by T. L. Martin
I’ve gone over the scenario in my head more than once, and despite knowing it may not be true, I can’t fathom why else he would’ve reacted as he did after seeing my face that first time. Hearing my full first name.
I have to know. I have to say it aloud. I take in a deep breath, willing myself to just spit it out. It’s been over a month since she’s been gone. You can talk about her without falling apart, Lou.
“Did you know my Grams?” I finally ask. “Tallulah Mulligan?”
He brings the bottle back to his lips, taking several long sips before pulling it away. He lets out a low hiss and shakes his head. “What, did no one ever tell you never to trust a loony alcoholic’s memory?”
I roll my eyes for two reasons. One, he’s avoiding the question. Two, a housekeeper collects more insight into their employer’s life than a hired detective could. In just one week of employment, I’ve already begun to suspect Mr. Blackwood isn’t as physically reliant on alcohol as he appears. Nor is he as—in his words—‘loony’ as he lets the town think. For these same reasons, I decide to ignore his question altogether and ask another of my own. “How well did you know her?”
Before the last word’s even out of my mouth, Mr. Blackwood’s setting down the whiskey bottle and striding toward the living room. Just as he’s about to walk right past me, though, he pauses. “Well enough to recognize the spitting image of her with one glance.”
He allows only a second for that to sink in before he’s off again. I look over my shoulder to find him settling into a spot on the sofa and digging through a small pile of papers on the coffee table.
My feet are glued in place, a small smile playing on my lips. That may seem like an evasive answer, but really, what he just did was give me what I needed—confirmation that he knew Grams, and hope that he’ll, one day, tell me more. And maybe . . . maybe he’ll even get more comfortable having me around. Open up, wanna chat more, and we’ll become almost friends, or—
“Hey,” he grumbles from behind me, “am I paying you to stand there and stare at the wall?”
Yeah, too soon, Lou. Too soon.
Chapter 16
I kept my head down and my hands busy all day, but really my mind was spinning with questions about Mr. Blackwood and Grams.
How exactly did he know her if he didn’t move to town until twenty years ago? Then again, perhaps Claire’s mom was wrong about that.
What would their relationship have been, though? Not going to lie—I even entertained the possibility of him being my grandfather, in spite of their huge age gap. See, Grams? I accuse silently. Could’ve prevented all my wild notions if you were a little more open with me. Sometimes refusing to talk about something is exactly what beckons the curiosity in others. Nosiness thrives on closed doors.
Dad called it ‘filling the vacuum.’ The expression had come up one day when I asked why he always seemed sad. Even on his happy days, the sadness never quite left his eyes. Just like all of my memories involving Dad, I remember the day as vividly as if it were yesterday.
“Um . . . Daddy?”
“Yes, pumpkin?”
“Why . . . why are you so sad all the time?”
He looked away from the open hood of his car, eyebrows furrowing as he fixed his gaze on me. “Now why would you think a thing like that, Lou? I’m not sad when I’m with you.”
“Sometimes, I hear you at night. When you’re having bad dreams. And I know you’re sad, Daddy. I know it.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the wrench in his hand a little tighter. After a moment, he opened them and smiled softly at me. Even his smiles were so, so sad. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. Sometimes when you’re sad, it just means your heart is so wonderfully full of happy moments. And mine, pumpkin? My heart is packed. Achingly so.”
I smiled a little. That didn’t sound like such a bad thing at all. “Can you tell me?” I asked, angling my head upward to see him better. Daddy was a tall man. “Can you tell me what kind of happy moments are making your heart ache?”
He opened his mouth, but the screen door swung open, and Grams quickly hushed him up, mumbling something about how wallowing in the past never helped anyone.
Dad turned to her and said, “And you think secrecy does? You think not talking about things means they never happened?” When she didn’t respond, he shifted his attention back to me, kneeling down so we were eye-level. There was a serious look in his eyes then, a look that showed up often those days. “Never feel the need to close your eyes on the things that make you who you are. The good, the bad, and the ugly. You understand?”
I nodded eagerly, drinking his words down like chocolate milk despite having no concept of their meaning at the time. “Yes, Daddy. I understand.”
“Good. That’s good, pumpkin.” Then he stood and walked over to Grams, raising an eyebrow. “And you,” he said quietly, “the only thing you’ll accomplish by constantly shutting down her questions is getting a girl who spends her time filling the vacuum, concocting wild stories in her mind to provide her own answers.”
Grams took a step toward him, narrowed her eyes, and put a wrinkled hand on her hip. “Trust me, Steve. Sometimes even the wildest stories are better than learning the truth.”
I shake my head, trying to push the memory away. I can never decide if reliving moments like that make me happier or sadder than I already am.
The more I thought the situation over while scrubbing down countertops today, the more I returned to the idea that Mr. Blackwood and Grams being romantically involved couldn’t be right. I don’t exactly know how old Mr. Blackwood is, but he must be around twenty years younger than she was. I’ve done the math, and he would have been only a child when my mother was born. There’s no way.
Regardless, I found myself staring at him a little too much throughout the day.
