“Maybe, but that would mean it was my fault too.”
“How?” he questions with genuine curiosity.
“She talked us into playing the game. I helped them call the spirit with the board.”
“So?” He shrugs.
“It might have been what got them killed.” I decide right then to give him more details, to let this stranger see how fucked up things have gotten in my life. “And I think I might be next.”
His lips twist as he tilts his head to the side with his eyes narrowed on me. “You think someone wants to hurt you? So then why are you out alone?”
“It felt better than sitting home alone,” I murmur, then reach for my drink, blowing into the hole before taking a sip. It’s still burning hot. I have no idea how he didn’t scald his mouth.
“So who do the police think hurt your friend?” He leads me into the question while steering me away from the notion that it’s a ghost.
“They don’t know,” I scoff. “The news makes it seem like it’s some random thing or a tragic accident.”
“But…”
“But I don’t know. When I left my house earlier, I swear there was someone up in my room, and I was home alone.”
He takes another long drink from his steaming cup, concealing half of his face so I can’t really read his expression or see if he thinks I’m being paranoid. “If there was someone there, and you were home alone, they could have hurt you then if they wanted to,” he reasons.
“I guess.”Unless they are trying to scare me to death.
“What actually happened to your friend? Maybe it was an accident.”
I pull my knees up and place the heels of my shoes on the chair by my butt. “It wasn’t an accident. They were murdered, but I don’t know the details.”
“What makes you think whoever did it is coming after you?”
“I didn’t before. I mean, I don’t know who they are or anything about them, or if they are even a real person.” My words are a little exasperated, but it’s not fun thinking about the possibility that you’re being hunted by a killer, real or ghost.
The guy sitting across from me watches me for a few long seconds. He’s probably wondering how fast he can get away from me. When he leans forward, placing his tattooed arm against the table and closing the gap between us, I expect he’s going to tell me I’m off my rocker and take off, but instead, he says, “Maybe they are just curious about you.”
“I doubt that.”
“Why? I find you very intriguing.” Half of his lips curl up in a crooked smile.
“Only because of my weird story,” I retort dismissively.
“I planned on bribing you with sweets so you would let me sit down before I knew your story,” he reminds me.
I think he’s flirting with me, so I mull over the thought and how I feel about it if he is. “How old are you?” I ask before I can get too deep into the rabbit hole of fantasy land.
He avoids my question by asking. “How old are you?”
“You probably won’t believe me if I tell you.”
“Try me.” He tips his chin up.
“My birthday is tomorrow, I’ll be eighteen.”
“You’re a Halloween baby.” He squints at me skeptically.
“Yep.” I pop the word. I’m glad he’s thinking about the date of my birthday and not my age.
“I should have seen that coming.”
