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And just like that, he’s gone, leaving me alone in a tub that suddenly feels too big and too cold. My breath comes in shallow puffs as I try to wrap my head around what just happened. I’m confused by the entire interaction. The wine glass trembles back into my grip, and I down the rest of my drink.

Preston is right about one thing: I’ve never felt as real as those moments when Ellie’s life was in my hands.

I was present—I chose life or death.

* * *

I wake a few hours later to the sun peeking between the blinds I got specifically so Ghost can’t watch me through the windows anymore. The shadows create harsh prison-bar stripes across the bed. Fitting, I think, given what happened just below this room.

My muscles ache with a dull, persistent pain that resulted from the physical strain the night before. I lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to reconcile the memories with reality. Last night, I killed someone. Preston had sat in my bathtub with a knife to my skin, and I allowed it.

Slowly, I run my hand down my leg, feeling the softness of my skin, just to make sure it was all real.

My phone buzzes on the pillow beside me; the vibration is insistent on my answering. One voicemail from Lydia: the timestamp shows she called at 6:00 and then again at 8:00. I don’t need to listen to it to know what it’s about. Hudson. Sweet, harmless Hudson. He’s probably lying on a cold mortuary table right now because of me. Still, I tap play.

“Hey, Wynnie, sweetheart…” She sounds thick with tears, barely holding it together. “The library is going to be closed today… probably a couple of days if I’m being honest with you. I know you’re still reeling from Blaire, but tragedy has struck our library family, and… I’ll explain it more when you call. Please call me back when you can, okay? Stay safe, honey.”

She doesn’t say Hudson’s name, but her voice paints the picture clearly. Hearing it secondhand, filtered through Lydia’s sadness, makes everything feel very real. Because of me, two lives were taken last night. Two families are destroyed, and two sets of dreams are buried.

Every once in a while, my whole body tingles with numbness. Maybe a defense mechanism is kicking in to protect what remains of my sanity. Maybe the thread was already severed.

I take a deep inhale, mentally preparing myself to call Lydia back. When she answers on the first ring, I let fake concern lace my words; she sounds so raw and broken. I add a tremble here and a hitch in my breath there. I summon sadness from every book that’s ever made me cry and every loss I’ve ever felt. None of the emotion was actual grief for Hudson.

“I can’t believe it,” I wince. “We were supposed to go out last night; I was so upset when he didn’t show up.”

“Oh, Wynnie, I’m so sorry,” Lydia cries.

We talk for another ten minutes, making sure I make all the right sounds and say all the right things. The call is finally over, and I go right back to feeling nothing. I don’t even feel bad about manipulating a sweet elderly woman.

I roll onto my side, ready to toss my phone back to the other side of my bed, when I notice something sitting on my nightstand that wasn’t there before.

It’s a single pink flower, the petals velvety soft. Next to it sits a folded note. My stomach nearly heaves. I sit up slowly, my body moving the same as it would underwater, dreading what the note says. My fingers close around the paper, and I can still smell his cologne faintly: cedar and citrus.

My Darling,

We have dinner reservations tonight at Le Jardin.

My driver will arrive at six with a dress and will escort you there.

I’ve taken the liberty of selecting something I think you’ll find… appropriate.

You were glorious last night. There is beauty in poison.

I cannot wait to see how you’ve processed it all.

How it’s changed you.

We have so much to discuss.

See you tonight.

– Ghost

I look at the signature for a long time. That ridiculous pseudonym makes everything seem far more theatrical. Ghost. As if he’s a phantom haunting my life instead of a flesh-and-blood psychopathic murderer. He thinks the emotional bruises and blood are just brushstrokes in a giant painting he’s creating—with me as his unwilling muse.

This whole thing is a disgusting game to him, and yet, I’ve found myself playing it too.

I crumple the note in my fist, squeezing it until my nails dig into my palm, leaving little crescent moon marks. The ting of pain is grounding.