He never once looked up from his papers, but I’ve suspected the man’s more observant than he lets on. In an attempt to not seem so creepy, I tried to distract myself from disturbing images of him and Grams by filling a bucket with hot water and soap and working on all the baseboards in the house. I then occupied my mind by searching through his bookshelves under the guise of dusting. I was trying to glimpse his work, any of his published books, but I was disappointed to find none. Whenever I’d find my thoughts straying in the direction of Grams and Mr. Blackwood again, I’d force myself to think of other things.
Of course, that only led to one other thing. One certain individual, actually. By the time I’m saying goodbye to Mr. Blackwood and walking out the front door, all I can think about is him.
I wonder—or more accurately, obsess over—why he saved me, the mechanics behind how I can see him, talk to him, and who he really is beneath the morbid title. Where does he go when he disappears? I recall the ice-like sensation that consumed my hand when it trailed after him, and a shudder runs through me.
It doesn’t help that all the questions racing through my head only bring to the surface the vivid image of him standing in my room. Right in front of me. The subtle roughness to his voice, the way his dark hair falls messily over his forehead, the green specks of color that sometimes seep into the otherwise blackish-grey of his eyes, and that tick of his strong jaw.
When I reach the inn’s front door, I’m so lost in thought that it takes me a minute to notice the familiar black truck parked on the street just a few feet away. It isn’t until the truck’s door clicks shut that I snap out of my trance and fully look up. Bobby’s walking around the vehicle, dressed casually in a pair of worn jeans and a grey pullover. He gives a slow, charming grin when he reaches me.
“I was hopin’ to catch you,” he says, pulling the door open for me.
“Really,” I reply, returning his smile. I never thought I’d see the day where it’s actually nice to run into my ex like this. At least, not during those last years of our relationship when all I ever saw was drunk Bobby. Sober Bobby, though, that’s a different story. “And why’s that?”
Bobby turns his attention to her and smiles smoothly. “Hey, Claire.”
A light blush creeps up Claire’s cheeks. “H-hey.”
I suppress a chuckle but let my eyes roll. It’s a light-hearted gesture though, one that’s been ingrained in me from so many years of being Bobby’s girlfriend. Truthfully, I don’t feel a lick of jealousy at the subtle interaction, not like a typical ex-girlfriend might anyway. Actually, I find Claire’s reaction endearing. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, my lack of possessiveness toward Bobby . . . probably not so great for him, I realize with a frown.
After a painfully quiet moment of the three of us standing in place staring at each other, I decide to let Bobby come upstairs with me. My muscles are sore from a long day of crouching and scrubbing, and I want nothing more than to change out of my stiff jeans and collapse onto my mattress. Or the rocking chair . . . Nothing like sprawling out on your bed to send a guy the wrong message.
“Come on,” I say, turning toward the stairwell. “I’m exhausted.”
He offers Claire a small wave and trails up the steps until we reach the top level. I stick my key in the door before shoving it open. For half a second I’m busy looking down at my pocket as I tuck the key back inside, but when I finally bring my gaze up, I swear my heart leaps out of my body. My hand flies over my chest as though the gesture could keep it in place.
It’s him. Death is standing—no, pacing—in the center of my room, stalking back and forth like a panther guarding its territory.
Chapter 17
Without thinking, I snatch the knob and slam the door shut in my own face. My breathing is heavy, and I’m still staring at the door when I hear Bobby’s voice right behind me.
“Hey,” he says, making me jump. His voice is soft, but when I spin around to face him, he’s looking all around like he’s trying to figure out what in the hell he just missed. “You okay?”
“I—yeah, I’m fine,” I manage, glancing back at my closed door. What in the world is he doing in my room? And while I was gone, too. My legs suddenly feel stiff, my chest tightening.
After a brief pause, Bobby shakes his head and grabs the knob. Before I realize what he’s doing, he’s pushing the door open and stepping inside. My jaw drops, the blood draining from my face as I wait for him to take in the man stalking my room. Except he doesn’t. Instead, he walks right into the middle of the room, stops a mere two feet away from him, and turns back to face me, an easy smile forming on his face.
“All clear,” he says, oblivious. He tugs at the bottom of his shirt, fanning it as he lets out a low whistle. “Feels like a fuckin’ sauna though. You comin’ in?”
Oh my god. Bobby can’t see him. It’s no wonder he can feel him, though. His presence, his heat, warms the entire room more effectively than my damn fireplace would if it were lit. My feet apparently don’t notice, though, because I’m pretty sure they’ve turned into blocks of ice—I can’t seem to move them. I’m too busy gawking at the strange scene taking place before me.
While Bobby watches me, hands now in his pockets, eyebrows furrowed, and an amused smile tugging at his lips, Death has stopped moving completely. A good four or five inches taller than my ex, not to mention broader, he’s eying Bobby like an annoying little bug that deserves to be squashed. He runs a large hand through his dark hair, lip lifting in a snarl, then shifts his attention to me.
It’s not until then that I get a full look at the expression on his face, and it is not a friendly one. His eyes are furious, narrowed as though he might kill the first living thing that gets close enough, and his lips are set in a grim line.
