Page 73 of How I Met Your Murderer

“Still want you in it,” he insisted, quieter but sure.

When I crouched beside him—no way was I letting Séamus hog the middle or passing up a chance to be close to Eric—he slung an arm around my shoulders and pressed his cheek to mine, and my throat tightened. That closeness was doing funny things to my head and heart, giving it notions about what it couldn’t actually keep.

“Ready?” Eric asked, all smiles again.

Séamus bleated again, louder this time, maybe impatient. And then—because the universe hates me—he tried to climb onto Eric’s lap.

Eric shrieked. I grabbed the sheep by the wool, and the phone nearly went flying. And at that moment, the heavy oak front door of Ardruin creaked open.

Gráinne and Síofra stepped out together, the little lass’s hand gripping the countess’s waxy, pale one. Both of them looked slightly worse for wear, Síofra’s hair still lank and unbrushed, her skin still missing in places. Gráinne’s teeth looked a little sharper as she studied our woolly visitor with a wide smile, her expression one of mild hunger.

“Why the sheep? Is this part of tonight’s session?” Síofra asked curiously. She had quickly picked up some of the terms for D&D since we were playing every night, trying to fit a full campaign into a short stretch of time when Eric said it would usually be played casually over a span of months.

“I sure hope not,” I answered, wrestling Séamus away from Eric.

Gráinne tilted her head, considering. “Is it part of the ritual you’re doing with Eric?”

“No,” I said, because that was personal.

“Yes,” Eric said at the same time.

The countess and the wee lass both nodded slowly, like that made perfect sense. Then they drifted over to the van. I’d left the doors open, and they each took a seat in the back so they could watch a man, a ghost, and a sheep attempt a selfie like it was the most fascinating thing they’d ever seen.

“Right,” I muttered, glancing sideways at our audience. “No pressure.”

Eric raised the phone again. “Okay, Séamus. Third time’s the charm.”

The sheep leaned in, sniffed the camera, and then, rather than licking it like I was afraid of, settled in beside Eric like he’d decided to cooperate after all.

Eric beamed. “Here we go!” He tapped the button a few times, really working it, getting several different angles before lowering the phone and showing me all the footage he’d taken. My initial frown and eventual laugh. Him kissing my cheek. The sheep licking a bit of grass off its own nose and looking vaguely possessed.

“One more done,” he said, his voice gentle.

I nodded and tried to smile, to be glad I’d always have these photos to look back on, though my chest was tight. Every completed item was a countdown. Every laugh, every touch, every stupid sheep selfie was another step toward the moment he’d be gone.

He must have seen it on my face, the way I was looking at the pictures without really seeing them, because he took my hand. Guided me to lower the phone.

“Hey,” he murmured, so our friends wouldn’t hear. “Why look at photos when you’ve got the real deal? I’m right here, you know.”

“For now,” I whispered.

He didn’t argue. He just squeezed my hand, and I held on as we watched Gráinne start chasing Séamus, claiming she only wanted to give him a hug. The beast sped around like a panicked cloud, and by the time Síofra got up to dither between them as a reluctant referee, we were both laughing so hard tears streaked down my face.

And for one selfish moment, I wished the spell would take a little longer.

Days to Halloween: 15

There were few things finer than greeting the morning with a cup of strong, hot tea and the memory of Eric’s hands on me the night before, learning exactly what I liked. Of course, reality eventually crashed in, reminding me of all that still needed to be done.

Of what we were working towards.

This morning, once I was awake enough to tell left from right, I began by typing out a quick email to the Beacon Street Community Library—a tiny place in Boston that didn’t seem to have updated their website since 2004.

I typed with my head bent over my phone, Eric leaning in close. With the van’s engine off, cold crept in through every crack, but I’d almost swear it was body heat—and not just mine—that faintly fogged the windows despite the chill.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]