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“I love you, Ell. This isn’t your fault, okay? None of this is your fault.”

I stand just behind them, panting from adrenaline, and the glass that broke in my hand falls with a clink. Preston looks over his shoulder at me, and for the first time, he looks thoroughly broken. His eyes are wide and wild, and there are tears cutting tracks down his cheeks. Preston finally looks identical to someone who’s felt what I have.

He doesn’t say anything; instead, he holds his dying sister, rocking her slightly as her gasps become more and more labored.

It’s strange how vacant I feel inside. Scraped clean of everything that had once made me human. The revenge I dreamed of just feels like ashes in my mouth. This isn’t satisfaction; Ellie Grant doesn’t deserve death. I can’t allow myself to feel bad, though, otherwise Preston wins.

“Have we learned our lesson, Preston?” I ask, squatting down to his level, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Ellie. “Don’t ever play games with a bitch who can play it better. Now clean this shit up.”

I stand back up, turning to go upstairs and leave him alone with his sadness and the body of his little sister.

12

Darling

Ilook at the clock upstairs, just past midnight. The third hand is counting every second since everything changed. Despite it being so late, I need to relax and find my grounding again. I’m positive a bath will cure everything, and even if it doesn’t, it’ll wash away some of the evidence of what I have done.

I move slowly through the house, hands shaking as my adrenaline crash edges in, making the wine bottle in my hand repeatedly clink against my little speaker.

Each step feels mechanical—forced.

Upstairs is quieter and calmer than it should be. The suffocating stillness means that Preston is still in the basement, hopefully doing what I’d told him to. The scene from below me replays itself through my head: Ellie’s screams, the wet, harsh sound of impact, the way her body panicked and grasped at the stab wound. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memories that cling in the same way cobwebs do in every corner of abandoned homes.

A book. The last piece of my makeshift bath time ritual. It’ll help anchor me to who I used to be, something to remove me from reality.

When I get back to the bathroom, the tub is almost full, steaming and frothing with bubbles that remind me of clouds. The lavender scent is meant to be comforting, but it’s far from it.

I turn the water off and catch sight of myself in the mirror above the sink. For a moment, a long, breathless moment, I look in confusion. This is the same girl who was looking at me in the TV reflection. She has the same constellation of freckles scattered over her nose and cheeks, the same golden hoop in her nostril, and the same thick eyebrows I used to obsess over tweezing.

Her warm green eyes are still green, but now they look rotten. There’s a void behind them; life has been replaced with coldness.

The cut across my cheek is a strong, raw reminder of what I had done and who I’ve become. It’s deep enough that it’ll scar. A piece of me is glad; let it be a reminder. Let it mark the before and after.

I braid my hair slowly, watching the stranger imitate my every motion with eerie precision. My fingers work through the dark red strands, muscle memory from years of practice. The girl doing it is an alien; her pupils are large, bags thick beneath. The more I stare at her, the more I see it—not just trauma or shock, but its strength. A dangerous kind of strength.

There’s a thrill that comes with it.

Is this how Preston feels all the time? A feeling of being untouchable and being capable of anything?

I leave the girl in the reflection behind and sink into the bathtub, letting the heat engulf me. It draws all the tension from my muscles. The bubbles are a thick blanket for me to hide behind. I lower myself further until only my face is above the surface, and my braid hangs out of the tub.

I feel weightless for the first time in a long time. I take a long sip of wine, rich and red, though cheap, then close my eyes. I’m trying to outrun the thoughts that spin like a broken record.

I killed someone.

No… that isn’t quite right.

Ghost had haunted me… no, he’d infected me worse than a virus, changing my DNA, my thought patterns, my very core. He changed me. He’s made me into a creature harsh enough to hurt, deadly enough to kill.

I reach for my wine again, fingertips brushing the delicate stem, when the water shifts violently at the feel of something entering the tub with me. It sloshes over the porcelain edge with a wet slap, soaking the plush bathmat and sending a wave across the floor.

My eyes snap open to find Preston sitting at the opposite end of the tub, fully clothed. Boots and all. His dark pants are soaked through, his hoodie is off, but his shirt clings tightly, almost as if it’s a part of him. Water drips steadily from the tips of his hair where the water splashed him. He looks terrifyingly calm, as if this weren’t a strange occurrence at all. As if it wasn’t completely fucking insane.

“Preston—”

He cuts me off with a slow, knowing look. Those raging gold eyes are holding mine with laser focus. He leans forward and, with careful movements, picks up my feet, placing them against his chest like I’m a doll to be positioned.

A puppet in his freaky theater.