REAPING INNOCENCE ◦ STILINSKI [3]

xiv.

xiv. MISCHIEF MANAGED

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CARTER KNEW THAT she was dreaming.

Instead of fighting it, she found herself falling deeper into her slumber, because of who was going to be in the dream. He was always there.

She was at a house party. She spotted Scott sitting with Stiles and Lydia on a loveseat in the corner of the living room. She settled on a large ottoman opposite them, and she heard conversations start to pick up again around the room.

"You look great," said Lydia warmly. "I just love that red sweater."

Carter nodded in thanks. "Where's Kira and Malia?"

"Kira and Malia? I don't know, around somewhere, I suppose. There's a lot of people here."

That was true. The decorative living room was packed, and from what Carter could see the crowd flowed into the dining room, the front parlor, and probably the kitchen as well. Elbows kept brushing Carter's hair as people circulated behind her.

"It's crazy that no one's talking about the murder," said Scott. "Everyone was talking about it last week."

"But not all the details," said Stiles firmly. "In fact, there are things the police still haven't let out because they think it might help them catch the killer. For instance"—he dropped his voice—"do you know what I heard my Dad say? Dr. Hank was talking to the guy who did the autopsy, the medical examiner. And he said that there was no blood left in the body at all. Not a drop."

Carter felt an icy wind blow through her, as if she were standing in a graveyard. She couldn't speak. But Lydia said, "Where'd it go?"

"Well, all over the floor, I suppose," said Stiles calmly. "All over the altar and everything. That's what the police are investigating now. But it's unusual for a corpse not to have any blood left; usually there's some that settles down on the underside of the body. Postmortem lividity, it's called. It looks like big purple bruises. What's wrong?"

"Your incredible sensitivity has me ready to throw up," said Scott in a strangled voice, fishing his inhaler out of his pocket before taking a puff. "Could we possibly talk about something else?"

"Well, you weren't the one with blood all over you," a familiar voice said from behind Carter, a brief moment of still air settled before the figure stepped into her line-of-sight. Allison Argent was standing alive and breathing with a towering Isaac beside her; their hands locked together.

"Have the investigators come to any conclusions from what they've learned? Are they any closer to finding the killer?" Isaac asked.

"I don't know," said Stiles.

"Can we please stop talking about this," said Carter desperately. If there ever were a place not to discuss this, it was in a crowded room. Stiles' eyes widened, and then he nodded, subsiding before lacing his fingers with Lydia's—the strawberry-blonde girl leaning into his side.

"I think I'll go see what kinds of refreshments are provided," Carter said.

She was hungry. In the dining room someone had set up an assortment of finger foods that looked surprisingly good. Carter took a paper plate and dropped a few carrot sticks on it, ignoring the people around the bleached oak table. She wasn't going to speak to them unless they spoke first. She gave her full attention to the refreshments, leaning past people to select cheese wedges and Ritz crackers, reaching in front of them to pluck grapes, ostentatiously looking up and down the whole array to see if there was anything she'd missed.