Page 83

EIGHTY-THREE

AMETHYST

All signs of the person who sent that naked photo of me as a child point to Mom. Or Uncle Clive. She was sick of me years ago, even before I killed Mr. Lawson. Why else would she send me to a boarding school less than a thirty-minute drive from home?

I lean against the wall, my gaze drifting to the slash I made on Xero’s arm. “Sorry,” I mutter. “I thought she was about to end up like the men downstairs.”

He pulls me into a half-hug. “I’m proud of you, little ghost. It’s the first time you’ve shown some backbone when it wasn’t your life at stake.”

“What are we going to do about my mom?”

He gazes at the closed door. “We’ll pay her a visit on our terms and get some answers about your past.”

“How are we going to avoid the police?”

“Let her try to call them. When we visit her after dark, I’ll make sure to cut the phone lines.”

The knot in my stomach from when she hurled out those filthy accusations twists with guilt. Setting a man like Xero on Mom is like signing her death warrant or a permission slip to remove body parts. Even if she is trying to scare me out of my own home, she’s still taken care of me my entire life.

“No hurting her.”

“I promise.” He presses his lips to my temple and steers me back toward the stairs. I’m beginning to think his definition of ‘hurt’ and mine aren’t the same. What else could explain him grabbing her around by the throat so callously? “But in the meantime, we’ll get dressed and change location.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want your mother or the authorities interrupting your training, and we need to dig deeper into her past. Based on the lack of information I found on your family, she might be connected.”

“To who?”

“That’s what I want to know,” he mutters.

The doorbell rings as we shower, and numerous voices shout through the letterbox, demanding that we open the door. Xero already placed locks on all the downstairs rooms, so even if someone broke in through the windows, they couldn’t reach us upstairs.

Several minutes later, we’re both changed and walking down the stairs with overnight bags. Xero wears his black ski mask as a precaution, but whoever was so desperate to reach us has gone.

We continue to the cupboard under the stairs, but this time into the space beneath the kitchen, where there’s enough headroom for Xero because of the ground’s downward slope.

This part of the crawlspace encompasses the width of the house and is supported by large brick pillars, but there’s an area toward the garden that’s sectioned off to create a box room.

“What’s over there?” I ask.

“My study.”

“What’s inside?”

“Computers,” he mutters.

I walk toward it, but a low moan drifts from the other side of the wall. Shivers skitter across my spine, and I spin around toward the source of the sound. “Don’t tell me those men are still alive?”

“The two surviving ones are a treasure trove of information, but neither is willing to explain why their firm was so keen to have you star in its movie.”

“What have they said so far?”

He wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Mostly bullshit surrounding your social media presence. None of them will admit to sending you the polaroid or the threatening letter.”

Shuddering, I allow Xero to guide me through a doorway that leads to Mrs. Baker’s crawlspace. Hers is arranged like a basement storeroom, with every wall covered in tall shelves laden with Perspex boxes containing bottled water, groceries, and canned goods.

I glance up at the ceiling to find a network of cables and pipes enclosed in protective covers.

“Is this how you faked the scéance?” I ask.

Xero chuckles. “What do you mean?”

“Did you use the crawlspaces to sneak into Relaney’s house, pretending to be a vengeful ghost?”

“Yes.”

I meet his eyes, but all he does is raise his brows, daring me to challenge him. My shoulders sag. I’m homeless, horny, and hunted by psychopaths. The last thing I need to do is anger him over a few knocks.

“Did I ever tell you number 11 Parisii Drive was one of our first safe houses?”

“Um…” My brow furrows. So much has happened since the night those men attacked that I’m still reeling from all manner of heinous discoveries. “Maybe?”

He continues to a row of shelves filled with kitchen appliances and reaches behind a large toaster, where I can only assume there’s a hidden lever. Sure enough, the shelf swings inward, releasing a gust of cold, musty air.

I stare into a dark passageway leading into fuck knows where.

“This runs beneath Mrs. Baker’s backyard and stretches to the entrance of the catacombs,” he says.

“Okay?” I reply, imagining tunnels lined with skull bones.

