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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.”
