My toes squirm in my shoes, controlling the balloon trying to come up my throat. “I need in the office.”
Something urgent slides over his eyes, shifting his carnivorous stare into mania. “For what? Why would you ever go in there?”
“I want to see my file,” I murmur.
His hold on my face tightens, the dull ache flaring up a wince, my arms pinning straight and my knees locking.
He immediately relaxes his hand, coasting his fingers back into my hair and cupping my cheek while lowering his wild eyes to mine. “And who told you that you have a file?”
I’m still afraid, but his gentleness is convincing me it’s okay to tell the truth. I start to. I stutter nonsense, my shoulders hanging my weight heavier through the pads of my feet.
But how do you tell someone a ghost hangs out next to a dead guy and has a manipulative, mental pull on you?
Something tells me everyone in this house already believes I’m a nutjob. I can’t imagine it’d go over well if they found out I see dead people.
Well, dead person. It’s only been…himso far.
“Answer me,” Razor rasps, his brows flattening and his face softening.
The mint on his breath sticks to my lips, innately melting into his touch. “I don’t know who he is.”
“He?” his eyes thin. “Who’she, little bunny?”
“I don’t know,” I shrug stiffly, my jaw wiring itself shut. “I bumped into him that morning I woke everyone up and he, like, lured me into the office.”
Staring, his fingers twitch in my hair, his other hand finding my waist. “Did he touch you?”
“No… Well, I-I bumped into him b-but-”
“Hey, you’re okay, baby. Come here.” Pulling me into him, his arms wrap around my waist, triggering the natural reaction to anchor my arms over his shoulders for a protective hug.
He’s doing it again. And I’m falling for it.
At least it’s on purpose this time. It’s probably best if he views me as something he can manipulate.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
RAZOR
I have to pretend like all is well, being crammed in a booth with the two people I wouldn’t mind skinning alive sitting across from me. But I’m not fine. Nothing about this is fine. Bunny knowing about the files isn’t fine. Her apparently seeing a goddamn ghost isn’t fine. I’mnotfucking fine. The urge to burn the files with all our names, all our mistakes, police reports and news articles, all the diagnosis and fucking experimental treatments we went through is scratching at the back of my neck.
Stop looking at me like that. I don’t like it.
You wouldn’t understand. Youdon’tunderstand because I’m making sure of that. Got it? We cool? Great. Just keep silently watching. You’re really good at that.
My leg bounces harder, subconsciously brushing my hand up Bunny’s thigh for a pacifying squeeze.
She looks at me, giving me those big eyes that encourage me to break, lay it out all the line and just fucking deal with what’s bound to come afterward.
Us being out for this long, especially all together, isn’t good. Too many eyes.
“Eyes, eyes, eyes, lies.”
“Face the death.”
“Step right up!”
“Freak!”
