Page 167 of Edge of Midnight

“Leave me alone,” Sean said dully. “I can’t take any more.”

I see that. You can’t take much of anything.

Sean was stung at the flinty judgment in Kev’s voice. “What would you know about it?” he snapped. “You’re dead. Stop criticizing.”

Kev’s cool expression did not change. So put a gun in your mouth, already, if dead’s what you want. Don’t stage some pussy accident.

“I shouldn’t even talk to you. I’m just encouraging you.” Sean shut his eyes, counted ten fire-bursts of pain, willing the apparition to be gone when he opened them. Still there. Stubborn pain in the ass.

If you go over the edge, Osterman’s won. Kev’s voice was harsh. He’ll be laughing in hell. You want to be the butt of his joke?

“So what the hell am I supposed to do?” Sean roared.

Kev’s tight mouth barely quirked.The hard thing.

That pissed him off, in a big way. “I am, butthead,” Sean snarled. “What do you think I’m doing up here? Playing with my dick?”

Kev looked unimpressed. Dying is easy. It’s living that’s hard.

That logic struck Sean as dubious, coming from a dead guy, but he didn’t have it in him to argue. He was too fucking miserable.

He buried his head in his arms. Might even have slept for a while.

The sound of his own teeth chattering woke him. The wind had picked up, whipping the thick fog away into fine, transparent shreds.

He blinked, focused…and gasped. His gut yawned with terror.

He was perched on a cliff. One foot dangled over it. One arm. An entire shoulder. He stared, gaping, a thousand feet straight down.

He froze, scared shitless. He’d been flirting with death for a week, but this was the first time that death had made a move.

He didn’t want to die. The realization startled him. It would be all wrong. Broken off, unfinished. So stupid, to die now, after all this effort, all this drama. To never see her again. Never touch her, hear her sweet voice. The fear of that pierced him like a needle of ice.

It took forever to break the spell and creep back from the edge. He rolled onto his face on the jagged rocks, his limbs as weak as water. He fell apart, for the first time since he’d woken out of the coma.

He cried, for all of it. Dad, Kev, Mom. For Liv. For all the pain and fear that Osterman had inflicted on all those poor kids. The loss, the grief, the waste. It thundered through him, on and on until he started to wonder if it would ever stop.

It finally did, leaving him exhausted. Limp as a rag, clinging to the mountaintop under the threatening gray sky.

But when he rolled over, the hissing sound was gone. All he heard was the wind, whistling through the jagged rocks and crags.

He felt light. Clean.

He tried to get up. His legs buckled, dumping him on his ass.

It made him laugh. Ironic, if he died now like a bozo asshole, just because his worthless legs shook too much to bear his weight.

Liv.He braced himself for the pain, but the pain had changed. It was hotter, softer. It was the pain of longing.

It was the sweet ache of dawning hope.

Liv stepped backfrom the scene she was painting. The last time she’d painted murals for the kid’s section, she’d consideredBluebeardtoo scary. She was tougher now. Or maybe she was just warped.

Bluebeard’s curious young wife crouched by the iron door of the secret chamber, clutching the key. Liv hadn’t painted the room’s contents, just a crack of utter darkness. Yeah. It was creepy. It worked.

“It looks real nice, honey.”

She jumped into the air at her father’s voice. Her nerves were still shot, after months. She glanced at the painting. Of all words she might have used to describe it, “nice” was not one of them. But hey. Whatever.

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