And a voice cries out,
Don’t kill me.
Don’t kill me.
Don’t kill me.
Chapter 9
May 16
I step onto the wraparound porch, and it squeaks a progression of minor-key notes. It’s like standing on an out-of-tune piano. I rest my forearms on the porch railing, and it wobbles alarmingly. It’s quiet this afternoon except for the warble of a magpie.Quardle oodle ardle wardle.The air smells of eucalyptus as I lean forward and gulp it in, hoping it will heal me. A dull headache throbs at my temples, and I’m still finding it hard to keep food down.
Joe’s car creeps up the driveway, and my heart lifts. He hasn’t been home since our argument. I texted him an hour ago, asking him to come home. Told him I was sorry. God, I don’t even know what I’m apologizing about anymore. I just want him here.
I raise my hand and wave hello as he parks near the porch. I hold my breath, hoping he’ll wave back. He doesn’t.
He gets out of the car, shuts the door, and I’m so anxious that I call out stupidly, “Hi!”
“Hey,” he says softly, climbing the porch steps. He won’t meet my eyes yet.
It’s amazing how much you want to say during these tense, silent marriage moments.
Where have you been?
Do you hate me?
Are we okay?
Instead, we stand awkwardly on our porch, avoiding all eye contact. I chew the inside of my cheek, bursting with all the things I want to tell him—the strange events at Black Wood since he left. Like the book on the library floor. How Reaper led me to the attic. The feeling that someone was watching me from up there.
Joe turns his attention to the porch banister. He picks at a bit of flaking paint and peels it off in one long strip. “How’ve you been?” he asks grudgingly.
I chew my cheek hard enough to bite a hole through it. “Yeah, I’m all right. You?”
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps peeling the damn paint. I lean against the railing again and notice my hands are trembling.
“Actually”—I hesitate, staring at the front door—“it’s been a bit weird here.”
I wait for him to ask why. I’m so tense I want to grab the banister in both hands and scream my head off. Instead, I reach out timidly to my husband and place my hand on his.
“A few nights after you…left,” I begin, “Reaper woke me up. He made me follow him down the hallway.”
Joe smiles a little. “Hemadeyou follow him? How, exactly?” He gently pulls his hand away, places it in his jean pocket. God, that hurts.
“I think he heard something in the attic.”
Joe gives me a withering look. “Like what?” Why does it feel like there’s an edge to his voice? Like he’s angry at me? What have I done but try to let him in?
My throat aches with unshed tears, and I just want something—fuckinganything—to hold on to. I have spent our entire marriage reaching for my husband. He’s never once reached back.
He sighs loudly. “Are you pissed at me now?”
I straighten up. “Forget it.”
Joe shrugs, but his jaw is set, and I know he’s angry. I don’t know why.I never know why. He strides to the front door and pushes it open when a loud bang rattles the whole porch, making me jump.
“What the hell?” Joe calls out angrily.
