Leyla wants to go to the police. I told her no, that I’m pretty sure it’s connected. Plus, we don’t have proof. I barely believe it myself some days. But the feeling doesn’t leave—like someone is in the walls. In my head. There’s something wrong with the lights. The clocks. My memories. I keep thinking about conversations I never had. Time jumps. Did I dream last night? I don’t know anymore.
If you find this—anyone—we weren’t crazy. Someone did this. We were followed. Watched. Marked.
I think they’re in the house already.
My fingers tighten on the page, and the room feels smaller now—warmer, like hot breath against my neck. There’s a part of me that wants to turn around, but the ghost of these memories already haunts me.
Hazel pulls the last journal from the pile—thinner, barely a dozen pages. She flips to the final entry and hands it to me.
March 11th
Leyla said she saw a figure in the mirror that wasn’t her reflection.
She laughed it off. I didn’t.
We’re leaving tomorrow. No more talking. No more waiting. I’m not going to die in this house.
I think it’s too late. We’re gonna go on a trip. Maybe Tennessee, maybe Pennsylvania. Just not Michigan anymore.
She’s coming for us.
The words hang there, heavy. My soulless eyes connect with the glowing embers of hers, and before I can even get the word out, she says what was on the tip of my tongue.
“He knew,” Hazel whispers, a full body shiver hitting her. I feel the same sensation slowly climbing up my back.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice shaking. “Heknewsomething was coming.”
She lifts her phone and snaps a photo of the page. “We’re not letting this end with a fire report and some bullshit news coverage,” she says with determination. Her voice is steady, but I can hear the tremor under it. “Cameron was right. Someone did this.”
I look around his office. At the one crooked blind and the faint smell of smoke still clinging to the walls. And for the firsttime since they died, I feel it, too—that creeping sense of being watched. I hated their building 99% of the time. I had really only been here once or twice before when it was just Cameron living here. The past comes flooding back to me, and it feels like it’s ready to hit me like a train running off the track.
This isn’t over.I turn to Hazel, my lips pressing to a firm line as if the words don’t want to form. “How do you feel about a trip to Tennessee?”
Her eyes brighten, a glimpse into the confident girl that everyone seems to talk about—who she portrays on social media. “Ooh—can I book the Airbnb?”
I roll my eyes but nod, seeing as I’m not gonna invite her into my home. That’s definitely not on me, not my choice. “Sure. Nothing too frufru though. We want to stay out of the way. Nowhere that's too obvious.”
The grin on her face is way too happy, and she has this gleam in her eye that she’s going to absolutely ignore my requests. I sigh knowing that I have absolutely no idea what I’m getting myself into, and at the same time realize I am in world of trouble. She’s going to be the death of me, not in the literal sense, but in every other way possible, I know I’m in deep shit.
“Oh yeah, for sure I can do that.” A feline smile sits on her face, and I just know that this place is going to be my literal worst nightmare. I sigh and accept my fate.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IN MY HEAD
ZACK
Of course, she chose the most bougie place known to mankind. The Airbnb was too clean, too curated. Like someone tried to bottle up charm, slap a distressed wood sign on it, and call ithealing. This was a random place that Hazel found. She was so excited she squealed when she found it, said it had ‘old-school rustic charm.’ Whatever the hell that means.
I hate it all. I hate the exposed beams, the Edison bulbs, the smell of vanilla and citrus baked into the fucking throw pillows. But mostly, I hate that I am here with her.
Hazel.
She’s barefoot in the kitchen, singing off-key to a Fleetwood Mac song, stirring something on the stove like we aren’t standing on the graves of the people we both loved most in the world. We had a moment the other day—we almost had something in Cameron’s place—but I can’t go there. She’s off limits, and she’s also just too damn young for me. I’m too old tobe dealing with this shit. I won’t let myself get distracted when we finally have a sort of direction.
Lincoln sent me information from the guys, and he thinks we should lay low for a few days and just hang out at home. Hazel jumped on the chance to come to Nashville—something about finding her ahot cowboy. I stopped listening and let my mind wander for a few minutes until Hazel’s voice breaks me out of whatever moment I was slipping into.
“You’re offbeat,sweetheart,” I say, not looking up from my beer. My voice isn’t malicious, but still taunting.