Kayla pulled images of the catacombs in Paris off the internet to serve as a background while I read out Xero’s answers to the fan questions. They were creepy as hell, and the thought of being so close to death makes every fine hair on the back of my neck stiffen.

“Are there really catacombs running beneath the cemetery?” I ask.

“Come on. I’ll explain.”

He takes me through a tunnel he and his colleagues from the firm built nearly a decade ago after they bought the safe house. Motion sensor lights illuminate the way as he explains how they excavated the space in secret and reinforced the walls with concrete and steel ribs.

I try to imagine a younger version of Xero, tunneling through the earth with comrades by his side, but all I can muster are scenes from The Great Escape .

“How many passageway did you dig?” I ask.

“We have three running from safe houses into the cemetery. Multiple others stretch across the city.”

“You excavated those, too?”

He shakes his head. “The catacombs extend several miles and connect to sewers, subways, utility passages, interconnecting basements, and underground parking lots.”

“Are you saying you can get from one end of the city to another without ever setting a foot above ground?”

“More or less,” he replies with a dark chuckle.

As we venture deeper, away from Mrs. Baker’s crawlspace, the temperature drops. I lean closer into his side for safety and suppress a shiver. “You never did get to finish your life story.”

He hums. “It’s ongoing. We’re still looking for my father, as well as the facility where he keeps the child assassins.”

“Do you think it’s still running?”

“The last boy I poached from the graduation run said he’d come from the facility. That was last year. He told me he’d been recruited at the age of eight?—”

“Eight?” I say with a gasp, my voice echoing.

“You see why he needs to be stopped?” he snarls. “The boy also said that none of his younger classmates had joined the academy, which could mean anything, since my father was ousted from the firm.”

“And you think he’s still alive?”

“I have no doubt. The man is an opportunist and a cockroach who’s probably found another use for the children too old to perform as child assassins.”

I bow my head, my breath shallowing. “If you have such an important mission, why are you wasting all this time on me?”

He pauses to look me full in the face, his eyes burning through mine with an intensity that makes my heart flip. I swallow hard, expecting him to launch into a speech about ghosting and revenge, but he cups my cheek.

“I spent seven months incarcerated. Longer, if you count the length of my trial. You can’t imagine Death Row. I was surrounded by the shit stains of society, and I’m not talking about the inmates. You were the purest thing in my world.”

“Even though I murdered someone?”

“It was a righteous killing.” He leans down, our lips nearly touching. “You saved countless little girls from abuse, which makes you the highest form of heroine.”

The air sizzles, and my heart pounds so hard that its vibrations reach the outer layers of my skin. No one ever saw me as special. I had that moment at the book fair, but all those people saw in me was my connection to Xero.

My lips tingle in anticipation of a kiss. I lean in, letting my eyes flutter shut, but Xero draws back.

“Come, little ghost. No rest for the wicked.”

“But I thought you said?—”

“Three things can be right at once. First, you’re a conniving little ghost. Second, I know you’re using me for protection and online fame. And third, I love you, without reservation, restraint, or reason, but that doesn’t mean I won’t crush your spirit.”

My jaw drops, and my stomach tumbles to the tunnel’s concrete floor. His words are a knife to the gut, each one twisting deeper. How can he love me and want to destroy me at the same time?

My cheeks heat at the accusation that I’m a user. At one point, I thought he was my soulmate. Part of me still does. The shame is tempered by his declaration of love, but the way he spits it out feels like a cruel joke. His love is a double-edged sword, promising both ecstasy and agony .

“Well, I hate you,” I blurt, already cringing at sounding so clumsy.

His pale eyes soften, and his lips twitch upward into a tiny smirk. “There will be time enough for us to hate each other later.”

He strides onward, leaving me behind. I turn around and stare into the dark, wondering if I can make it back to Mrs. Baker’s basement. He’d probably enjoy chasing me through a creepy tunnel and then fucking me against the cold concrete wall.

I clench my fists, anger bubbling up to mask the hurt. He acts like he cares, but his words scream otherwise. Is this some twisted game to him? Playing with my heart, making me doubt every step I take? His soft eyes and tiny smirk feel like a lie, a facade to keep me ensnared.

