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“Holy shit, we just did that!”
Nick, his hand still holding mine, pulls me into a giddy embrace. His body is warm. His heart beats as fast as mine. Adrenaline leaps off him like an electrical current, passing straight into me until I’m so dizzy the room spins.
I look into Nick’s eyes, hoping that will steady me. Instead, I only feel increasingly unmoored. But it’s not a bad sensation. Far from it. Caught in a wave of euphoria, I press myself against him until our faces are inches apart.
Then I kiss him.
A quick, impromptu peck that makes me instantly recoil in shame.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Nick stares at me, a flash of hurt in his eyes. “Why?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“Did you not want to kiss me?”
“I did. It’s just—I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to.”
“Try it again and see.”
I take a breath.
I lean in.
I kiss Nick again. Slowly this time. Anxiously. I haven’t kissed anyone but Andrew for a very long time, and a silly, girlish part ofme worries I’ve forgotten how. I haven’t, of course. It’s just as swooningly delicious as I remember.
It helps that Nick’s an amazing kisser. An expert. I willingly lose myself in the sensation of his lips on mine, his heart thundering beneath my palm, his hand on the small of my back.
The two of us say nothing as we move down the hallway on swaying legs, kissing against one wall before breaking away and reconnecting a few steps later. I follow him up the spiral steps to his bedroom, his white-hot hand brushing mine.
I pause for a moment at the top of the steps, a meek voice in the back of my brain telling me this is all happening too quickly. I have other things to worry about. Finding Ingrid. Finding a job. Finding some way to gain control of my life.
But then Nick kisses me again.
On my lips.
On my earlobe.
On the nape of my neck as he starts to undress me.
When my clothes fall away, all my worries go with them.
Relieved of them, I let Nick take me by the hand and guide me to his bed.
NOW
Dr. Wagner stares at me expectantly, waiting for me to continue. I don’t. Mostly because I understand that I am starting to sound crazy.
I absolutely cannot sound crazy.
Not to the doctor. Not to the police, when it’s time for the inevitable interrogation. Not to anyone, lest they think I’m the slightest bit unstable and therefore refuse to believe me.
They have to believe me.
“You suggested the Bartholomew was haunted,” Dr. Wagner says, trying to keep the conversational ball rolling. “I’ve always heard those rumors. Urban legends and whatnot. But I also heard all of that was ancient history.”
“History can repeat itself,” I say.