Page 109 of Haunt Me

Something violent snaps inside me, and I want to break something.No. She can’t possibly have been thinking that all these years. She can’t.How could I have done everything so wrong? How could I have let her think that? How could I—?

“Eden, if a dead person could be killed, you would have murdered me right now.”

“Have I haunted you, Isaiah?” she asks in small voice, snapping me out of my red haze of self-loathing. I look into her sad eyes that are studying my face earnestly, without fear, for the first time since I found her again.

There is hope, the stubborn, stupid voice inside me sings.Saint Hope.Tell her. Tell her the truth.

“You heard the whole concert, you tell me,” I whisper, the words wrenched from my ruined lips. “You heard every lyric I wrote for you, you heard every single note I—” My voice breaks and goes silent, as it often does after a concert.

But even if that hadn’t failed me, I don’t know how I could have continued.

I can’t bear this any longer. I can’t. If I don’t get out of here, I’m going to grab her by the neck and bring her lips to mine until neither of us can breathe. Or I’ll crash to my knees and beg her to stay. So I turn on my heel and leave.

I almost bump into Skye, who has been waiting for me with a towel, a storm of worry in his eyes. All I need to do is shake my head at him and he lowers his hands—and the towel. Then I nod towards Eden behind me, and Skye just says:

“I got this.”

And that’s all it takes for me to finally fall apart.

I know Skye will take care of everything. Eden will be safe, her flight booked within minutes, and a small army of my security guards assigned to accompany her on her way back home. Skye will send an assistant or two with her as well. He knows my life depends on that girl being safe and comfortable—he won’t risk anything happening to her.

I collapse into a chair, or the ground, I don’t care enough to tell the difference, and a cloud of assistants descend on me. But I remember nothing after that.

Eden’s Poetry

YOU PEOPLE

Yellow lights behind frosted glass

Tinted silver-blue with cold

Houses along the snow-white banks of streets

The same streets that will be drowned

In orange leaves come autumn

Good people live in this suburb of New England

Good people with Christmas lights on their lawn

Good people who go to church or to yoga

And send their kids to private schools.

Good people who met a good man every day

At his work, at gatherings, at social events.

Good people, religious people

Talked to him and didn’t notice that something was wrong

Didn’t ask him if he had a girl trapped in his house

Why would they? All they cared about was appearances

He was well-dressed and gave them a lot of money

---