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“You’re actually insane.” His tone is laced with disgust as he backs away, as if I’m a rabid animal. “You’ve truly lost it. I don’t even know how to help you anymore.”

The word ‘insane’ should strike me like a punch to the gut, but maybe I am. This could for sure be what insanity is: a consuming need for answers—for justice. A need for someone to pay for the hole that has been blown through me.

I circle on my heel, storming back inside. The screen door slams so hard it causes my eardrum to vibrate and the frame to shake. I watch through the mesh screen as he climbs into his car, shaking his head. He makes a slow U-turn in the driveway, gravel crunching under his tires.

My thoughts tumble over each other. Hudson has the motive, the access, the obsession. I just need to find solid proof, anything to pin him down. I can’t let him get away with destroying my entire life.

I turn to step further into the house, only to slam into a solid wall of muscle face-first. The impact shocks me, and I stumble backward, falling to the floor. I wince when my tailbone connects with the floor. From where I lay, sprawled out and vulnerable, I can see Hudson’s car disappearing around the corner, while standing over me is Ghost.

“You’re… not Hudson.”

Ghost tilts his head, and I can see his cheeks rise beneath the mask. A slow, mocking laugh rumbles from his chest.

“I told you not to accuse random people. You should apologize to him.”

Apologize? How could I possibly apologize for accusing him of stalking me and murder? How can I even attempt to take back the words that poured out of me when I was so desperate for a sprinkle of truth?

I scramble to my feet, legs shaking, sizing myself up to the man who stands at least seven inches taller than me.

“You know what, Ghost?” I ask, laughing breathlessly; it’s bitter and broken as tears threaten to spill down my cheeks. I tighten my fists, forcing the emotion down. “I’m not even mad anymore.”

The lie makes my stomach churn.

He shifts, the tension stretching between us, tighter than a wire about to snap. I take a single step closer, close enough to inhale the smell of his cologne that gives me a hint of déjà vu.

“You’re not?”

“No… What else is there for me to do? You’re a stalker and a killer. You’re going to keep on killing, right?”

“Not today,” he teases. His carefree attitude makes me want to scream and tear at his mask with my fingernails until it is ripped to shreds and I draw blood.

“You’ve ruined my life, and yet, here I am. All you have to do is tell me who you are.”

“Soon, darling, when you’ve had time to grieve, and you’re feeling back to your normal self.”

As if there’s a self for me to return to. He has single-handedly killed that person right alongside everyone else. I’m not sure if I even want to return to her, not without Blaire. I just want to know who he is. And I’ll do anything.

Desperation is making me dangerous.

“You’re telling me you wouldn’t even tell me if I dropped to my knees and took every last drop of you?” Bile threatens to rise as I speak.

He stands up straighter, and his arms stiffen.

I run my hands up his arms; his muscles beneath the fabric of his hoodie are solid and thick; it feels like warm, raw power coiled right beneath my touch.

Meanwhile, Blaire is cold and dead in the ground somewhere in Ohio.

I trail my fingers lightly across his clothed jaw, my touch delicate. He shudders under my fingertips, and for a moment, I feel mighty.

“You wanted this, right? That’s why you’ve done what you have…” My eyes lock on the shadow where his eyes sit. “You want me begging for you. And here I am…”

He says nothing, but his chest rises and falls with a paced, steady rhythm.

I continue to feather my fingers to the back of his neck, and before he can stop me, I hook them under his hat, flipping it off in one swift motion in hopes of getting a glimpse of his eyes.

For one precious second, I do.

They’re amber.