Page 76 of A Heart So Haunted
“And upstairs?” Her red nail pointed up the spiral staircase just as I turned to one of the empty bedrooms. It was so much smaller than the main stairwell, spindly and old, like an old man’s spine.
My throat started burning. Hundreds of needles pricking my skin at once. “You mean the attic?”
“What are the plans for it?” She brushed by me so she faced away from the closet. “If there is a closet in it, technically you could call it another bedroom.” Her eyebrows arched and her forehead didn’t crease.
The closet door clicked open behind her. There Hadrian hovered, right over Eleanora’s shoulder.
Dread flooded me. The tiny baby hairs at the crown of her head danced when his mouth curved into a grin.
“I didn’t plan on it. It’s great for storage.” Even to my own ears, my words wobbled a bit.
“Can I take a loo—”
Hadrian’s claws slipped from the shadows. Curled around the edge of the door.
I grabbed her arm. She froze. Stared at my hand. Immediately, I jerked it back. “There are a lot of things up there of my aunt’s. If you don’t mind leaving it, for now.”
She huffed. “All right.”
His claws slipped away, and the door drifted shut. The message was clear:The attic is left alone.
I couldn’t say I blamed him.
If I was a smoking kind of woman, I would have lit up right then.
The air brushed cool against my skin, but not cool enough to warrant the warm coffee mug in my hand. Tendrils of steam curled up, over, and around the lip. The only sounds were the hoot owls somewhere from above, the whisper of rustling leaves, and the rocking chair’s legs on the porch concrete. Every time I rocked forward, I thought of the moment I catapulted over the edge as a kid, right into the bushes. No railing, no soft landing.
Maybe that’s why I wanted to down a mug of stout coffee well after dark. I needed a reminder that I was alive. That the world didn’t revolve around projects and getting through the day to only repeat it the next. That Hadrian hadn’t almost blown his cover today, on purpose, or whatever it was he’d planned on doing, if only putting my feet to the fire.
The front door squeaked open.
Emma’s head poked out. A moth flapped around the porch light, its powdered wings whispering low.
“I left you fettuccini alfredo in the fridge if you want it,” she said. Her mouth puckered, half in thought, half-expectant.
“Thanks.” I gave an in-between smile and stopped rocking. “I might get some in a bit.”
Her expression turned thoughtful. We sat in silence for a moment. I couldn’t tell if she caught my lie or not.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “For what I said. All of it.”
I nodded. “Me, too.”
She stepped barefoot out onto the porch and crossed her arms in front of her. Her T-shirt swallowed her to midthigh, bleach splattered and oversized. “I might have to go back home for a bit to finish a few work things. I didn’t want to, you know, vanish. Because we weren’t talking much.”
I shrugged. It was like she stood on one side of the property, and I on the other, while trying to communicate via hand signals. I didn’t like it.
But I didn’t feel like I could help it, either.
“I didn’t help things,” I murmured. I looked back out over the front lawn. Moonlight stitched through blades of grass.
She traced that same patch of skin on top of her hand, brow furrowed. “Can I tell you something? You don’t have to say anything, if you don’t want to. I promise.”
My spine fused. The grip on my mug turned to the point of scalding, I held it so tight. “Sure.”
“I used a lot of laxatives in high school. It happened the summer after junior year. You’d started talking to Ivan about that time, I think?” Her gaze grew distant. The moth fluttered from the porch light, around the crown of her head, then back again. “I didn’t have the … restraint, I guess you could say, to not eat. The laxatives were the easiest thing.” A measured breath. “And the throwing up.”
Crickets.
