Crazy In Love (Secrets of Suburbia #3) - Ivy Smoak Page 0,59

scrolled through Pinterest and eventually found a faster recipe for the stove, but it still took three hours. Didn't they know I was about to be murdered? Fuck it. I'd just do it for less time. I turned on the burner and grabbed a stick of butter from the fridge. Less time meant less potent. So to make up for the weak pot butter, I quadrupled the amount of weed I put into it. I wasn't just trying to give Noah a good trip. I wanted him to freaking go loony for a few minutes before passing out on the kitchen floor butt naked. I paused with my hand on the butter. Why had I gone straight to butt naked Noah? I tried to dismiss the thought as I got to work on my trap.

After a few minutes the smell of weed was already filling the air. Damn it. It wasn't just Detective Torres' nose I was worried about. I didn't want Noah to know that I was drugging him either. If this plan was going to work, I had to have the element of surprise on my side. I tried to ignore the fact that it felt like someone was watching me as I hit the fan above the stove. If Noah was lurking in the hallway, none of this would matter. He'd know. I lit a few candles just in case luck was on my side and Noah didn't know I was about to drug him. Again. At least this time I wouldn't push him down the stairs. Slipped. He slipped down the stairs.

I looked over at Snuggle Muffins as I went back to the stove. He was still staring into the empty hallway toward the front door. He was being more creepy than comforting. "Here, boy," I called. "Come hang out with Mommy." I cringed. I was not this old dog's mother. The thought was silly.

His ears perked up, but he didn't move.

"Snuggle Muffins, please stop staring down the hall."

He didn't move.

I abandoned my weed butter and picked up the chef's knife. "Noah?" I whispered as I made my way over to my dog. I peered into the empty hall and swallowed hard. "Noah?" I took a few steps toward the living room. Sometimes I thought the living room was creepier than the basement or attic. I barely ever went in it. For a room with the name "living" in it, you'd think it would be more inviting. It should be called the dying room instead.

I peered around the corner but there was nothing out of the ordinary. The knife started to slip out of my hand, but I somehow caught it without cutting myself. How was I supposed to focus on baking when I could barely stop shaking?

Crap. Baking! I ran back over to the pot butter. Luckily the butter hadn't burned. The tedious process of stirring it every few seconds didn't at all distract me from the fact that at any moment Noah could pop out of nowhere and stab me. I pictured the blood from my dream this morning and touched my stomach. It was easy to imagine the sticky redness bleeding through my sweater, oozing between my fingers. I removed my hand and went back to stirring. I hated blood. If only I could stop thinking about it.

I tried to hum Baby It's Cold Outside to myself to calm down. But I could barely hear my humming over the siren outside. All I could think about was the fact that a siren wouldn't come if Noah killed me. No one would know for weeks because I was all alone. Completely and utterly alone.

Stop. I tried to imagine Noah passing out after taking a bite of my brownies. That didn't comfort me either. I kept glancing over my shoulder, the spoon shaking in my hand.

My eyes were starting to water. I wasn't sure if it was because I was freaking out and getting ready to burst into tears or if it was because of the weed drifting into the air...no. No, no, no. I stood back a little farther. Could I get high from breathing this in? That wouldn't give me an advantage. Especially if I stood here for any longer. Enough was enough. I turned off the burner and stared down at the concoction.

Would it even work? I'd barely cooked it for thirty minutes. I bit the inside of my lip. Maybe I could still put a little of the weed into the