Page 27 of Haunted By You
“Where’s the money?” Sam’s voice came out low.
Her hands slipped from the table edge, curling into fists. “Never found it. Probably sitting pretty in an offshore account. Meanwhile I paid his legal fees and mine, and bled my own place dry. One razor-thin margin and—poof.” She snapped her fingers, sharp in the dim bar.
“I’m so sorry, Erielle.”
She didn’t respond to that, had probably heard it too many times. Or not enough times. “So this was my only option, and I’m lucky to have it. I did think there would be more money, you know, in the inheritance, but I probably don’t deserve it anyway, since I haven’t been back in a while.”
“What about your parents? They couldn’t help you out?”
She rolled her shoulders back. “I think they actually delighted in my downfall. I didn’t listen to them, didn’t choose a stable career, so I’m learning my lesson the hard way.”
No wonder she didn’t want to ask for help. She’d been raised by people who didn’t want to give it. “Some people should never be parents,” he growled.
She shot her gaze to his and, to his surprise, grinned. “That is the God’s honest truth. Anyway.” She started toward the bar. “Now you know the source of my shame. I’m sure you can find his side of the story online somewhere. He wasn’t quiet about what a bitch I was to him.”
Yup, he could see why she’d have trust issues too.
“I’m going to close up early. It doesn’t look like anyone else is coming in, and well, if they do, Louis can dock me.”
Message received. She’d said all she was going to say.
For tonight, anyway.
“Storm on the way. Should have let you lock up early.”
Sam looked up at the lightning flashing to the south of them, the wind bending the trees of the bayou, and hustled her to her car, jacket pulled up over his head, then followed her down the road to the house. His headlights in her mirror were as steady as a promise. The truck idled in the road until she was safely inside, then he flashed his lights in farewell and headed home.
Because she didn’t trust the power in the old place—wiring as ancient as the wallpaper—she carried a flashlight with her upstairs.
She’d never owned a home during a storm. The thought struck her as odd as she paused halfway up, listening to the rattle of wind against the windows. Owning meant responsibility, and responsibility meant worry. She worried about the roof most of all—the shingles curling back, the leak that had already stained the attic ceiling. She should go up, find a bucket, do something about it. But the idea of entering that space alone…her skin prickled just thinking about it. Besides, she wasn’t even sure she had a bucket.
Truth was, she’d never really owned a home, full-stop. This didn’t feel like hers. Not yet. Changing anything felt like trespassing. Even tossing out the painting that hung by the front door felt like breaking some unspoken rule. She’d leave it another night.
She settled into her room, the flashlight beside her phone on the floor. The air mattress wheezed beneath her weight. Maybe, if the renters’ checks came on time, she’d finally get herself a real bed, something solid that didn’t shift every time she breathed. For now, she scrolled her phone in the dim light, listening to the rain against the tin awning outside her window.
She delayed her usual shower. Her grandmother had always warned against bathing during a storm, said lightning could find its way through pipes and water, though Erielle never knew if it was true. It didn’t matter. She didn’t want to be caught mid-rinse if the lights went out. Better to wait. Better to curl up with her phone until either the storm passed or sleep claimed her.
“Erielle!”
Her grandmother’s voice jolted her awake. She shot upright, heart banging in her ribs, her ears straining against the sound of the storm.
The rain still battered the roof. The windows rattled with each gust of wind. Lightning flashed through the curtains, washing the room in flickers of white.
She hadn’t been asleep long—the storm hadn’t moved off, and the little blue glow of her phone charger still shone steadily in the outlet.
But the voice. She’d heard it. So close. So clear.
“Gigi?” Her own voice was barely a whisper.
Nothing answered.
It must have been a dream. A trick of exhaustion and nerves. Still, the hairs at the back of her neck prickled, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone else had been in the room with her.
She swung her legs off the air mattress and padded barefoot across the creaking floorboards. At the window, she pulled the curtain aside. The bayou trees bent and thrashed, lightning cracked over the water, and thunder rolled like a drum. She wrapped her arms around herself.
Her reflection stared back at her from the glass—pale face, wide eyes, hair tangled from sleep. And then?—
Over her shoulder, behind her—something else moved.
