Once in the guest room, I grab the jacket, looking around the space as I tuck each arm through the sleeves. I can’t help but wonder why he even has a guest bedroom if he never gets any visitors. It’s obvious the room hasn’t been used in ages, if ever, and the decor isn’t exactly set up to receive guests, either. I mean, there’s a spare bed and a nightstand, sure, but that’s it. The closet is barren, there are no accent pieces on the walls or surfaces, no blinds on the window. There’s not even a pillow on the bed, just a single, thin, grey blanket.
Strange.
A soft thump sounds as what looks like the spare key he’d lent me this morning slips from the jacket’s pocket, tumbling beneath the bed. I groan as I lower myself onto my knees, the soreness from today’s work already catching up to me.Where is it?I straighten out my legs and wiggle my way under the bed like a snake when the back of my head thumps against the metallic frame above me. A surge of pain shoots through my scalp, and small pieces of paper suddenly fall from over my head like rain sprinkling from the sky, before settling soundlessly onto the carpet.
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
I barely manage to wrap my fingers around the key before I scoot out and pull myself up into a sitting position. I rub a hand over the tender spot beneath my hair, flicking my gaze back toward the bed, where randomly sized paper cutouts are now scattered over the carpet. There aren’t many of them, maybe five or six, but just the fact that there are any at all is odd. Where did they come from?
I duck my head back beneath the bed and scan the frame, until my eyes land on a manila folder that’s been tucked into the springs, nestled against the mattress. Seriously, this man and his papers. Letting out a sigh, I begin to gather up the pages, intending on putting them back. When a scribbled word that readsdeadcatches my eye, I freeze. Lift the small, square-shaped paper. Narrow my eyes. It’s a single sentence, all capital letters.
I AM NOT DEAD
My hand releases the sheet like it’s made of poison. What. The. Hell. Slowly, I reach for it again, thinking maybe I read it wrong.
Nope.
The words are clear. Sloppy, but legible.
Cautiously, I pick up another one.
I CAN’T HOLD ON
Fingers now trembling, I reach for the next.
SAVE ME
The sharp sound of a car door slamming startles me and sends the pages drifting back to the floor.Jesus. He’s back. I race to collect each sheet, then reach under the bed and stuff them back into the folder as quickly as possible. I’m already at the bottom of the stairwell when the front door opens. Thank god he doesn’t even look at me, just barges inside and heads straight for the kitchen. To his beloved whiskey stash, no doubt.
Dropping the loaned key onto the coffee table as I scurry by, I exit the house without a word.
I hardly notice the cold, evening air that washes over me as I walk. The handwritten words are stapled to the forefront of my mind, forcing me to see them with each second that passes.
I AM NOT DEAD.
I CAN’T HOLD ON.
SAVE ME.
A shiver races down my spine.
Why would Mr. Blackwood be hiding notes like that? Why would anyone, for that matter?
I wonder for a second if he could have written them himself, but the missing logic in that assumption tells me it’s more likely I’m justhopingthat’s the case—at least it would nix the chances of another party being involved, and I’d be able to figure out if I could help Mr. Blackwood. After a moment, it crosses my mind that the notes might not even be recent. In fact, with the worn edges, they might be fairly old. Something to do with his past? His secretive lifestyle, perhaps?
I really,reallydon’t want to believe that Mr. Blackwood could be capable of endangering someone’s life, but after seeing messages like that, and hidden away, no less . . . I’d have to be an idiot not to consider it.
A mixture of worry and plain curiosity grates at me with each step. I don’t want to get involved. It’s none of my business, and I’m not exactly the most stable person myself. But I can’t quit the nagging in the back of my mind that begs the question,What if someone’s in trouble?
Chapter 22
By the timeI reach the inn, my bones scream for relief and my stomach demands food. After running a load of laundry through the wash, a good burger and a hot bath helped me settle somewhat. I’m still physically drained, but at least the dizzy spells have backed off. With my hair damp, dressed in a pair of leggings and a T-shirt, the second I exit the bathroom is the same moment a crash sounds from across the room. I look just in time to seehimcolliding full-on with my poor nightstand, sending the alarm clock flying to the ground. I saypoorin reference to the piece of furniture and not the man who crashed into it, because it’s obvious who took the beating here.
“Way to make an entrance,” I murmur as I make my way to the closet. I haven’t forgotten who he is, or the awkward situation I put him in while I was sick the other night, but sarcasm is a great go-to when you want to avoid real confrontation.
“Still working on it.” The purr of his low voice is already gliding under my skin. I turn my head over my shoulder, taking him in.
Something’s different about him tonight. He doesn’t quite sound like the steely, foreboding Death I’ve come to expect. In fact, he even looks a little different. It’s not his clothes, which are the same fitted T-shirt and worn jeans as always. It’s not his hair, which still falls messily over his forehead. It’s not in any one thing I can place, actually, but rather it’s in a series of the tiniest things. His jaw isn’t quite as hard as usual, and his lips are almost relaxed, rather than pulled into a tight line. But it’s his eyes that are the center of my attention. Rich green swirls behind the black-grey; such a vivid and enchanting contrast, and I’m just as mesmerized by it as ever.
