Five hours later, the mounds of questions eating at me are actually causing my head to ache. I’m light-headed as I finish up with the vacuum, and for the first time since working here, I need to take a five-minute rest break. Shit, I hope I’m not getting sick again. That’d have to be some kind of record, right?
But why won’t he answer a single question? Just one? He and Grams have that in common, the desire to keep a tight lid on their pasts, and it’s driving me freaking crazy. The creepy messages, all the drinking, his supposed research, his lack of family or friends, his mysterious relationship with Grams . . . it doesn’t paint a very comforting picture.
It’s one thing for someone to end up so alone out of pure spite, but something deep in my gut tells me there’s more to Mr. Blackwood’s story. That his loneliness has been shaped by circumstance, rather than carved by his own hand. Maybe it’s the moments of sadness that pass through his eyes, or maybe it’s my own somber past that has me seeking out similarities in his. I don’t know. For whatever reason, I can’t stand to see him suffer like this. He’s downright killing himself.
Nope, no more. I decide right here and now that I’m a grown ass woman, and if I want answers, I’m going to get them myself. I slowly rise to my feet, taking a deep breath until I’m certain I’m not going to pass out from the nausea that’s been creeping up on me, and move my gaze to the filing system stowed beneath the coffee table. I bet there are plenty of answers crammed into that little container. If Mr. Blackwood refuses to talk to me, I’ve got to explore other options, right?
Just one peek. One teeny, tiny peek.
I take a step toward it. Then another. I reach forward, my hand only inches away—ah, hell. Who am I kidding? I can’t do it. Can’t cross that line. Clearly, I need to grow some balls.
In the meantime, there is another option that comes to mind.
The walk home is longer than usual, thanks to my increasing fatigue. I get a text from Bobby on the way that makes me laugh, though, which is nice. A few days ago, he accidentally sent me a random picture of his shoe, so I sent him a picture of a doorknob. And so a tradition was born. Yesterday our theme was windows, and today it’s apparently sidewalks. I smile and slip the phone back into my pocket, making a mental note to text him later.
My legs are shaking by the time I pull open the inn’s front door.
“Oh my gosh, Lou. Are you okay?”
Judging by Claire’s greeting, I look fantastic right now.
“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s not as bad as it looks,” I lie, leaning onto her desk for support. “I was wondering . . . your mom knows everything about everything around here, right?”
She laughs. “That’s what she likes to tell us, yes. Why? What’s up?”
“I was hoping I could talk to her? It’s about Mr. Blackwood.”
“Oh, no.” Her face falls in an instant, blonde brows knitting together. “I’d heard the rumors, but I try not to listen to them. He’s really as bad as they say?”
“No, no, it’s not that. He’s fine. I just—I have a few questions.”
“Sure. Well, you called it—my mom’s the best person for the job. In fact, she’s probably home right now if you want to . . .” Her words trail off as her nose scrunches up. “Um, well, maybe you should wait till tomorrow? After you rest some?”
I groan, becoming more nauseous with each passing second. “Yeah, probably a good idea. Where will I be able to find her tomorrow?”
“She’s helping with setups for the weekend festival. It’s right on Clark Street.”
“Great. Thanks, Claire.”
“Yup, anytime. Hope you feel better soon.” She flashes me a warm smile.
“So do I.”
Just as I start up the stairs, I hear her voice call from behind me, “And be sure to call the front desk if you need anything! Maybe Paul will share some of his . . . medicinal herbs . . . with you.”
I can’t help but laugh at that, and I can hear her own giggle fade behind me as I slowly progress up the steps. By the time I reach my level at the top, I swear the hallway is spinning. The floor moves below my feet, and I’m impressed I’ve made it this far as I fumble with my key. I barely manage to close the door behind me before I head straight for the bed, so ready to collapse. Except I can’t stop swaying. Or the room won’t quit moving, it’s one of those. Almost there. Just a few more steps now.
Crap, it’s hot in here. Or is it cold? Am I even walking anymore? My vision is closing in on me, the shape of my bed gradually losing form. No, no, it’s definitely warm. I know this heat. His warmth. It’s here. Behind me. No, in front of me? My eyes squint, trying to latch onto something solid, but it’s all blending together . . . the bed, the loveseat, the nightstand. I can’t make them stop spinning.
“H-hello?” I stutter. My voice sounds like someone else’s. A far off, muffled noise. “Are you here?”
Seconds later, another wave of heat pours over me from head to toe. A heavy blanket settling over my body. He’s here. He must be. Ifeelhim. Right?
Jesus, I don’t know what’s real or what’s in my head anymore.
My neck, scalp, shoulders, toes—that heat, it’s everywhere, hot breaths brushing over every inch of me. But something, something’s wrong. I can’t pinpoint it. Every second of contact he has with me is also a moment of absence, every stroke of heat mixed with ice. It’s like the warm blanket wrapped around me has been punctured, and sharp icicles stab through its holes until I finally start to break down and shiver.
The clouded blur of my vision deepens, swirls of darkness taking over, and my bones ache beyond belief. I’m losing strength by the second, losing any part of myself that feels solid. My knees buckle, giving out from beneath me. I should be collapsing, but I can’t tell if I am. I don’t feel any muscles holding me up, even my neck has turned to mush, and by now all I see is pitch black.
