CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

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A NOVEL APPROACH

"I see things that nobody else sees

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"I see things that nobody else sees."
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"He has to be at his house," I say, mostly to myself, but to Melissa as well as she drives me through the night.

"Banshee feeling?" she asks, keeping her eyes on the road.

I nod. "Yeah," I answer quietly. "Banshee feeling."

I know Melissa's risking a lot with this, considering I shouldn't be discharged for a few days. And I know I'm asking her to lie to David and Mom, but I need to know that everything's okay.

I don't get feelings like that for no reason.

We pull up to the Stilinski house, and before I get out of the car, I turn to Melissa, nodding at her gratefully. "Thank you," I say. "I really mean it."

"You're welcome, sweetheart," Melissa replies. "Let me know if everything's okay."

"I will," I say as I walk away from the car and toward the house.

I text Stiles that I'm here and that I'm letting myself in with my spare key. Once inside, I don't get a reply, but when I hear him coming down the stairs as soon as I set foot in the door. I sigh silently in relief as I rush toward him as fast as I can with the pain in my side and wrap my arms around his torso. He settles his arms around me and I breathe him in, never tired of the feeling.

"Hey, are you okay?" Stiles asks as I hold him tightly. "Aren't you supposed to be in the hospital?"

I pull away, looking into his eyes as I try to discern what's actually wrong with him. "I feel like I should ask you if you're okay," I reply. "Melissa helped me get out—I had to see if you were okay."

His face tightens, and I can tell that he knows I had a feeling that something happened. I want him to tell me what. He needs to tell me what because if I can help him, I'm going to do whatever I can. Sighing quietly, Stiles takes my hand and leads me back up the stairs, into his room, where I take in the state of it. His room had always been particularly clean. He doesn't have much stuff, but what he does have, he keeps tidy. But for some reason right now, his room is a mess. Nothing specific about it either – it's just a mess. His crime board is littered with papers and red string, but as I look at it closer, I can see the tracks of the eraser, leaving streaks of silver marker. It's like he wrote something and then didn't want to see it ever again, so he erased it furiously as to pretend it never happened.

This is . . . weird.

I turn around to face him. "What happened, Stiles?" I ask softly.

His hands start to shake. He looks down at them, wringing them furiously to stop them from doing so. I knit my brow, looking up at him. "Nothing happened, Ace," he tells me, but I can tell it's a lie. His voice is wavering and he keeps looking to the left.

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