Page 134 of Into the Dark, We Go
We never spoke of my dad again, and I was glad. Some memories were best left untouched, not resurrected and dissected.
One thingthat truly unsettled me was Nick’s obsession with the grimoire.
He didn’t study it constantly, but when he did, it was with an intensity that sent a cold ripple through me. Sometimes he’d sit hunched over it for hours, taking notes, eyes flicking across the pages like they were whispering to him. When I asked what he was looking for, he said, "I just want to know what’s in it, why they thought it was so important."
And maybe that was true. But beneath it, something else stirred. Nick wasn’t just curious. He was hooked. Mesmerized.
And that terrified me.
Some nights, he stayed up late reading, then slipped into bed with cold hands and wild eyes, waking me with his nervous energy. He’d touch me absentmindedly, his mind clearly still tangled up in whatever he’d read. I pretended to be asleep.
I wanted nothing to do with the book. If it were up to me, I’d burn it and bury the ashes deep.
Then something happenedthat I couldn’t confess to Nick.
One afternoon, while he was out, I went into his office to print shipping labels. The grimoire was on the desk, open. Ididn’t mean to touch it, but my hand moved before I could think. I flipped through the pages, trying to see what Nick found so fascinating, but it was only brittle paper and nonsense symbols.
I snapped a few pictures with my phone, hoping to run a reverse image search or find a cipher tool online. But the photos came out warped and blurred, with nothing identifiable. At first, I thought it was the dim light, so I turned on the lamp and even stood near the window, but nothing helped. I tried again, and again, with the same result—the ink seemed to melt or shift the moment I hit the button. I attempted to make a video, but that didn’t work either.
Nick’s truck rumbled into the driveway, and I scrambled, suddenly aware I was invading his privacy. I dropped the book, bolted from the office, and forgot all about the labels. My heart was still hammering when he called up to ask what I wanted for dinner.
I deleted the photos and never went near the book again, not because I was afraid Nick would find out, but because I feared that if I kept digging, I might uncover something I wasn’t ready to face.
After that, life returned to its strange version of normal. But beneath it all, there was a quiet tension, like something waiting just out of sight. Some days, it felt as though I couldn’t breathe, as if the walls were inching closer.
I kept telling myself it was only paranoia.
Juneand I texted now and then, but we never called each other. Most of her messages were complaints about her brother’s overprotectiveness or questions about how to move away and start over. Then, one afternoon, while I was making dinner and riding the high of a sudden burst of culinary inspiration, my phone rang. Mitchell’s name lit up the screen.
"Hey, Foster. How’s it hanging?"
I told him I was doing well. "Anything exciting on your end? Did you start the police academy yet?" I tossed the steaks onto the cast iron, and the sizzle was louder than I expected. I jumped away so hot oil wouldn’t splatter on me.
"I, uh..." He hesitated. "I’m in firefighter training now. Trying to get certified."
He said it like a confession.
"Really? That’s a change. What made you switch?" I reached for a dish towel to wipe up a spill, half-distracted.
"Kinda got disillusioned with the whole police thing," he said. "Figure helping people directly might be more my speed than just filling quotas."
I was taken aback by how honest he sounded. "That actually makes a lot of sense. I bet you’ll be great at it." I dropped the knife, and it nearly hit my foot. "Shit."
"You alright? Need me to call back some other time?"
"No, it’s fine. I’m just on a cooking mission. But I’m good at multitasking," I said, brushing it off and reaching for the salt, only to knock over a jar of spices. "So, what’s up? Is June okay?"
"Yeah, she’s fine. Still got her heart set on moving to New York, chasing that art dream."
"What kind of art does she do?" I asked, crouching to gather the spilled spices.
"She doesn’t do any art," he said with a deep sigh.
I snickered.
"Listen, Foster..." he began, then went quiet.
"Yeah?" I prompted, only half-focused as I moved around the kitchen.
