Page 49 of A Heart So Haunted
“Do you have to be, to keep a child? Is he here for some sick—obsession?” Fury twisted my face, the thought springing forward so violently that I had the all-consuming urge to swing my sledgehammer at him. If he was keeping this child here for something likethat—
His words went razor thin. “Ido not keep the boy. If you suggest something of such a nature again, I’m afraid we will have much more interesting things to discuss thanintention, don’t you think?”
The threat rang clear.
I should have bolted already. I should have been fighting my way back to Harthwait, back to the door; instead, I stole every feather of courage and squared my body to his.
“I don’t stand for child abuse,” I growled, pushing as much hate into the words as possible.
“And neither do I,” he said, so quiet, so calm, a shiver bolted down my spine. If he lunged in that moment, I wouldn’t have had time to flinch.
My knees wobbled. If I ran, I might make it. I’d made it once before.
He strode closer, almost to arm’s length. “The child is not real. Just as much of this place as a figment, so to speak.” The profile of his nose was strong, his mouth full, his chin harsh. “I find it awfully bold of you to sweep back here, unannounced, after I welcomed you so warmly upon your last visit.”
“You almost killed me.” The clouds rumbled overhead; a fine mist of rain began again, tickling my lashes.
“Kill you, was it?” His eyebrows lowered. “Hm. I am intrigued to hear your definition of attempted murder. I seem to remember grabbing your shoulder, but you were pulled through the door anyway.”
I shifted my body so I continued to face him, but kept the house in sight. Harthwait lurked just above the bramble thorns.
“Why are you here?” If I could stall—or distract—I might be able to make a break for it.
“I could ask you the same.”
“I told you the first time.”
His nostrils flared, eyes narrowed. “And you never answered my question.”
Not a simple statement, but a threat.
“How long? Since I moved in?” Somehow, he knew my name—there was no telling what else he knew or why. “Longer?”Did you know my aunt?
He sniffed. “A while.”
“That’s not an answer. You want me to believe you about the boy? Tell me. How long have you been here.”
“You failed to answermyquestion the first time, I recall. Tit for tat.”
Something told me if I wasn’t careful, this man would walk me like a dog.
And he was right, no matter how much I didn’t want to admit it:Thisarea was his. Not mine. He wasn’t denying that he’d been here a while. He probably knew it like the back of his hand, whereas I was (clearly) unable to beat my way out of a wet briar patch. So I tried another angle.
“If the boy doesn’t really exist, how do I know that you do?” I spoke through my teeth, struggling to keep the sledgehammer slightly at the ready.
A grin was his response. “You are nervous.”
“Answer one question, and I’ll answer one of yours.”
He huffed. “If I weren’t real, I would not be speaking with you. Go on. Use your little weapon. Hit me.” When I made no move, he slunk forward. Even his shoulders rolled when he walked. “But yes … Landry. I am real.”
I shook my head. “Stay where you’re at.”
He stopped. Then his demeanor shifted, just a bit. He cocked his head as the creature had, eyes assessing, narrowing, like his patiencemight be withering. “And if I do, you will answer my question. Honestly.”
I nodded. For a moment, we looked at one another.
“What do you want with the boy?” The question was no more than a whisper. Almost pained.
