Page 10

TEN

AMETHYST

Blood roars between my ears. I grip the red envelope so tightly that the paper warps. This feels too real to be a hallucination, but I force myself to remember Jake’s corpse.

I heard it move in the closet. It was cold and heavy against my skin when it fell from the door, and it was loud when it landed on the wooden floorboards. If my mind can conjure up dead bodies and black wraiths that stalk my steps, then it sure as hell can make me think I’m holding and feeling something as simple as an envelope.

With my free hand, I snap a picture of what I’m holding and check the camera app. The envelope is still there, which proves nothing. Dr. Saint always said the brain was a powerful organ, capable of throwing out all manner of delusions to cushion the psyche from severe trauma.

My fingers shake as I ease out the letter inside, which contains my loopy handwriting. I bring it to my nostrils, inhale the faint aroma of my pussy, and grimace. It’s so… accurate.

One quick glance at the contents tells me I’m reading a word-for-word response I made to Xero’s request for my fantasy, where I wrote something about somnophilia. I take another photo, only to find an exact replica of it on my phone.

What if it’s not a hallucination? What if the man sending me text messages is in my home, watching me freak out over a letter? It wouldn’t surprise me if he wasn’t one of the bastards who beat Xero bloody before his execution.

I place the letter back in its envelope, set it back down on the bed, and walk to the closet. My fingers hovers over the door handle. There’s a part of me expecting to find Jake lying on the floor with black blood oozing from his neck wound.

That malfunctioning part of my brain needs to woman up. There’s no need to feel guilty. It was kill or be killed. Jake is dead. We buried him ourselves. Hallucinations can haunt, but they can’t attack.

Right?

I fling open the door and stare into the walk-in wardrobe, finding the closet organizers intact with no sign of bodies, blood, or bogeymen because everything’s in my head. Regardless, I walk to a drawer, pull out a bag, and pack a change of clothes.

Something is wrong beyond my slipping grip on reality. I’m going to drive across town, stay at Mom and Dad’s, and see if I can book an emergency appointment with Dr. Saint for tomorrow morning.

Ignoring my buzzing phone, I zip up my overnight bag and walk out into the bedroom. The red envelope is exactly where I left it, making me think it might be real. Hallucinations don’t tend to stick around. They disappear to screw with my mind and then return at the most inconvenient times.

Like the time I got a boyfriend and hooked up with him in his apartment. An apparition of Mr. Lawson appeared at the foot of my bed and crawled across the mattress. I screamed so loud, his roommates burst into the room, thinking the worst, and Mr. Lawson vanished. That was the end of that relationship.

Since it’s looking like the envelope is real, then the man sending me the texts has somehow entered my house. I charge down the stairs, deciding to call the police from Mom and Dad’s.

I fling open the door and step out into the night, letting the cool air seep through the fabric of my hoodie. Ignoring the chill, I race down the steps and glance over my shoulder at the house, looking for any signs of an intruder.

My narrow townhouse stands where a cobblestone path once led to the cemetery, shut down after a mafia murder. I used to think the story was quaint. Now, it’s just gruesome.

With a shudder, I unlock my car with its remote and open the driver’s side door. After tossing my overnight bag on the front seat, I scoot inside.

My gaze flicks to the rearview mirror, and I make a double take. Sitting in the back passenger seat is Jake’s mottled corpse. He stares at me through cold blue eyes, his strawberry blonde hair disheveled. Purple blotches appear beneath his skin, which is already starting to rot.

Alarm punches me in the heart. I jerk away, my shoulder hitting the window hard enough to make the glass reverberate. I suck in a sharp breath, inhaling the faint scent of alcohol, copper, and damp earth. Fingers scrambling for the door handle, I launch myself out into the street.

Fuck.

This can’t be happening.

Why is my mind trying to keep me from leaving? This is insane.

I crouch down and stare into the tinted window, only to find Jake’s corpse still sitting in the back seat, as though it’s made my car its final resting place.

My stomach churns in sync with my throbbing pulse. What the hell is my brain doing, and why the fuck am I so calm?

Because I’ve faced worse. Because staring into a figment of my imagination is nothing compared to killing a man in self-defense, or shoving another off the side of a roof.

Either way, I’ll be damned if I drive to Mom and Dad’s house while in the throes of a delusion. What if my mind decides to mess with my perception of the stop lights? What if it imagines a truck?

I walk back to the house, my heart sinking into my gut like a stone. There’s no way I can return home, knowing that the letter is real. My phone buzzes again, the vibrations making my spine seize. My gaze travels up to the upstairs window, where a hooded figure watches me in the dark.

It’s the Grim Reaper my mind fabricated when Jake had his hands around my throat .

“What?” I snap, already cringing at the futility of talking to an imaginary being.

