Page 13 of His to Haunt

“We can do this the easy or the hard way.”

“Do what exactly?”

“Co-exist. For now.”

I nod at him, perfectly understanding his meaning.

He doesn’t want me here; he’s only tolerating my existence because he has no choice. The same way that I will be him, apparently. Though, I was hopeful we could come to a peaceful arrangement.

I guess that’s what this is. A hostile, tyrannical declaration of the terms of peace. Not to mention, he seems to be putting a time stamp on me living here—he said, for now—is that a threat? Is he planning to fight the will again or something?

“Okay, Zand,” I say simply, holding my tongue and not wanting to piss him off further. The dude’s bitter.

I’m not supposed to be here. I’m just a stranger. He probably wanted the house for himself. I’ve read about this happening. Someone dies, and family members are suddenly launched at each other’s throats. But I’m not family. I’m nobody to him, which must make it far worse.

For both of us.

“I’ll just go now,” I say, feeling defeated.

He nods at me, seeming to study my face, his expression changing, softening slightly. His gaze drops, taking a shameless stroll over the contours of my body like he’s studying me for art class.

My ears burn hot with irritation. He is too much.

“You look like her,” he mutters.

A sudden heavy wind gust startles me, and I yelp as my hair shoots into the air. Zand seems to laugh at me as I smooth my hair, glaring up at him. I might be holding my tongue, but I’ve never been good at masking my eyes.

“You can go now,” he declares, flicking his hand at me like I’m a child.

The early fall wind may be chilly, but I’m hot with humiliation.

Still not wanting to rock the boat, I say nothing, merely shaking my head in disapproval before turning and leaving him at his precious boundary line.

What. A fucking. Jerk.

What did he mean I look like her? Look like who exactly? He must mean Rachel. That’s the only thing that makes sense.

But the way he said it resonates, slowly creeping through me like a cryptic, dark chill. Like he knew her intimately, in a more than cousinly way, maybe even had feelings for her.

Were my sister and Zand a thing?

An unsettling thought that I will probably lose sleep over, among other things.

After checking my messages and confirming that Kimmie is, after all, visiting this weekend, I check on Mom, telling her goodnight. She’s tucked in and sitting upright on the small bed, fiddling with a necklace, a bottle of Windex, and a dirty towel on the nightstand beside the bed.

I’m still unsure which room is mine, but I’m glad she’s found hers.

“It already looks better in here,” I say. “I’d rather smell cleaning products than mildew.”

“That man is back,” she whispers after I give her a hug.

“No. He left.”

“He’s still here,” she yawns.

I shake my head.

“No, Mom. He’s not.”

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