Incandescence

30: Suspicions

I'm pretty sure that if there are rules to being discreet, I've broken every last one.

The woman across the road gawks at me, eyes narrowed to slit-like gaps as I dawdle on the pavement. Gardening gloves pushed up to the elbows and sunhat askew, she's got the nosy-neighbour look down pat. A busybody. Just what I need. There's no way I can break into Samuel's house without drawing her attention.

Hopes prematurely broken, I backtrack to the corner of Turner Drive, shove my camera in my pocket and weigh my options. Coming during the day is out of the question – if I'm garnering this much attention at twilight, what chances have I got when the robins are chirping and sun's beating down with added force? Either I do this now or I come back when it's pitch black. But the problem with the latter is Sarah Sinclair, workaholic turned controlling Mother Bear, with a defensive eye for her remaining cub that's uncanny. Getting out the house unnoticed is miraculous now that her security's been breached.

"You know," a voice says at my back, "if you wanted help, you could've just asked. I answer to any call of flattery these days."

"Where did you come from?" I spin round and glare at Mason, who's suddenly at my back, the smirk on his face visible even beneath the hood. Appearing out of thin air seems to be his forte nowadays, and I'm beginning to question the likelihood that not a single civilian in Hope has realised they're living in the midst of a walking corpse.

"Same place as you, I'm sure."

"You're getting bolder."

"I'm getting smarter. With it comes a licence to be bold." He grins, bruised cheeks lifting. "People in this town are oblivious, April, haven't you noticed yet? I bet you any money I could get on a bus and draw less attention that you're doing now."

"People noticed Margaret," I say, gaze shifting back to the busybody. She's gathering the last of her garden tools, eyes scanning the road before retreating up her front porch.

"People noticed Margaret 'cause she did all she could to get noticed. Nothing screams "Look at me, bitches!" better than grabbing hold of a teenage girl and yelling 'bout ticking clocks on a bus during rush-hour." He grabs my arm, sending electrifying chills up my spine, and says, "Likewise, nothing screams "I'm up to something" better than standing in front of a sick guy's house for over an hour dressed like a CSI team-member."

"I wasn't standing there an hour."

"Sure you weren't. The dead have eyes, April."

"Are you gonna help me or not?"

"Why didn't you just ask Danny Boy? I bet he'd have just loved to play at Shady Sidekick for the night."

"Well then, I guess you two have more in common than you thought."

Mason snorts. I pull out Samuel's note and hand it over, filling him in on the events of the previous evening. "There's a key for the second address in Samuel's room somewhere," I add. "He says it's hidden in a pair of striped socks. I need to get in and out without –"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. In, out, minimum collateral damage, am I right?"

Fury bubbles to the surface of my skin. "This isn't a joke anymore, Mason. My sister's in the hands of your killers. Lena could die if we don't find them. We need that key."

"Don't you worry your pretty head. I'm on it, sweetheart." He winks and then strides round the corner, hands slipped casually into his pockets as he moves. When he reaches number eighteen, a quaint little bungalow with a well-kept garden and silver fence, I expect him to slow down, but he continues straight past it, by the house next door, carrying on right to the bottom of the street and turning. What the hell is he doing?