If I’m not careful, I’ll become one of those crazy women having arguments with people who don’t exist. My gaze darts back to the car, where my mind reminds me that Jake’s corpse has taken up residence.

Yeah, fuck this.

I’m going to Mrs. Baker’s.

Mrs. Baker is the old woman who lives next door in number 15 and runs a quaint little bed-and-breakfast. The lights are still on downstairs, so I ring her bell. Maybe if I tell her I don’t feel safe at home, she’ll let me stay in her spare room. I could take a cab across town, but Gavin wasted my last five hundred dollars on booze.

The door swings open, revealing a six-foot-tall man with haunting gray eyes, hair the color of caramel, and soft pillowy lips. I step backward, my mind going blank. My gaze rakes down to pecs bulging through his white t-shirt and the outline of something promising in his gray sweatpants. He looks vaguely familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen him on the cover of a magazine.

“Good evening,” he says, his voice light with amusement.

“Um… I’m here to see Mrs. Baker?” I squeak.

“She’s gone to bed. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Oh.” I gulp, my cheeks prickling with heat. “I was just wondering if there was a spare room. I mean, my house is… Never mind.”

His brow furrows. “You’re Amethyst.”

“How do you know?”

“Mrs. Baker mentioned hearing some commotion coming from your house early last night. I wanted to drop by to see if everything was alright, but she said you perform on camera for the internet. I have a Christian podcast.”

My lips purse, but I force my expression to stay neutral. A strong-looking man like this one would have been helpful yesterday when I was fighting off Jake. Maybe then I wouldn’t keep hallucinating his dead body.

“My name is Thomas.” He holds out a hand. “Thomas Dinsdale. I’m staying here while they’re fumigating the rectory. ”

I shake his hand, remembering Mrs. Baker raving about the handsome new priest. If I’d known he was also young, I might have started going to church. “Pleased to meet you.”

“What’s the problem with your house?” he asks, looking into my eyes so intently that I swear he’s taking stock of all my sins.

Releasing his hand, I fold my arms across my chest. I don’t want him repeating that story about hearing noises to the police.

“Oh, a friend from out of town called, wanting somewhere to crash.” The lie spills from my lips. “She’s the type that likes to overstay her welcome, so I wondered if Mrs. Baker had room.”

Reverend Thomas flashes me a smile of straight, white teeth. “I’ll be sure to pass on your message in the morning. Is there anything else?”

I shake my head and turn back toward my house. “No, that’s all.”

As soon as he closes the door, I glance over at number 11 and try not to shudder. Its permanent resident is a woman named Relaney, whom I avoid. Not because she describes herself as a spiritualist, but because I’m sure she’s running a cult.

Am I really that desperate?

I think of the frequent police raids with officers marching out unsavory-looking men. Or the strange chanting that wafts through my windows if I leave them open at night. When I call Myra, it goes straight to voicemail, so I leave a message. Maybe it’s time to risk calling Mom?

My gaze darts back to the car. Yep, the body is still there. I enter my house, making sure to keep my back against the door. If anything jumps out from the shadows, I’ll return to that sexy priest.

I know better than to dial Mom’s cell phone. She’s so sick of hearing from me that she lets two-thirds of my calls run to voicemail. Instead, I call the house.

“Who is it?” she asks, her voice thick with sleep.

“Mom?” I rasp.

“Amethyst, what’s wrong now?” she replies with a sigh.

I swallow hard, already cringing at the rejection. “Can I stay at yours tonight? ”

“Is this about the man you attacked? Because you told me he was still alive.”

My gaze drops to my feet. Mom was the first person I called after I stabbed Jake. When Myra’s sister told the police about Mr. Lawson, Mom blamed me for running my mouth and allowing myself to get caught. She made me feel like I deserved to be abused, then she said the next time I killed or maimed a man, I should call her.

She was being sarcastic, but the message stuck. Instead of calling for an ambulance, I called Mom. She freaked out, and I backtracked, saying I’d stabbed his shoulder, not his neck, and he’d just fainted.

I know, I know. Lame.

“That guy left last night and even apologized,” I lie.

“Then what do you want?” Her voice tightens with impatience.

“I’m hallucinating, and I don’t have enough money to call a cab. Can you or Dad pick me up?”

“Your Uncle Clive is here. I can’t deal with yet another person’s mental illness.”

“But I think I’m being stalked?—”

“Amethyst,” she snaps. “My blood pressure won’t stop rising. Don’t come. One more word about strange men in that house, and I’ll send you to an institution. You’re not a victim if you’re off your meds. I can’t cope with your antics. I’ve had enough.”

“Mom, I’m serious. I think I need help.” When she doesn’t respond, I ask, “Mom?”

The phone goes dead.

Maybe it’s time to call the police.