Page 45

Too drowsy to think too hard about it, I pop the latch and slide the window up.

His fingers curl over the lip of the window, and he pops his head through. “May I?” he asks, swinging his leg over.

“You already are,” I gripe, stepping back to let him in. It’s a tight fit, but he manages to bend himself in half, wiggling through the small opening before barging past me into the center of the room.

I blink at the open window, asking myself why I didn’t just tell him to go home.

Delphine coughs politely, tipping her head to where Sunday is pacing back and forth, wearing a hole in the carpet. The black frames covering his eyes draw my attention away from the muscle jumping in his jaw.

“Why are you wearing sunglasses?” I squawk, pulling the soft fabric of my robe tighter around me and throwing a scowl at Delphine, who looks amused by the situation. She just pokes her tongue out at me and settles on the couch to watch our exchange.

Sunday pulls his hood down and drags his fingers through his hair, tugging on the strands. He still hasn’t given me a reason why he’s invading my space like this. He has no right. None at all.

I step forward and grab a fistful of his hoodie to stop his pacing. “Why. Are. You. Here.” I grit the words out, scowling up at him. If he’s come to try to grovel again, I’m going to hex him. I don’t know how, but I’ll find a way. Maybe if I get really, really angry, I can blast a hole in his head. Or his dick.

He exhales a shaky breath, but gives me nothing.

The least he can do is look me in the eye. I step into him and reach up to remove his sunglasses, aware of my body’s proximity to his. He squints, wincing like the soft light is too much as he looks down at me with sunken eyes.

I sass him with a shake of my head, letting my eyebrow do the talking. Well?

“Can…can you actually see dead people?” he croaks, eyes shifting nervously. A memory slams into me so hard my knees threaten to give out.

“You know it’s not normal right? To say the things you do.”

I swallow hard, twisting my fingers into the hem of my sweater, but unable to tear my gaze off him. “What do you mean?” I whisper.

He doesn’t look at me. “I just…I think you need help, Bellamy. I think maybe you’ve got something going on in your head that…I can’t really understand it, but maybe a doctor can.”

I’m not a violent person, but my vision flashes as anger swells like a hot tide.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I snap at him, taking a step back. His gaze slams into mine, searching my face as he starts pacing again.

“I-I know how it sounds, I know. I just…my bones feel like they’re fucking rubbing together or like there’s”—he sucks in a stuttering breath—“like there’s too much blood in my body or something. There’s like this pressure or⁠—”

He’s all over the place, raking his hands through his hair and down his face. It’s that gesture of him digging his fingers into the flesh of his jaw that has my head in a tailspin. The bags under his eyes, the jittery behavior. I move to better see his face.

His eyes.

His eyes are swollen, glossy orbs.

“Really, Sunday? You come to my home in the middle of the night, off your face on drugs?” I’ve seen this version of him before, crawling into our dorm room at some ungodly hour. Unbelievable.

His head snaps toward me, his eyes flashing impossibly darker. “Fuck, no! No I’m not on fucking dr—” he stalls over his own words. “Okay, I smoked a bit of weed but it was like one puff, two at most.”

I open my mouth to speak, but I can’t get a word in edgewise.

“Plus, you have to be real unlucky to trip on that, right? I mean, come on. It’s weed. It’s legal here. I can handle it, and it wasn’t—it was nothing. Not even a quarter leaf’s worth, seriously.”

I chance a look at Delphine to find she’s watching him with intent, her head tilted to the side as if she’s working out a particularly difficult puzzle. Her eyes are narrowed as she speaks with words only I can hear.

“There’s something awfully wrong with him,” she says warily.

“Wow, thanks so much for your input. I couldn’t tell,” I deadpan.

Of course, Sunday thinks I’m talking to him. “What? I swear I’m not lying to you. I haven’t touched the hard shit since I was twenty-two.”

I don’t believe him. He looks completely wired. Paler than usual, clammy. He can’t stand still, rocking his weight from one foot to the other with nervous energy.