Page 59

Rhys Preswood

Two years later. The lodge.

The house is quiet after dark.

I sit on the couch with a glass of whiskey I have barely touched. The fire is on. The long glass wall still looks down the mountain at Harrow Mills. Two years later the town still puts lights in the trees in October. I do not check the date on my phone. I already know what night it is.

Cruz is in the kitchen. Bare feet and wearing one of my shirts. He moves through this house like he lives here, and that’s because he does. Not on paper. On paper the lodge is still mine. He still rents a place in town and trains people who pay him. As far as anyone else knows, that is all he is. In this room he is only Cruz, with no grey coverall, no gloves, and no white mask. That is the deal we made on Halloween, and we have stuck to it for the past two years.

Pell called in March. She calls once a year now. She asked if I remembered anything new about the five people who died in my building. I told her no. I did not give her a name. I did not give her a face. The case is still open, and it is going to stay open because that was part of the deal, too.

Lena was here last weekend. She drove up the mountain, stayed two nights, cooked too much food, and asked if I was eating enough. Cruz was not in the house; he’s never met her and that’s what we also agreed on. She has never seen his face as anything except a trainer I mentioned once and then did not mention again. When she left I stood on the deck until her lights were gone down the road. Then I sent him one word. He came back after midnight and did not ask how she was. He knows the rule.

Noah. Lo. Kit. Ivy. Shane.

I keep those names. I said I would. I do not say them to make him bleed. I say them so I do not get to pretend this house is clean.

He comes in with his own glass and sits at the other end of the couch, close enough that his knee could touch mine if either of us moved. He does not reach first. He learned that the hard way.

“You look tired,” he says.

“It was a long day.”

“You could have called me to drive.”

“I drive myself.”

He knows why. Shane used to wait in the car bay. I do not put another man in that seat. Not ever. We drink as the fire crackles. Down the mountain someone has music on too loud for a Sunday night. Life goes on in Harrow Mills as if five people did not die in Preswood Tower two Halloweens ago.

“Do you want me gone tonight?” he asks.

“No,” I reply, softly.

“Good.”

He says it simply. He does not smile like he won something and he doesn’t look sorry either. He had that same look the night he took the mask off, and he still has it when he thinks I am not watching. But I am always watching.

I still run the firm and still walk the thirty-ninth floor. Rafe left the year after Noah. He sent one letter. That was it. I didn’t answer it. Marcus still puts photographs into folders. Dev still knows every lock I let him know about, and the gym is still in the building. I do not train there. Cruz does not work in my building anymore. That was my rule, and he took it without a fight.

Halloween comes every year. The town still paints itself for the holiday, and I no longer answer numbers I don’t know. Cruz never puts the coveralls back on. He does not tap a mask against a phone. If he says the line, he says it with his own mouth, in this house, against my skin, and I let him, because that first hour never really ended. It just got quieter. And longer.

I place the glass down.

“Say them,” I tell him.

He looks at me. He knows what I mean.

“Noah Brennan. Lauren Brooks. Kit Mori. Ivy Chen. Shane Cole.”

He does not add an excuse. I do not thank him.

“If you ever put a hand on anyone else—”

“I won’t.”

“If you do, I pick up the phone. I do not care what it does to me.”

“I know.”