Chapter 24
Cat is waiting for me like usual when I get home.
I let her in, close the door, drop my bag and coat on the sofa and look around.
I take in my bookshelf, all those self-help books—where is the chapter on something like this?
Then the washing machine, the light blinking to tell me it’s done.
I go over and pull out the T-shirt, inspecting the offending mark.
There’s still a faint brown stain. I toss it in the bin—no point taking the risk—then I look around.
My gaze travels from the sofa to the humming fridge, to the bathroom, the TV, my bedroom. Whatever is in here, it could be anywhere, but I’m going to find it.
So I flick on the light and sniff the air, seeking a direction.
It’s still there, the smell of old blood, and now that I know who it belongs to it’s so damned obvious. Of course it’s Kenny. But I can’t tell where it’s coming from.
Cat watches from the sofa as I rush over to the bookshelf and start feeling around behind the books—nothing.
I look behind the bookshelf. In the fridge.
In the freezer. Above the washing machine.
I check the kitchen cupboards, reaching into the dark corners, examining all the drawers.
I look under my bed, beneath my mattress, in my closet, in every shoebox, in my laundry hamper.
Under the sofa, the cushions, the coffee table. But I don’t find anything.
I can’t find it, but I can still smell it. It’s like it’s coming from everywhere.
FUCK.
I flop down beside Cat and she lets out a little meow.
How the hell has Oscar wandered back into my life and blown up 150 years of caution in just twenty-four hours?
How bad will it be in thirty-six? Forty-eight?
All of sudden, a volcanic heat erupts beneath my ribs, and before I know what I’m doing, I pick up the knitting needles from under the coffee table and fling them at the wall as hard as I can.
I watch them fly across the room. I wait for the clickety-clack as they hit the floor.
But Cat and I both watch in horror as they lodge themselves deep into the plaster.
I sit there, staring at them.
How did I do that?
I look down at my hands, and now Oscar’s voice filters back to me: It’ll give you some of my powers for a while—twenty-four hours, give or take . . . Is that what this is? Am I super strong now? What if I break something important?
Maybe it’ll fade in my sleep.
And so I let Cat out and she doesn’t even meow, not once.
It’s like she knows it’s for her own safety, just in case.
I strip off my clothes and leave them in a trail on the floor on my way to the shower.
I want to wash tonight off me. Then I put on some pyjamas and get into bed.
It’s too early to sleep, but it feels safe in here.
Like if I cocoon myself in the covers, I can’t make anything worse.
As I lie there, I reach for my phone and go to my messages.
There’s still nothing from Jonathan, but five from Es. I go to her last one and type back: I’m so sorry. Jonathan broke up with me in a text. I was in shock. Love you xxxx
Then I tap on Daphne’s last message, bite down gently on my lower lip and start to type: WHAT? That’s terrible. His poor family! Hope you’re not too upset. Xx
Send.
There. Now if anyone reads that, we’ll both look sort of innocent . . . Or like a couple of masterminds covering up a murder.
And then I tap through to Instagram. But as I navigate to my profile, I’m filled with a sense of doom. Maybe I’ve really done it, maybe I’ve really lost Jonathan forever.
I tap on my story and glance down once again at the little faces to check who’s viewed it, yearning to see his.
My breath catches.
Because . . . is that him?
It is.
His little circular profile picture is staring back at me, second from the top.
He hasn’t forgotten me.
My brain lights up as if on narcotics, and hope sparkles in my veins. I knew it! He still cares about me. I let out a big sigh of pure relief.
Then reality comes flooding in, ice cold and full of debris.
This isn’t good. Not at all. Because Jonathan won’t be safe if he’s back in my life. Tonight showed me that.
If Oscar killed Kenny to get control of me, and threatened Daphne to motivate me, what would he do to Jonathan if he found out how much I care for him? Who we are to each other? Oscar would probably kill him. I can’t put Jonathan in danger like that. I just can’t.
Which means I have no choice. I need to walk away, before he can get hurt.
I have to.
But also, if I do walk away, then what?
It might be a millennium before we cross paths again.
It might never happen. Maybe he’ll be lost to me forever.
A dark and lonely eternity unfurls before me, everything in greyscale, each night harder to get through than the last—like it was before we met.
Where I knew nobody would ever be truly close to me, where I had to keep everyone at a certain distance, control what they knew about me.
Where love was for everyone except me. And I can’t even turn him into a vampire like me, because I don’t know how to do that—not that I’d want to inflict that on him.
I just want this one life with him. One measly human life.
Eighty years. Sixty. Ten. Five. Hell, even two months. Anything.
There has to be a way to get him back without Oscar hurting him.
And then it hits me: There is.
I just really don’t want to do it.
Because I’m going to need to do what Oscar asks. To do exactly what he wants, so he has no reason to harm anyone I love.
I need to do this for Daphne. For Jonathan and Es, if Oscar ever finds out about them. This isn’t just about me anymore.
I can do this. I have to do this.
I scroll through my phone and find Oscar’s contact and then I stare at it for a moment, my mind whirring, searching for another way out. Another solution. But there isn’t one.
And so slowly, with a tight knot in my stomach, I type back four little letters: FINE.
I hit send, and Oscar’s reply comes in almost immediately: Splendid. Chat soon.
All I can think as I stare at it is: What have I done?