But he doesn’t answer.
Of course he doesn’t.
Because he’s drowning in red.
Chapter 8
I’m stillin bed when the room’s alarm clock blares in my ears. My skin’s damp, eyes wide as I stare mindlessly at the white ceiling. I can still feel the fire running through my veins—hot, burning flames of rage mixed with despair. Rage toward the monster in my dreams; the devil I wanted to make suffer just as much as those boys did. And despair . . . despair from the unwelcome memories of Dad that came racing back without warning.
The temptation of sleep wove in and out throughout the night, trying to corner me in my own mind and lull me away. I couldn’t do it, though. Couldn’t close my eyes. What if I saw red again? What if that’s all it takes to bring Dad’s lifeless gaze back into view?
So I just lay here. Looking at the vast expanse of white above me. People think it’s a bright and hopeful color, white. A promise of fulfillment. What they don’t realize is it’s a trick. A trap. It lures you in so effortlessly, and once it gets you, that’s when you see the truth. It’s just as empty as the rest of us.
Maybe that’s why I usually prefer to bury myself beneath the blankets, surround myself in black. At least with black, you know what you’re getting from the start.
I don’t know when it happens, but eventually, my mind wanders away from last night until it finds its way back tohim.
Death.
A shudder ripples through me, shooting from my fingers to my toes and making my heart rate pick up at just the thought of his steel eyes boring into mine. No matter how hard I try, I can’t make sense of the reactions he pulls from me. It doesn’t matter that he let me go that night in the lake, something still draws me to him, a subtle force tugging at my soul. It’s not logical, not sound, yet it’s there all the same.
Questions and theories burst through my mind, one after another, until it feels as if my head will explode. Of course the loudest voice of all is screaming,You’re losing your freaking mind, Lou!but I prefer to ignore that one.
How could I see him yesterday, while other times I only heard or felt him? How does he just appear like that in the first place? And, more importantly,why? Also, that scar . . . I’d only glimpsed a small part of it, but how in the world would Death himself have a scar? I wouldn’t have thought someone like him could be marked in such a way.
Then again, I’d never have thought someone like him could have existed in the first place.
I kick off the covers, rising from the bed in a zombie-like fashion. I’m eying the room suspiciously when I walk to the bathroom, as though maybe if I narrow my eyes enough I’ll be able to see him. It doesn’t matter that I know he’s not here, that I can’t feel the heat he radiates; I have to believe I have some sort of control in all this, even if it’s from something dumb like squinting my eyes until I can hardly see.
I’m on autopilot while I freshen up for my first day with Mr. Blackwood. I slip on a pair of jeans and a loose sweatshirt, then tug my boots over my ankles and give my hair a quick brush through. My face looks like something out ofThe Walking Deadfrom such a rough night, but I don’t care enough to try covering it up with makeup.
Claire’s face is hidden by a curtain of blonde hair when I descend the steps. She’s hunched forward, using a manicured finger to scroll through her pink-cased iPhone. It’s because of her I’m on my way to work right now, and I figure the least I can do is be more considerate than I have been. Besides, the clock hanging on the wall behind her tells me I still have fifteen minutes to kill before I need to start walking.
I stop when I reach her, resting a hip against the desk’s faded oak. I’m just about to greet her when I hear a sniff and she brings a tissue to her nose. If not for my own unfortunate bonding experiences with crying lately, I would’ve brushed it off as a cold.
“Claire?”
Her whole body jolts at the sound of my voice. “Lou!” Her face brightens when she spots me, but her nose is tinted pink and her eyes are swollen. “Good morning. I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
There’s something wrong and unnatural about seeing innocent blue eyes gleam with repressed tears, and it makes my stomach drop. I want to ask what happened, but I don’t. I won’t pretend it’s my business, force her to address it with me, or make her uncomfortable. Instead, I offer a small smile and keep my voice soft. “Don’t worry about it. I haven’t been here long.”
Her lips curve, but the smile doesn’t match her eyes. “It’s great seeing you up and about so early.”
“Thanks to you. Looks like I’m about to become a housekeeper.”
Her brows furrow, and she tilts her chin to the side. “Housekeeper?”
“Yeah, it turns out Mr. Blackwood’s not the one who’s been putting the ads out for a caretaker. Seems to think he doesn’t need one.” I shrug a shoulder before adding, “Honestly, it didn’t really look like he needed one to me either.”
Claire’s lips drop into a frown and the crease between her brows deepens. “Well of coursehe’dsay that,” she tells me between sniffs, “but my mom says he just doesn’t know what’s best for him.”
This comment takes me aback. Her mom, too? It’s no wonder the guy’s so angry—everyone’s shoving a huge slice ofI-know-what’s-best-for-youdown his throat. No use in biting Claire’s head off for it though, so I bite my tongue instead and change the subject. “When do you get off for the day?”
“If Paul gets here on time, six.”
“Paul?”
“You haven’t met him yet?”
