Page 78 of Grave Love
I leave the gun on the nightstand and follow Blaze out. A few minutes later, we arrive at Mrs. Richmond’s house. Blaze walks me to the front door.
As our proximity closes in, the hairs on the back of my neck stand. Blaze is not a polite or chivalrous person. Why is heescortingme to my own door? It’s like he’s afraid. Like he’s protecting me—
“Call me,” Blaze orders, a hint of concern lingering in his voice. Like he knows what I’m thinking. That I still want to end it all. Like he wants to protect me from myself.
Why does he care? Why now?
Why me?
“What’s up with you?” I ask, my lips pursing in annoyance. “You’re acting weird.”
“Don’t forget what we agreed on.” He tilts his head, his eyes narrowed in flirtation and the threat of danger. “I get to kill you. No one else.”
Is he saying that to remind himself or to remind me?
None of it makes sense.
I spin around, facing the door. “My body, my choice,” I snark.
He grabs me harshly, his fingers digging into my shoulders. Wrenches me toward him. My chest stings.
He glares down, his eyes like the sun, ready to incinerate me. Daring me to disobey. A chill sweeps through me.
“Don’t,” he warns. And in that moment, I know that if anyone could torture a dead personpasttheir final breath, it would be Blaze.
He lets go, and I know he won’t haunt me like that.
I unlock the front door and slip inside. I press against the front door’s peephole. He drives, disappearing down the road.
I’m alone again.
I lie in bed on top of the comforter. There are a few pictures on the wall of my mother and me before she died. But the ceiling—the part of the room I look at most—is bare, like Blaze’s house.
Why am I holding onto this place?
Should I go back to Blaze right now?
Any time I move my arms, body odor permeates the air. I reek of musk and sweat. I need a shower. Water would wash away Blaze’s ghost soaking in my pores. My scent—sweat, fear, lust—all of it is mixed with him.
I don’t move.
The doorbell rings. I turn toward the window, gauging the time of day from the angle of the sun. It’s probably been hours.
My heart pangs. What if it’s Blaze at the door?
Do I want that?
A man in a button-up shirt with yellow-blond hair stands on the porch. His skin is deeply tanned and leathery, as if he works outside. A sharp jaw, his cheekbones carved. He reminds me of Blaze. Maybe they’re brothers.
But Blaze is as pale as an overcast sky. Could they truly be related?
“Are you Ren Kono?” the man asks, his voice formal, even scholarly. Like he’s putting on a show of submission when it’s obvious that he’s the one in control.
I furrow my brow. “And you are?”
“Sorry,” he says. He rubs his forehead, then offers his hand. “I’m Doctor Brody Barwick. You’re looking for medical assistance in dying?”
My mind jumps back to the medical spa. The clinical white tiles. The paintings of ponds and flowers on the walls, every inch of the space generic and neat. This man could work there. He may evenownthe spa. And if that’s true, then heshouldbe trustworthy. Reliable. Doctors take an oath, don’t they? They’re supposed to help people.