Shoulders sagging, I glare at his retreating figure, wishing all manner of hateful shit on that broad back. If I’d known he’d be such an unforgiving prick, I might not have written that first letter.

As I watch him disappear into the shadows, I can’t help but think of all the times I believed his sweet words, only to be met with cold reality. Maybe I’m the fool for falling for his act, for hoping there’s still a part of him that loves me.

But if he thinks I’ll just roll over and let him win, he’s sorely mistaken. I straighten my shoulders, my resolve hardening. He may have power over my body, but my spirit is still my own.

“Chop chop, little ghost.” His voice echoes from the darkness.

The lights turn off, encasing me in pitch-blackness. Ghostly fingers swipe at my skin, activating my fight-or-flight. I race after Xero, which activates the illumination.

“Hey!”

Up ahead, he tilts his head but doesn’t turn to meet my gaze.

“Did you ever look into my Uncle Clive?” I ask.

“Your mother’s house guest?”

I nod. “My father’s younger brother.”

“Were you close?”

“No.” I shake my head. “He just got out of jail.”

Xero halts in his tracks, his broad shoulders stiffening with the same level of suspicion I expressed when Mom told me Uncle Clive had been released from prison .

Turning around, he waits for me to catch up before asking, “For what?”

“That’s the thing,” I mutter. “She won’t say, but it was bad enough to get him attacked by a mob.”

“When was he released?” He continues walking.

I sigh. “No idea, but it has to be recent.”

“Leave it with me. What’s your father’s name?”

“Lyle. Lyle Crowley.”

“Any address?” Xero asks.

“He lives with my mom.”

He pauses again, this time to place both hands on my shoulders. The warmth of his palms seeps through my clothes but contrasts with his cold eyes.

“When did you last see your father, Amethyst?” he asks, his voice deceptively light.

My brows pinch at his use of my name. “I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

“This is important. Did you see him when you last went to Alderney Hill?”

“Yes, but he was at work most of the time, but he came to my room one night and called me down for dinner,” I reply. “What’s this about?”

“Think back,” he says with more bite, his fingers tightening around my shoulders.

I wriggle within his grip, trying to dislodge his digits, but they’re more tenacious than the claws of a predator with freshly caught prey. When his eyes harden and bore into mine again, my breath catches.

He looks at me like I’m the unhinged one. In a moment, I expect him to channel Myra and ask when I last took my meds.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Tell me what you remember about your father.”

The urgency in his tone sends a shiver down my spine. “He runs an international adoption agency.”

“Its name?”

“Happy Hearts.”

“Has anyone other than you seen him recently?”

My blood runs cold. “You think I’m hallucinating him? ”

“We checked the property records for the house on Alderney Hill, as well as all the vehicles parked there. Everything is registered to Melonie Crowley. There’s no record of Lyle.”

My mind reels, struggling to accept his claims. I want to deny them, push them away. Mom or Dr. Saint would have mentioned something if I hallucinated an entire father.

“But he exists. Maybe he isn’t registered for tax purposes.”

“Or he could be like my father, who’s too deeply involved in criminal activities to want to leave a trace.”

I swallow hard, my breath turning shallow. The backs of my eyes sting with tears. “My memories are so jumbled, and I only recently stopped taking my medication. Can you just… give me a minute? Please?”

He nods, and I can’t bear to see the pity shining in his eyes. Dad isn’t a figment of my imagination. I remember seeing him while I was recovering from the accident. He used to visit my bedside and stroke my hair.

When I had to go home after Mr. Lawson died, Mom confined me to my room. Dad would come in sometimes while she was out with her personal trainer, demanding to know why I would sleep with a teacher.

Years later, he stood beside Mom when they burst into my dorm at Alderney State University, although she did most of the talking. They drove me straight to 13 Parisii Drive, where Dr. Saint made her first house call.

But why would Xero lie about something I could disprove with a few searches?

“Xero…” I swallow hard. “I don’t know what’s even real anymore.”

He pulls me into a hug, but the warmth of his body offers little comfort in the cold suspicion that my delusions might go deeper than the occasional sighting of Mr. Lawson, Sparrow and Wilder, whom I don’t even remember from my past.

“Don’t fret, little ghost. We’ll find out the truth tonight.”