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“Then I’m following you,” he interrupts my thoughts, closing my passenger door and heading for his bike.

Conversation over, I guess. I sigh, pulling my seat belt on and backing out without waiting for his engine to start. I applaud myself when I don’t even glance over to see how hot he probably looks straddling the damn bike.

Heading for the main road, I turn in the direction of my house. Within mere seconds, I hear the purr of his engine behind me. I roll my eyes, refocusing on the road ahead and not on how hot he definitely looks riding that bike. Damn, what is it with guys and bikes?

☽ ✦ ☽

Twenty minutes later, we finally pull into my driveway. I park Junie in her usual place and climb out of the truck, expecting Callum to leave now that I’m home. When he cuts his engine and pulls his helmet off instead, all I can do is stare.

The sun catches on a loose strand of golden-brown hair framing his face when he runs his hand through it, the warm light turning the edges of him almost unreal. The sharp lines of his jaw flex ever so slightly when he tilts his neck to the side, stretching in an effortlessly confident way. Why does he look so good doing something as trivial as taking off a helmet? Ugh. He grips the helmet, taking in the house in front of him for several moments before turning my way.

“It’s beautiful,” he says, holding my gaze for several seconds. The way he’s staring makes me wonder if he was referring to the house at all. “Your house, I mean,” he clarifies, clearing his throat and averting his gaze. Of course, he meant the house. I internally face-palm, again.

“Uh, yeah. She’s really something,” I say, studying him as he studies the damn house. “Do you want to come in?” I ask, unable to stop myself.

“Um, no,” he says, shaking his head. “No, I have somewhere to be. I’ll let you know if I find any leads on the music box.” He pauses and then says, “Um, be careful out there.”

Be careful out there? I arch a brow as he pulls his helmet over his head and starts the bike without waiting for a response. I watch as he backs up and heads for the main road, his form retreating into the trees as the bike roars to life. And despite the urge to yell something profane at his back, all I can do is stare as he speeds away from me.

8

Callum

If chaos had a name, it would be Lydia Aston.

I can’t get away from her house fast enough. I can’t get away from her fast enough. So tell me why there’s something inside of me that wants to turn around and go right back to her. She’s inching deeper beneath my skin, slipping past every defense I constructed so carefully. It’s irritating, and infuriating, and all fucking wrong. The control that I’ve always been so good at maintaining is growing weaker every second that I spend in her presence.

Junie?

I mean, who names their fucking vehicle Junie? Lydia Aston does, that’s who. The beat-up old thing is barely hanging on by a thread. She can’t seriously be driving that thing through the fucking forest every day. It’s not only a hazard to her and every other driver on the road, but it’s a hazard to the goddamn universe itself.

I shake the thought as another one hits me at full speed. Once again, I’m staring at Lydia’s unconscious body on the floor of that storage unit. I mean, what the fuck was she thinking when she drove out to an address left on a sticky note for her? That’s insane. No one with half an ounce of self-preservation would do something so moronic. I suck in a deep breath as the memory resurfaces.

Lydia falling unconscious. Lydia lying on the ground while my mind betrayed me. For a split second, I thought she was truly gone. And for that split second, I imagined a million ways to avenge her death. That thought alone fucking terrifies me. She said she felt fine afterward, but something tells me it’s not fine—that it won’t be fine. Who the fuck is targeting Lydia, and for what reason? And why the hell do I care?

There’s something else, too. My sanity is slipping. I’m having flashbacks of the accident, flashbacks of Kaila. I can no longer pretend this isn’t happening to me. It seems that ever since the frequencies stopped, the memories have been slowly resurfacing. Not only the memories, but the emotions, too.

I thought I was past the guilt, past the soul-crushing sorrow. The frequencies must have been keeping things at bay, healing parts of me that I thought I’d never recover from. I can only guess that in their absence, all of those wounds are slowly reopening. I feel anxious and restless, like my skin is constantly crawling. I’ve been ignoring the gut feeling that something is wrong, but now that Lydia is involved, I have to face this. Except, I don’t know how to fucking stop it. And the worst part is, I don’t know if I want to save myself. Not when I deserve it.

I deserve all of it.

I pull up to my house, park my bike, and climb off. The A-frame structure stands tall as I march toward it, its sharp angles cutting against the fading sky. The black-and-white exterior creates a striking contrast against the warm hues of the setting sun, almost as if the house exists somewhere between light and shadow. Some might say it’s plain, boring even. But that’s exactly the way I fucking like it.

Pausing near my front door, I pull my phone out of my front pocket. I need to absolve myself of at least one sin while I still have the reins on my sanity. I sigh as I scroll to Riven’s contact, hovering over it before hitting call. It rings, and rings, and rings, eventually going to voicemail.

“Riven Reilly. Leave a message and make it worth my time.”

I roll my eyes at his stupid, cocky voice recording. I fucking hate having to leave a voicemail, but this is one of those rare times when it’s warranted.

“Hey, Riv. I need to talk to you. It’s serious,” I say to the beep, hanging up once I’m done.

I pocket my phone and head for the door. As I’m walking, my legs begin to feel heavy, and my head starts to feel fuzzy. I stop, swaying where I stand. I squint at my house, blinking to clear the fog clouding my vision. Once my vision clears, I’m no longer looking at my house, but at the scene of the accident yet again. The headlights blind me as I stand before the wreckage.

This time, I brace myself for the trauma. I prepare myself to see Kaila’s lifeless, contorted body lying in the cold, wet grass beside it. I prepare myself for all the horrible emotions that will come rushing in at the sight of her. But the memory never surfaces. Instead, the headlights recede from my vision, and I feel my body being pulled backward before everything becomes … nothing.

9

The Watcher