All I want to do is ask her if she slept well, the kind of asinine small talk I’ve always avoided. Either you slept or you didn’t; nothing to it. Now I’m swallowing the words because this time Iwantto know because it wasmyarms around her waist,mychest her mattress, andmyheat her furnace. I want the data of it. The truth of it.
Did she sleep better because I was there? Were her thoughts, at any point, occupied by the journal—that rogue piece of me—I’ve given her? I picture her turning it over, tracing the penmanship with a finger, knowing it came from my hand.
Fuck, what a thing to care about.
“Abestayedin 10B because it was closest to the kitchens,” she emphasises, taking two steps closer, hands trembling with excitement. “But George—one of the unfortunate smokers—swears they had a fourth occupant… came in while they were high, got pissed they messed with his things, packed up and then just left.”
The actual content of her words catches up to me and bites my ankles, so I drag myself out of the coffin of wanting her. “Hold on, how do you even know all this?”
She looks beyond pleased that I’ve asked. “I spoke to George, obviously; he’s in the infirmary. He said the fourth roommate’s bags were there when they moved in late last night, but he wasn’t. He only ever saw him once, when they were high out of their minds, and then he vanished.”
“Vanished, she says. And this doesn’t strike you as, I don’t know, anunreliable perception?” I drag a hand across my recently clean-shaven jaw. “Francesca, those three were chemically compromised. They could’ve hallucinated the entire thing.”
“Wait,” she mumbles with a frown, almost irritated with herself. Something shifts in her eyes. “Urgh,dom; I should’ve started with that. I never told you what was found when they did air testing.”
My throat narrows. “What?”
“Formaldehyde.”
Philip could’ve run me over with his car, and it would’ve hurt less. I close the gap without thinking, hand to her waist, drawing her to my side, then angle towards the windows to take a quick inventory of the shadows. Nothing but landscaping gravel and excessive topiary.
“Once is an accident,” I murmur, and my right hand rises slowly, stopping just shy of cupping her throat. Even through perfectly matched foundation, I know what lies there. “Twice is a coincidence.”
Her head leans back against nothing, elongating her throat, and for a second I forget to breathe. Our disparity in height gives her a fragile appearance, but that isn’t what kills me. It’s the trust in her stare, a mirror to the image in Frank’s wallet.
I watch her mouth frame each word. “You don’t believe in coincidences, Eric.”
“Correct. But you’ve learnt something from me, darling. I know you have.” She arches a brow. “Three times—now that makes a pattern. And you’ll give me one, won’t you?” I feel her inhale, eyes on my lips. “Go ahead.”
She holds her theory behind her lips like a cherry stem, testing to see whether she can accomplish the knot before showing it to me. With bated breath, I wait.
“I think the formaldehyde had nothing to do with their weed. I think they were truly smoking. That’s all. They must’ve panicked about the smell of it, and the fourth roommate happened to have a candle.”
“Yeah?” I ask, plucking it from her like a confession.
She nods. “Hm, poisoned themselves. And when the fourth came back, he panicked, packed his things and fled. Then I thought of you, how you‘detest unsourced stories’, so I dug deeper.”
The brat shamelessly mocks me with my own words. I ought to be irritated, but hearing my words in her mouth only makes me want to feed her more. Loyal servant on my wrist might just be out of a job soon.
“Good girl.”
It’s indecorous, the way she takes the praise. What she does isn’t mortal, and if you’ve never seen a ghost preen, you wouldn’t understand. She feeds on it, feeds on me—and I let her.I cradle the back of her skull, fingers coming through until I find what I’m searching for: the little ridge that was swollen last night. It’s subsided, but my fingers stay there, feeling how heavy her hair is. Fuck—has it always been this long? Strands spill over my hand like ink, dragging down past her back until they brush her thighs.
She watches me watching her, lashes low. “I watched the footage. It shows that Abe Williams slept in 10B, and whoever warmed his pillow in 4A is the man who attacked me last night.” That sentence shouldn’t be said so calmly, yet she maintains her composure.
“You recognise him?”
“No, that’s the problem; he gave every camera the back of his skull. Turned his head just right, like he knew the angles.”
My suspicions were correct then; he’d been lying in wait. Inside.He knew the cameras.He knew her fuckinghome. Rage tries to jump the gun, but I collar it. No way I’m repeating Milan’s mistake. Space. I need to step back, need the sting of cold air between us to soothe my anger.
The face on my watch informs me the hour is worse than I thought. No time. “Tomorrow, we’ll circle back to this. One crisis at a time. Your grandmother’s expecting me soon to meet the main branch of your family.” I flick my eyes to my watch again. “Tonight, we smile for pictures, but you need to stay close to me. I don’t care if you drag me to talk with every single person; I’ll be there.”
“You’ll hate every second; it’s a dull affair.”
“I hate most things, so that’s irrelevant. Are we clear?” I urge, but she hesitates. “Francesca…”
I step further back because I need to see her face properly. Need to catalogue the alert she’s wearing like a second skin. She crosses the gap I made between us, pressing her warmth into me and reminding us both of what I’ve wordlessly vowed. Lace-gloved hands grip the lapels of my jacket, no asking, no pleading. Higher they go, on my collar, then my neck, until I have no choice but to follow. My forehead comes to rest against hers, and her eyes shut, blocking out the room.
