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I should be frightened by what he voices; I should get up and start running for the hills, just like I should’ve long ago. Instead, they settle into me with a warmth I’ve been searching for my whole life.

“Maybe that’s the hope.” Even as I say it, I know it isn’t true.

The conflict within me is as palpable as the cool night against my skin.

Preston smiles, the corners of his eyes slightly crinkling, and his dimple shows, transforming his entire face.

“The only way I’m going down is if you’re going down with me. I can’t live without you, but I can’t risk being in the afterlife without you either.”

He stands, towering over me, leaving me alone with the remnants of our conversation. I sit there for a long time, the night enveloping me in memories both new and old. I try to figure out how I can feel so much hatred for someone, and somehow it transforms into this. How love and rage can be so intertwined for me.

* * *

I open my eyes to a new grey sky, but the room is bright with natural light. I hadn’t fallen asleep in Preston’s bed; I remember curling up in the chair that sat off to the side of the room, and yet, here I am wrapped in icy, black silk sheets.

The spot next to me is empty, but the wrinkles in the sheets are proof he had been there. I sit up slowly, wincing at the aggressive shine flooding my vision.

“Do you not have curtains?” I ask, cupping my face with my hands.

I swallow hard when no answer comes. Silence doesn’t come without warning signs anymore. My nerves have learned to interpret quiet as danger. I throw the covers off and stand quickly; no longer is the girl who freezes with fear.

“Preston?”

A soft knock interrupts, and I feel my shoulders drop as the tension I didn’t realize I was carrying releases. It’s a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a polite smile, dressed in black scrubs and an apron around her waist.

“Mr. Grant asked me to tell you he had to make a run to your home. He left not long ago.” She has a slight accent I can’t place. French, maybe? “He says he wanted to tidy some things up and grab a few items for you while you stay here. Breakfast is ready downstairs if you’re hungry.”

I nod, following the woman through the hallways that seem to stretch on forever. The house is a labyrinth of expensive art and carefully curated emptiness. It’s beautiful, the same way museums and art galleries are.

The dining room is enormous, with a glass wall that lines the entire length of the space, just like the one in Preston’s room. Outside light makes everything glimmer. I sit at the far end of the table, feeling small and out of place among the crystal and china.

The housekeeper has barely disappeared before another staff member appears, a young man who moves with efficiency. A plate is placed in front of me with eggs, sunny-side up, bacon, and waffles arranged on the other side. Fresh berries scatter along the edges, and real maple syrup fills a glass souffle cup.

“This looks incredible, thank you,” I say with a breathy laugh. And I mean it: I can’t remember the last time I had eaten something that didn’t come from a box or was reheated in a microwave.

“I’ll be sure to let the chef know.” He gives me a quick smile and vanishes, just as everyone seems to do in this house.

I eat slowly, savoring each bite. I’m not sure if I’ve never eaten something so good in my life, or if my appreciation is heightened by the nature of my situation.

When I finish, I pick up my plate, suddenly uncomfortable with the idea of leaving it for someone else to deal with. I need to move, need to be around people rather than alone with my thoughts.

I wander through the hall until I find the kitchen, following the sounds of activity and the smell of something baking. The space is huge, all stainless steel and wooden surfaces with equipment that looks more suited to a restaurant than a home.

“Excuse me,” I announce my entrance as I step fully into the room. A man in a black chef’s coat jumps, patting his stomach as he laughs.

“Ah! Let me get that for you! You must be Wynnie—nice to finally put a face to the name.” He reaches for the plate with flour-dusted hands and places it in a sink the size of a small bathtub.

“You know who I am?”

“Of course. Everyone here knows about you. Preston talks about you all the time; he has for many months. I’m Blayze, the chef. Any time you find yourself here, just say the word, and I will happily make you whatever you crave.”

The casual way he mentions Preston talking about me makes me flutter with uncomfortable flattery.

“He talks about me?”

Blayze grins, his cheeks creasing from his age as he wipes his hands on a towel.

“All the time. He’ll come home from those library visits in the best of moods. He talks about a brilliant woman who recommends books and has opinions on every one of them. ‘The librarian says this’, ‘the librarian said that’. Drove the rest of us crazy if I’m being honest. We kept telling him to admit his feelings, but he was far too shy. Glad to see he finally grew some cojones.”