Page 72 of Ghosts of Halloween

Two fucking years too late.

“The policeman who told me about Noah was Michael’s father,” she says, a bitter smile on her face.

I blink, not getting it for a moment. And then I do, and she’s right. It is funny. So funny I’d want to kill myself if I wasn’t dead already. Guess I know why she wants to die now.

“The morning after his son raped me, the father came to tell me my brother was killed. Funny, right? I mean, what are the odds?”

“Don’t do this,” I grit out, grabbing her hand. I don’t even fucking know what to say or do as the enormity of it crashes into me. And I can’t help but think it’s my fucking fault. I should have just killed the guy. Wouldn’t have been that hard. Instead, I talked her into breaking up with him.

“Do what?”

“Don’t make light of it,” I say, throat tight with the screams I hold in. “Don’t… Fuck, Harlow. I should have been there. I should have… come with you, supported you, smashed his fucking skull in. Please, don’t say you broke up with him only because I told you to.”

Like hell. Of course, that’s why she did that. All of this is on me. And yet, I stare at her with desperate hope that I know she’ll have to crush. Harlow looks away, her throat working, and when she looks back at me, her face is set.

And I know. A sick, painful feeling winds up my spine and lungs, and I let out a sound, something so pitiful and broken, her eyes soften.

“I wanted to be with you,” she whispers, fiercely looking at my face that I know must reflect everything I feel because I don’t even know how to hide this kind of thing. “You grew on me, you know. And it seemed like… Like I could finally have something good. Something mine.”

Fuck.I breathe out shakily, choking on a sob I desperately try to hold back. Harlow’s shoulders drop, and next thing I know, she presses into me, shaking in my arms, all naked and jittery. I press her close, swallowing time and again to keep myself calm. She’s the one who should rage and weep. And I should take it all. Absorb her pain.

I force deep breaths into my lungs, pushing my rage, guilt, and regret down and deep, hiding it away. I never had to force myself to ignore something this awful, but I’m good at suppressing bad things. With every deep breath, the pressure inside me eases until everything is buried. Ready to unleash when I need it but peaceful for now.

Tense yet calm, I wait for her to cry or rage, ready to take it all and kiss her after.

But Harlow is quiet, her shaking subsiding slowly. She burrows into my arms, that sick, guilty feeling inside me tinging with helpless tenderness. God, I love her so much. And now that everything is out in the open, now that she knows how she hurt me and I know how she suffered, it feels like there are no more obstacles to my love.

If only I could kill those two… I don’t even know what to call them. The ugliest words I know don’t do them justice.

“It’s okay, Jack,” she finally says, wrapping her arms around me, one warm, one cold. “It’s over. And I really don’t want to spend my last hours on Earth thinking about that night.”

She pulls back, looking at me with determined eyes, her brows pinched tight. “Give me something beautiful, Jack. Make me feel good. I know you can.”

I suck in a breath, pulling her closer so I can hold her for a while longer, my fingers already itching to give her all the sparks in the world. Because she’s right. I can make her feel good. I know exactly what she needs.

42

Jack

Three years ago

I try not to stare at Harlow as she tries to put on the new prosthetic Noah got her. She’s nervous, her fingers fumbling, even though I know she’s been to a few fitting sessions, so she knows what to do. Maybe the fact I’m staring unnerves her, so I look away, pretending not to care. And yet, my eyes are drawn to her as if magnetized.

Taking another peek, I suck in a quiet breath when I notice the wrinkled skin of her stump, the uneven scars lining her soft flesh. She’s unbalanced right now, her nerves making her blush, and I ache to drag her into my lap and kiss every inch of that arm.

Not because I have a thing for stumps or some kind of disability fetish.God, no.It’s just that she’s so clearly embarrassed, so self-conscious about it, and I want to show her she shouldn’t be.

Something tells me nobody has touched that wrinkled skin with love and desire before. The thought of being the first to do that makes my heart thump heavily.

But I can’t. Noah sits by her side, his eyes tender as he grins at her. I swear, that dude never smiles. Ever since we became friends in high school, he’s smiled maybe a handful of times. And only when his little sister’s around.

He’s so keyed to her, so obsessed with protecting and pampering her, I sometimes wonder if it’s healthy. And I get why he doesn’t want me to touchher and snarls every time I so much as look at her for too long—Noah and I have done some bad shit together, so he’s right to warn me off Harlow—but fuck, I sometimes think his jealousy goes beyond the bounds of brotherly love.

Though, maybe I’m wrong. They’ve been through hell together, even before the accident. He had to care for her basically since the day she was born because their shitty mother couldn’t be bothered. Maybe their fucked-up life created such a twisted, thorny love that’s tougher than anything.

Harlow looks up with a bright smile, beaming at Noah when the prosthetic sits tightly over her stump. Slowly, she moves her fingers, laughing shakily as she watches them in wonder.

“There’s barely any delay,” she says, tightening and loosening her fist. The matte black surface of the prosthetic looks classy and futuristic, and when she reaches that robotic arm out to hold Noah’s hand, my heart lurches.

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