Page 22 of His to Haunt

So…murder.

I’m dreading looking into her personal belongings, but I will do it because she asked me to as a kind of dying request. It may help me solve some of the mystery around her disappearance. Oh, God, this is hard enough, and it’s about to get a lot harder.

That she already saw her death coming is stunning and horrendous. How do I process such a terrible thing? I can’t expect too much from myself over this. I must stay logical, objective, and sane. No matter what, nothing will change that Rachel is gone.

I find Mom sitting in a chair with a wooden frame in her hand.

“What’s that?”

She looks up, surprised.

“Embroidery. He gave it to me.”

My head cocks. “Who? Zand?”

“I don’t know his name.”

“It’s Zand, Mom. Zand Byron, probably the third or something.”

I go to her, peering over her shoulder at the square piece of cross stitch. It’s a garden scene with a vine-covered lattice archway filling up most of the center of the fabric, all in shades of brown, with what looks like a closed door at the center. A couple of stems stick up from the top of the arch.

“It’s unfinished,” I say, pointing to the right side of the arch, which doesn’t reach the stitches of grass.

“That’s what he wants me to do. Finish it. But…I can’t find my needles.”

Weird. Is this Zand’s way of playing nice? Can’t be. He is not that guy. So then, why would he give this to her?

“I’ll get you a set when I’m out tomorrow. When did he give you this?”

“Last night.”

“Last night when? I didn’t know he was here.”

“Take it,” she says, handing it to me before getting up from the chair. “I need a drink of water.”

I squint my eyes at the long strand sticking off the arch, pinching it between my fingers. Hm. It doesn’t feel like normal yarn.

“It’s curly. It…almost looks like…”

“Hair,” says Mom, wiping her chin after chugging the water bottle. “They used to make ‘em like that.”

“I guess. You mean…horsehair?”

“No. Human hair. Pretty rad, huh? That’s why I don’t need yarn. But your hair would work better. I’m going grey early. Will you pick me up a bottle of Black Number One?”

“Uh…sure.”

I stare at the needlework strangely, wondering how many strands it would take to make something like this—and why?

“Why would someone use their own hair?”

“Mm, maybe because…they want to put part of themselves in the picture,” she shrugs. “Granny had one she kept in a glass cabinet. Called it dark magic.”

Mom bounces her eyebrows at me, and I half-laugh.

“All right,” I say, perplexed. “I’m going down. We’re probably going out tonight. Might have company over.”

“Cool. The Asylum?”

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