Page 115 of A Heart So Haunted
I backed into the arm of the sofa. He stepped between my legs, bent down, right there, the bridge of his nose lined up against mine, and suddenly the world felt smaller than it ever had before.
“I would have known before the night was over that I would be back within a fortnight, and I would have returned every night after until you grew tired of me,” he whispered.
“I wouldn’t have gotten tired of you,” I said against his lips.
“You lie.”
The irony in his words made me smile, just a little. My hands drifted from around his neck, into his hair. A fluttering against my breastbone caught my attention. I glanced down.
His button shirt had grown damp—a maroon, nearly black spot the size of a fist—right where his heart should have been. It was like he heard my thoughts.
“Do you wish to see it?”
I met his gaze. He spoke as if it had changed, so I nodded.
He pulled his shirt out of his trousers and made quick work of the buttons. I expected it to be opened and oozing like before, but instead found raw skin—purpled, raised scars around the edges, nearly an inch or so in width, while the center remained split open. I started to pull back, worried that I had hurt the wound, but he held me fast.
He took my hand and flattened it against his chest. Quick, persistent flutters. Like a flag snapping in the wind. His breath brushed my cheekbone when he said, “It’s never looked like that before.”
“Oh.” The word was broken. Like a part of me had chipped.
Because of course it had changed, too. It wasn’t just him anymore, it was parts of him, the gnarled edges that smoothed. Clotted and healed, as if they would all collectively vanish soon.
I frowned. “But that’s good, right?” Tried to keep my voice light.
His eyes softened, thoughtful. “Perhaps.”
The palm of his hand pressed against my cheek. “Don’t do that. Please.”
“Do what?”
“Look like I’m breaking your heart.”
I didn’t push against his palm, didn’t blink, just stared at that point on his neck. Could he see it? Did he know, without me having to say anything? Did he think I was delusional for catching feelings?
He licked his bottom teeth, tongue briefly running along the empty sockets—then his body locked. Joint by joint. Even his hand twitched.
“My teeth.” The two words were no more than a whisper. “When I killed him, I found them in the family safe inside a box.” His nostrils flared. “I kept them.”
My heart fluttered like a wet fish at the base of my throat.
I knew without meeting his gaze what he meant:remains.
“Where?”
“I hid them in”—his throat bobbed—“the floors.”
At first, I didn’t speak. He could be right.
Teeth didn’t decay like tissue and flesh. If they’d been in the box Aunt Cadence found—
“Okay.” I gave a tight, single nod. That was that, then. Problem solved. His hand dropped, leaving a print of fire on my cheek in its wake.
“That look,” he said. He leaned back in, his nose close to mine. I leaned away. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“There’s your answer,” I whispered. I blinked, hard, and met his gaze. “We should find your teeth. Then you can—you can—”
“Landry, if you—”
