There! I found the knife Justice kept strapped to his headboard. I gripped the handle. Then I took a deep breath, preparing myself.
Finn still held his hand over my mouth. He stared down at me, his expression blurred by the midnight darkness. I swear, though, he was smiling.
I hated the fact he was exactly the same as ever but also entirely different. His summer-storm scent, his salty taste, and his deep voice were all there. Even the feel of him was the same. He settled over me and inside me until I couldn’t discern where he ended and I began. Even clothed, I felt naked beneath him, vulnerable and open. I wanted to bask in the glory of his touch.
I’d always known Finn loved me unconditionally. That he’d read the words in my soul even when I wanted to hide them from him. The jealousies, the resentments, the fear, the greed, and the lust—he saw all of it, and he loved me all the same. I’d always known I had a home in him. And he’d always known the same. I’d seen his fears, his anger, his resentments, his wrath, and I loved him still. I was his home, and he was mine.
That was how it had been.
That was what it felt like now.
The shadow of his smile looked like a man coming home after a long war, seeing the front door open and his wife waiting at the threshold with her arms open wide.
He smiled as if he were almost home.
Then the weight on my chest squeezed, stealing the breath from my lungs. A violent, wrenching pain tore through me. I was disintegrating. My cells were pixelating. I was turning to sand and running through the fingers of Finn’s open palm.
I stared at his soft smile, his hand still clamped over my mouth as I gasped in pain.
Then, before I was unable to fight, I lifted the knife. Quick as an adder, I arched the blade, shoving it toward Finn’s throat.
His eyes widened. He grabbed my arm. Ripped me upright. We flipped off the bed. Crashed to the floor. And fell into darkness.
I jarred back to myself with the sudden, bursting speed of a train whistle. I gasped, sitting upright and looking around.
Another thing growing up in Hell Gate had taught me was to never panic. Panicking made bad situations worse. Panic was what often led to death. I did my very best to always stay calm.
I was on a train car. The clack, clack, clack of the wheels over the track vibrated my seat and shook the thin metal walls. The train swayed, and I swayed with it, knocking against Finn, who was sitting on the seat next to me.
The car was loud—louder than any I’d been on—and the rumble drowned out nearly every other sound. The windows were open, and overhead ceiling fans spun lazily, shifting air around the car. The fans alternated with round lights that flickered every time the train jerked.
The inside of the car was painted mint-green, and the floors were bloodred. The seats weren’t the usual plastic or vinyl; instead, they were wicker and woven in a checkered pattern. There were advertisements on the walls. That wasn’t unusual. What was strange was that the ads looked like they were from the 1930s or the 1940s.
The train swayed, jostling me closer to Finn. His thigh pressed against mine, and the heat of him spread through me. He was watching me carefully, taking in my reaction.
His attention was reflected in the window as I stared out over the East River. I swallowed painfully. We were high up, trundling over the dark water, caught between two stone towers.
We were on Hell Gate Bridge.
On the ghost train.
My breath was fast, my chest pinched. “Are we dead?”
I didn’t feel dead.
Finn didn’t look dead.
I glanced at him, taking in the smile playing at the edge of his mouth and the cautious, hopeful light in his eyes.
“No.” Then, at my frown, he added, “At least, I hope not.”
The train rumbled across the bridge, carrying us toward the misty lights of Manhattan. It moved slowly, leisurely rocking its nighttime pace.
There were other people in the train car. A woman in a long skirt and a hat, reading a book. A man in a suit holding one of the straps that hung from the ceiling. Two women whispering. Gossiping. A child resting his head on his father’s shoulder.
My mouth tightened, and my hands curled into fists.
“They’re figments,” I whispered. None of them noticed me. They were caught in whatever loop they were set to play for eternity.