“Lou?” Bobby asks, reminding me I still haven’t moved from the doorway. He lifts an eyebrow. “I’ve known you since high school, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wig out like this before. What’s goin’ on?”
“Um…” What am I supposed to say? Well, so this one time, I died and met this guy who goes by Death, and he’s kind of standing right next to you. Oh, and he looks like he might kill one of us. Or both. No big deal. Yeah, not gonna work. So instead, I find myself spewing out random words in some form of verbal diarrhea. “Nothing. What? Nothing’s going on. I just—I’m—cramps,” I blurt, finally getting my legs to work and crossing the threshold into the room. Not even a five-year relationship with me could rid Bobby of his strong aversion of period-talk, and I’m taking full advantage of the fact right now. “You know, that time of the month.”
I step closer, pleased to see I’ve managed to throw him off, and Death has returned to pacing. “I mean, we can talk about it more if you’re so concerned—”
“Nope. No. I’m—nope. All good.”
“You sure?” I ask innocently, forcing my posture to appear casual as I walk past both men and head toward my dresser. If either of them were really looking at me, they’d see my hands trembling against the golden knobs.
“Ah, yep.”
I would chuckle at the way he’s suddenly avoiding eye contact if I could relax enough to do so. Instead I shrug, pulling the middle drawer open. “Okay.”
I’m so busy trying to keep discreet watch over the pair of them that I hardly pay attention to the mismatched pajama set I grab. I consider escaping into the bathroom to change, but leaving them alone out here seems like a very, very bad idea. After a moment’s hesitation, I set the items on top of the dresser for later.
Bobby starts strolling around the room, taking his time as he soaks it all in. It hits me he’s never been inside before.
“This place suits you,” he eventually says, running a hand along the brick mantle above the fireplace. He glances at me over his shoulder, his expression softening. “So, why are you havin’ so much trouble settling in?”
I frown. “I’m not. Why would you think that?”
“No pictures, none of those little trinkets Grams passed down to you, nothin’ . . . you.” He pauses, then takes a few steps toward me until our faces are no more than a foot apart. He leans down, lifts his hand to the loose hair hanging in my eyes, and gently twists it in his fingers. “I know you, Lou. And it looks to me like, for whatever reason, you aren’t comfortable enough here to settle down yet. Something’s holdin’ you back.”
I can understand why he’s coming to that conclusion. He’s referring to my stuff, the items he used to see almost every day for five years. Pieces of me, of my family. My life. He doesn’t know my bland room wasn’t a matter of choice, that Tuttle Creek Lake stole it all away.
I glance past Bobby, over his shoulder. Death has stopped pacing again. He's watching our exchange, and I can feel the fire burning behind his dark gaze. It's licking at my skin, my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. He rakes his hands through his hair, before striding the short distance across the room and pressing his palms on the wall as if he's prepared to push the thing down to get out of here.
Why is he here? If he’s so desperate to get out of my room, why doesn’t he just do that fading act and disappear already?
Bobby pulls my attention back to him by giving my hair a tug, his blue eyes looking down at me with something new—hunger. Hope. Longing.
I need to say something. I make sure to look him right in the eye when I do. “Nothing’s holding me back, Bobby. I know I made the right choice, coming here.”
He swallows, looks away, and I know it isn’t the answer he was looking for. I hate that I’m the cause of the broken expression on his face. But I’m not going to lie to him. If I still care for him at all, and I do, the best thing I can give him is my honesty.
After a moment, he releases my hair, dropping his hand. He takes a small, stiff, step back. “Okay,” he finally mutters, giving a slight nod of his head. “Then you made the right choice.”
I’m so surprised by the sincerity in his re
sponse, I’m sure it’s written all over my face. He turns away before I can respond, continuing his slow, observant stroll around the room. When he reaches the restroom, he steps inside, grabbing the door handle and looking back at me briefly. “Be right out.”
The bathroom door closes, effectively blocking him from the man whose eyes are burning into me like a laser and making me almost sigh in relief at Bobby’s temporary departure. Not quite though; it’s impossible to feel too much relief when boiling hot anger still licks at my skin. Still, I only have a few minutes, if that, before Bobby comes back out here. I need to find out what the hell is going on, and I need to do it now.
My heart beats sporadically in my chest, thumping like a hollow drum that can’t settle on a rhythm. Slowly, I bring my gaze to him. He’s still leaning against the wall, but his head is angled toward me, eyes locked on mine, making me shudder at the grip he always has over me. It’s solid, tangible, as if his hands have a firm hold in place at the nape of my neck, ensuring I can’t turn away even if I try.
I’ve seen frustration in him before. I’ve seen impatience. Conflict. Heat. But this, the fire bubbling inside him in a way that makes the muscles of his arms and shoulders contract as he digs his fingers into the wall, this is something entirely different.
“Why are you here?” I whisper.
He says nothing. Just watches me, drinking me in with his eyes like he’s breathing in a long, deep drag.
“You need to leave,” I try. The reality is if he’s not gone by the time Bobby comes back, I have no idea how I’m supposed to act natural and ignore the fact that Death is in my bedroom with us. I don’t have much time to figure out what he wants and somehow get him out of here.