Page 9 of Black Heart

“Fine,” Tristan said through clenched teeth as he stood up. Before she could ask what was wrong, he was heading for the door only to abruptly stop and step aside, leaving her sitting there, frowning as she watched him suddenly step to the right before he stormed out of the room without another word.

“I guess I’ll see you around then,” Marty said, watching him go. A minute later, she climbed off the bed to watch him. Whatever they were giving him for the pain wasn’t enough, Marty thought as he made his way across the street.

CHAPTER4

Tristan felt someone watching him as he made his way across the street and knew without looking back that his mother was watching him with that worried expression that seemed reserved solely for him.

He had no idea what she wanted from him, never had. Truth was, he loved her more than anything. For as long as he could remember, he’d tried to hate her and did everything to push his new family away until one day…

He couldn’t imagine his life without them.

He loved them more than anything, which made him more careful around them. If they ever found out the truth…

Goosebumps raced up his spine, letting him know that Marty was also watching him. Grinding his jaw, Tristan kept walking, pretending that he didn’t care and telling himself with every step that it wasn’t fucking destroying him. He-

“Look at me! I know you can see me!” the bastard who wouldn’t shut the hell up screamed.

Tristan ignored him and kept moving, pretending that he didn’t see the asshole that forced him to walk away from Marty. It had been the reminder that he needed, the one that had him moving his ass and-

“Look at me!” the asshole screamed in frustration as he jumped in front of Tristan, trying to block his path. Tristan rubbed the back of his neck as he smoothly sidestepped the asshole and the large metal pipe sticking out of his neck.

He could have walked through him and dealt with the cold dread that always accompanied the move, but he hated that feeling, always had. As calmly as he could, Tristan walked straight for his front door, leaving the dead man trailing after him.

“Come on, don’t be a dick! All I want you to do is go to my house while my wife is away and grab a few things before she finds them. I don’t want her to find out that I’ve been fucking her sister!” the asshole snapped as Tristan shook his head in disgust.

Why was he not surprised?

The requests he received from the dead were never selfless. They either wanted help catching their killer, which, as a detective, he had no problem with. Hell, it was the reason he took the job in the first place. He’d figured he’d put this fucking nightmare to good use.

Other than that, he received requests for revenge. He couldn’t even count the number of times ghosts begged him to kill on their behalf. Other times, he was asked to straighten out the shit they’d left behind. They wanted to make sure the relatives that they’d hated didn’t see a cent of their money or rub it in their spouse’s face that they’d fucked around. They always wanted something from him, except for Shayne.

Eighteen years ago, he’d been an eleven-year-old kid, scared out of his fucking mind and angry at everything and everyone. His parents had absolutely no idea what to do with him, but unlike his birth parents, they refused to give up on him.

His father started refusing overtime so that he could spend more time with him. They went to ballgames, took weekend trips to Boston, watched movies, and did anything and everything that his father could think of to let him know that he loved him. His mother used to race home between classes so that she could be there when he got home every day from school. She baked cookies, helped him with his homework, and played with him before she had to race back to Reese College to teach her next class. Hell, even his brother Denny started dragging him along on his dates and when any of his girlfriends bitched about having a little kid along, she was history.

He appreciated what they did for him, more than they would ever know, but it didn’t change anything. During the day, he was still screamed at and attacked by the dead and at night, he’d figured out that sleeping under his bed made it difficult for them to hurt him. He’d learned after he was adopted how to act like nothing was wrong.

By the time he was ten, he could sit in algebra class answering a question while he was being punched, kicked, and clawed at by ghosts, who were pissed at being ignored by the only person who could see them. He’d also learned that the best way to keep his parents and teachers from asking about the bruises and cuts covering his body was to keep them hidden.

Nothing helped the rage building inside him.

He’d hated his life, but most of all, he’d hated the fact that he was different and couldn’t tell anyone or he’d be taken from his family. He’d lived in constant fear that he would say or do something that would ruin everything. The only time he felt peace was when he was with Marty, but she couldn’t be with him all the time.

For so long, he’d acted like nothing mattered until it finally didn’t. Every morning, he forced himself to crawl out from beneath his bed and focused on just getting through one more fucking day. He stopped crying, stopped begging them to stop, stopped reacting and made sure that no one knew just how fucking terrified he was. He told himself that there were worse things than being stalked by the dead, but the night Shayne showed up proved that he didn’t know shit.

He had no idea the hell that awaited him when he decided to go to bed early that night. After devouring an insane amount of ice cream with Denny, he said goodnight to his parents and went to his room. He was halfway under his bed when a cold hand clamped down around his ankle.

Before he could react, Tristan was dragged out from beneath the bed and his flannel pajama pants were yanked down as a raspy voice whispered in his ear.

“I’m going to fuck you hard, boy.”

He’d never been more terrified.

He tried to fight back, tried to free himself, struggled to get away, but the ice-cold hands holding him down refused to let him go. Tristan struggled not to scream, only to vomit the ice cream he’d just consumed all over the floor when he felt the man rub himself against him. He sobbed quietly, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop him. Just when he’d accepted what was about to happen to him, everything changed.

“Get your hands off the lad,” came the softly murmured words laced with an Irish brogue.

Within seconds, the man on top of him was gone and Tristan was crawling beneath the bed, squeezing his eyes shut and struggling to stop crying while he listened to the men fight, praying that they would just leave him alone.

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