Following the sound like it’s a beacon, I move toward the en-suite bathroom. I don’t turn on the light—I can navigate this space blindfolded by now, and somehow the darkness feels safer. Like if I can’t see the memories, they might not see me.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
It’s coming from the massive walk-in shower. I reach inside, my hand fumbling along the wall for the faucet. I twist it, expecting the sound to stop. It doesn’t.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Water still leaks from the showerhead, each droplet a tiny bomb exploding in my consciousness. My heart pounds against my ribs so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t wake Matteo. My lungs constrict, the air suddenly too thick to breathe properly.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up. The bathroom walls seem to shift and morph in the darkness, concrete replacing marble, blood replacing tile. I fumble for the light switch, desperate to banish the shadows.
Harsh fluorescents flood the space, momentarily blinding me. I blink against the assault, and for a second, I could swear I see Adam’s body reflected in the mirror behind me.
I whirl around. Nothing. No one. Just the empty bathroom and me, naked, wild-eyed, and trembling. Refusing to be nude while I battle my mental demons, I find an oversized t-shirt that belongs to Matteo and put it on.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
“Stop,” I whisper, the word scraping my throat like sandpaper.
I need tools. Something to tighten the fixture, to make the fucking dripping stop before I completely lose my shit. I dropto my knees, yanking open the cabinet beneath the sink. There must be something.
My hands shake so badly I can barely grip anything. Bottles of cleaner topple over. A hair dryer clatters against the cabinet door. I push them aside, searching, frantic now. There… a small toolkit I don’t hesitate to grab.
I drag it to the shower, spilling wrenches and screwdrivers across the tile in my haste. The splint on my wrist makes everything harder, more awkward. I grab the biggest wrench, not even sure if it’s the right tool, and climb into the shower.
“What are you doing?”
The voice barely penetrates my thoughts. It doesn’t matter. I’m not answering ghost Adam, and I just know he’s the one who asked me a question.
“We’re not doing this anymore,” I growl, ignoring my thoughts about ignoring him. “No more talking, Adam. You’re dead and I’m free.”
Water drips onto my face as I reach up, trying to tighten the showerhead. My hands won’t stop shaking. The wrench slips from my sweaty grip, clanging against the tile with a sound like a gunshot.
I flinch, expecting Finn to appear, gun in hand. Sweat or tears—I don’t know which—stream down my face as I retrieve the wrench. I can do this. I can make it stop. I just need to focus.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” I mutter, the words falling from my lips without conscious thought.
I attack the pipe connecting the showerhead with mindless desperation, twisting the wrench with all my strength. Something gives way with a metallic groan, and suddenly water erupts from the connection point, spraying in all directions with shocking force.
“No, no, no,” I cry, backpedaling out of the shower.
Water gushes from the broken pipe, splattering against the glass enclosure and spilling onto the floor. I lunge for the main faucet, twisting it frantically, but it only makes the spray worse.
The bathroom fills with the roar of rushing water, drowning out even the sound of my own panicked breathing.
I drop the wrench and scramble for the door, intending to wake Matteo, but he’s already there. He fills the frame, his tall body silhouetted against the darkness of the bedroom beyond. For one terrifying heartbeat, I see Finn instead—gun raised, eyes cold.
“Little Thief,” he murmurs. “What are you doing?”
Okay, definitely not Finn. This is Matteo. Matty. My Firestarter.
When did he come in? Why haven’t I noticed him until now? Was he the one asking me what I was doing, and not ghost Adam as I thought?
“Are you really here?” I ask, not sure I believe that any of this is real.
My chest heaves with panicky breaths that don’t seem to deliver any oxygen. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. I’m drowning—not in the water flooding the bathroom, but in memories.
