting in the kitchen, she looked even worse. What he’d mistaken for her good complexion was foundation. Her skin was sallow, eyes bloodshot and underscored with black bags that the concealer couldn’t quite conceal. The way she sat on her hands made him wonder if it was to hide their trembling.

“I’m sorry I just showed up,” Grant said.

“You mean that?”

“Yeah.”

She reached across the table and touched his hand.

“I just didn’t know if you’d see me again,” Grant said. “Considering how we left it last time.”

He pulled away and slid off the stool, headed back to the stove.

“I could never make them taste the way yours did,” Paige said as he moved the sandwiches onto plates.

“You probably missed the most important step.”

“Which one’s that?”

“You have to add a new pat of butter to the skillet when you’re halfway done. So each side gets the love.”

“Equal opportunity buttering—I like it.”

Grant watched the new square melt. He lifted the skillet, let the butter skate across the surface for a few seconds before flipping the cold sides of the sandwiches onto the heat.

“So what do you think, big bro? Your sister, the whore. That’s a new one, right?”

Grant stared down into the skillet.

She’d always liked to fuck with him, but this wasn’t even fair.

“You’re talking about someone I love,” he said, pressing the spatula into the sandwiches.

They sizzled.

Grant finally lifted the sandwiches onto the plates and carried them over to the island.

“Bon appétit.”

He was hungrier than he’d realized, and drunker too. In between bites, he caught bursts of electric clarity—he was actually sitting in Paige’s kitchen, sharing a meal with her.

As she lifted the sandwich to her mouth, the sleeves tugged back from her wrists. He glimpsed the scars from a past suicide attempt, but thankfully, no needle sores.

“How’s the sandwich?”

Through a mouthful: “Unbelievable.”

A full minute passed.

Neither of them spoke but it wasn’t as uncomfortable as before.

Jazz slunk in from the living room.

Grant watched as Paige took tiny bites. Just the effort of eating seemed to pain her.

She said, “I just assumed you were still with the PD, but are you?”

“I am.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Fine.”

“Yeah? Some interesting cases?”

“Always.”

“So you like what you do.”

“I love it. Do you?”

“Do I love what you do?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m making fat bank, Grant.”

“So I hear.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I had to threaten Eric to get a referral.”

“Not cool.”

“He made it sound like you didn’t see guys like me.”

“Like you?”

“Low net-worth individuals.”

“Wait. You’re upset I won’t just fuck anyone who slides me a couple of hundreds?”

She had a point there.

“How about a tour of the place?” Grant asked. “Love to see what you’ve done with the upstairs.”

Her eyes went wide; her breathing accelerated.

“No.”

“Why?”

“No.” She practically yelled it the second time, leaning toward him across the island, her eyes narrowing, teeth grinding together, the ugly monstrous addict rearing its head.

“Fine. Sorry I asked.”

Grant got up and walked over to the Bose—Miles Davis noodling away on the trumpet.

“Bitches Brew? Not his most popular but as good as anything he ever did. I love this part.” He turned the volume up a few decibels. “Where’s your bathroom?”

Paige pointed to the door at the end of the kitchen.