Page 232 of Haunt Me

“I’m handling it,” Skye says, clearing his throat. He sounds frantic.

“No,” I say. “Iam handling it. I am giving an interview. A live one. Can you get me one today?”

He goes white. Of course that’s impossible.

“Tomorrow,” I say. “Message everyone you know, pull any strings. Right here in Paris, I’ll do a live press event, with all the media you can manage to gather for me.”

“Isaiah,” he gulps, “you haven’t done that in years. It’s not… It does not do you good to do that. And Eden, she… How will she handle it?”

“She is strong enough,” I say with a conviction I don’t feel. The rabid fans, the attention, the chasing, the stalking, the… I can’t breathe. I go dizzy and hot and cold all over at the same time. I grit my teeth against the wave of unconsciousness that’s threatening to pull me under again. “How did they find out?”

“I… They… This is not the time,” Skye mumbles. He’s hiding something from me.

“Tell me, or I swear to—”

“Your real name,” he says. “Isaiah Pan. The minute it came out, some enthusiastic fans started looking. Digging. They hacked your high schools files, and found…”

I make a noise as if all the air has been knocked out of me, and I hope Skye doesn’t hear it.

“Zay, kid, you sound like you’re drowning,” he murmurs.

“Tell me you’re lying,” I choke out.

“I’m not. I am sorry, Zay, they… They found—”

“Stop. Don’t tell me.” But he does.

“Two hackers in Michigan found the police reports about you being accused by Solomon. They don’t know what for, the school has erased your record. But now it’s out there that you knew her way back. Then they put two and two together, and found that she is the same poet whose poems were on theNew Yorker, the same poet who wrote lyrics with you, and from there…”

I lift a hand in the air. His face swims. I’m going to be sick.I need a pill.

My shaking fingers are already blindly dialing the number I know will lead me to a supply. Skye doesn’t notice, focused on holding me together. His hands are around my shoulders, behindmy neck, supporting my head. I feel like I can’t keep it upright on my own.

“I did this,” I whisper in a broken voice. “I did this to her.”

“No!” Skye yells. “No one did this but some sick, disturbed losers who have nothing to do with their lives but snoop around. No, Isaiah, please.” He is kneeling next to me. “Please don’t let this destroy you.”

“I don’t care about that.” I am already destroyed. “It’s her I worry about. I will give as many interviews as they like until the issue is closed, and they leave her alone.”

“You have never done a press tour before under this much scrutiny. Or sober, for that matter.”

I shrug. “Well, I’m doing it now.”

Skye swallows, hard. “I need to call Jude,” he murmurs. “You’re not listening to me.”

“I am,” I reply. “Call him all you want, he’ll back me up.”

“Back you up in this stupid idea of putting yourself in harm’s way?”

“In ending it.”

Skye runs a hand down his face. He looks like he has aged ten years in front of my eyes. He doesn’t know what I mean.

“What will you say in the interview? I need to prep you, if by some miracle I manage to book it.” He will book it. He is a miracle worker, and plus, every single journalist will not hesitate to dump any other guest, no matter how important, if he’s promised an exclusive interview with the Isaiah Pan—his first ever. “There’s barely any time.”

“Then you better start now.” I am completely focused, my concentration razor-sharp, even though my chest feels hollow and shattered.

But I am doing this. I am not letting Eden down a second time.

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