Wayward ➳ Edward Cullen

11. Monsters

Sam swung out of the bed, an excited light in his eye. "Not a blockbuster," he agreed, reaching for the gun resting on the side table. He checked the chamber before tucking it into his holster. He crossed to a folding door, revealing a closet as he pulled it open. His duffle sat beneath several hanging shirts and pants. Unzipping his bag, he shuffled around inside until he emerged with a familiar, thin leather case. His lockpicking kit. "C'mon."

"Sam?"

"Trust me," Sam replied.

I followed Sam out of his room and down the stairs. Dean was laying on the sofa, holding his soda cup on his chest as he channel surfed. His eyes shifted to us as we approached before returning to the tv.

Sam went for the coat closet. "We're going to Port Angeles."

"You've got to be kidding me," Dean replied, gaze leaving the television as his brows dropped into a sharp v.

Sam pulled his jacket out before turning to regard Dean. Meanwhile, Dean had sat up and set his soda on the coffee table.

With my own jacket in hand, I met Dean's suspicious gaze. "C'mon, Dean. We're just going to see a movie."

"It's extra credit for class," Sam added, shrugging into his jacket.

"What class?"

"French," Sam answered. "There's a special showing of De battre mon cœur s'est arrêté at the Green Theater." Zipping up his jacket, Sam added, "Or you can take me and—"

Dean tossed up his hands, palms out, "No way, man." He looked horrified at the suggestion. "Having to read during a movie is just wrong."

Bless Sammy's quick and devious mind.

We didn't stick around to give Dean a chance to change his. The chill was back as the sun started to fall outside. "That's another week of chores you owe me," Sam said once we'd shut the doors to the truck.

The truck woke up with a growl that rattled the steering wheel. I threw it in reverse and eased out of the driveway. "Like you don't want to find out as much as I do."

Sam shrugged before he turned to look out the window.

The drive to Port Angeles took longer than it had with either Jess or Edward. We still had our weapons in the cab, but even if we didn't, I doubt the truck could've managed anything over sixty-five without shuddering apart.

Seagan's Funeral Home was on the Northern side of town, inland from the bay. It looked like an especially long ranch house. A large billboard out front displayed images of the recently deceased on a video screen. Waylon Forge's picture flashed, a shot of the man holding a huge fish on a dock, smiling. Beside the picture was the date of the viewing and burial.

We turned onto the next block, finding ourselves in a residential area. We went down a few houses before parking on the street next to the curb.

"Here," Sam said, handing me a ski mask he must have grabbed from the closet and his lockpicking kit.

I pulled it on, heart picking up as the synthetic fabric settled over my face. "Can you get me fifteen minutes?"

A gleam of excitement lit up Sam's hazel eyes. "Yeah."

We exited the truck. The walk back to Seagan's was brisk. I kept my hood up and my head down. When the building came into view, we exchanged a short nod and went our separate ways. Sam to the front door to handle anyone that may still be inside with a bogus story. I headed to the back of the building.

There was another parking lot, complete with hearse. I crossed the lot at a quick jog, coming up to a back entrance covered by a long dark blue awning and lit by a buzzing porchlight. I had to trust that Sam was doing his part as I unzipped the lockpicking set. The hooks inside could be mistaken for dental instruments.