Page 110 of A Heart So Haunted
Not anymore. Now I felt very, very alive, and the room was extremely small.
“A little,” I whispered.
“I wanted to apologize for the things that were said on my part,” he murmured. He knotted his hands behind his back. “And for what I didn’t say.”
I sat my tablet on the end table. The reflection of his back in the window behind him enamored me: the way his fingers fiddled together, uneasy. The breadth of his shoulders. The baby-fine hairs at the nape of his trimmed hair, something I took wonder in. It was amazing how people from different eras were still connected by the simple things—hair trims and schedules and smiles.
Slowly, I stood, and found myself clasping my hands together, sweatshirt crooked on my shoulders. This was it.
“Hadrian …” My mouth pressed to a line.
“I should have told you everything,” he whispered. “You shared things with me through the night. Not all, but some. And I did not return the sentiment—and I wanted to.”
I nodded. “I know. I was unnecessarily mean because of things I’m dealing with. That have nothing to do with you. And I’m sorry.” I stomped that wriggle of doubt, the voice that said he only wanted to get my help. I needed to trust someone—to take a chance, trust thatthey meant well, especially when I felt in my gut that Hadrian was a good person.
Because when I looked at him, I saw something burned. I saw a child that grew up and did the only thing he knew to do in order to stop a bad man.
One side of his mouth twitched, stuck in a grimace. It revealed the line of sharp upper molars—as if he’d tried to shift into his beastly form, but couldn’t.
“You left today. For a while,” he said. He ran a hand over the back of his neck. The other found its way into his pocket.
“I went to see if Meredith could help me.” I couldn’t meet his eyes, but still, his voice reeled me in.
He nodded. “Remind me who she is?”
I told him about Aunt Cadence’s donation habits. About my mother showing up, assuming he’d heard our first exchange in great detail when she’d appeared the first time.
His brow furrowed to cover the spark in his eye. “And was she? Help, I mean?”
My lips parted. Then pressed shut.
What good was it to keep something from him? I’d just gotten upset with him for doing that to me. And here I was, debating on doing the same, just because I didn’t want to lose the possibility of him being here a while longer.
I reached for the letter I’d tucked in my laptop case. Offered it to him.
“She left me this. Meredith found it in a rooster.”
His brow crinkled. Eyes danced to me, the letter, and back.
“You can read it,” I whispered. “Please.”
A careful nod. He stepped closer. The room shrunk twice in size. He sank down beside me on the couch, elbows on his knees, expression tight with thought. I picked at a hangnail while he read.
When he was finished, he folded it back up, but didn’t speak.
“She did not mention the toy train,” he said, gruff. He handed it back to me. Already, a cold sweat started at the back of my neck. “What came of it.”
I sat forward. Our elbows nearly touched. So much body heat in one space.
“I haven’t seen it while going through things. I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“It may still be somewhere. We can look,” he said. Cleared his throat. “If you wish, that is.”
“Of course I do.” I put the letter back in the case and scooted against the couch arm. “It’s what we agreed on. Do you think the train could be something that—”
“Yes, but—Landry. Please.”
“You said you wanted to break this. If the train or something else is keeping you here—if it’s really a remains thing—then we need to find it,” I said, more forceful. I tried to erect the shield, piece by piece, as I went on. Pushing him away. Pushing the feelings back. “We can go look right now—” I started to stand.
