Chapter 8
eight
I tell myself I’m just running errands. But the truth is uglier than that. I look for his face everywhere. In the aisles at the store. In line at the pharmacy. In the windows of passing cars. On the back of every Harley I see.
I listen for his voice. That low, deliberate gravel of it. I’ve only heard it once in person and once on the phone, but it’s burrowed so deep into me that it echoes sometimes in the silence.
I’m not this person. I’m not someone who stalks strange men through grocery stores or imagines a relationship where there isn’t one.
I’m cautious. Careful. I’ve spent most of my life avoiding attention, not chasing it down in the form of a man who could very likely kill me just to keep a secret.
But something about him won’t let me go. And it’s not just him. It’s them.
The ghosts are always worse when I’m close to him.
Like his presence stirs them up, makes them bold, but they've stayed loud since living in London fell apart, since Mila looked through me in the lobby of her lab like we’d never shared a life.
I told myself a new city would quiet them.
It hasn’t. It just changed the station. There’s one here now, right behind me as I pretend to compare brands of toothpaste.
His collar is dark with old blood that’ll never dry.
“He doesn’t like being watched,” he says, a little amused.
They rarely talk to me. Holy crap, they barely talk to me.
My throat goes tight. Great. We’ve graduated from flickers and vibes to full sentences.
I must really be losing it if the dead feel obligated to narrate now. “But I guess you already know that.”
“Go away,” I whisper. He doesn’t.
By the time I get to the produce section, I’ve spotted two more.
One man with no hands. Another with a hole in his throat that looks like a torn pocket.
They hover. Watch. Almost like they’re waiting to see what I’ll do.
I clutch my basket tighter, fingers aching.
I do the rule. Three slow laps. Cereal aisle, dairy case, bakery.
If I still want it on the third pass, it’s a need and goes into the cart.
That’s how my head makes peace with my gut.
The rule keeps me from unraveling. I promised myself Vegas would be bravely lived, not perfectly managed.
Some days brave looks like buying the bread on the first pass.
On the second lap my gut sours because I recognize these particular spirits.
Their injuries aren’t random. They’re deliberate.
Precise. Knife work. My stomach drops, and something low in me answers back with heat I don’t want to examine.
These men are tied to Cassius. The man with no hands sat by me at Mirage last night.
The man with the bloody collar is from the grocery store spice aisle.
The one with the hole in his throat, I don’t know how he found himself in Cassius’s orbit, but I know he did.
The knowing lands with two options: believe he’s a monster, he called himself the Machine, and stop whatever this is, or decide I already knew what he is and keep ignoring it.
I think about what it would be like to stop answering his messages, to go back to who I was before I knew he existed.
It’s only been five days, but somehow I’m a completely different woman than I was then.
They feel like bad men. I’m telling myself they deserved whatever Cassius did to them.
It’s not proof. But, I’m comfortable calling it instinct.
It’s also denial. If I name what he is out loud, I don’t get to text him tonight.
So I shake off the ghosts’ warnings. I won’t justify him, but I won’t walk away from him either.
I don’t see him. But I know he’s here. The same way you know when you’re being followed, even if you can’t hear the footsteps. And I’m sure he knows I’m here, too. That he’s watching me flounder through this weak excuse for reconnaissance and letting it play out because it amuses him.
Because he’s already won.
I move to the bakery next, pretending to inspect croissants, when the air shifts. Every hair on my body stands up. He’s definitely here.
Across the store, his cart parked, one hand on his phone, head slightly down. Then his eyes lift enough to meet mine. Not long. Not obvious. But it’s enough.
I freeze. His expression doesn’t change. No smile. No acknowledgment. But I feel the curl of it beneath my skin when my phone buzzes.
Cassius:
I see you, Lindy darling. Go ahead. Keep watching.
So I do. Because I can’t stop.
I straighten a crooked price tag, line my basket handle with the tile grout, and give myself ten seconds before I move.
Ten seconds to be honest. I didn’t just happen to choose the grocery store across town.
I waited an extra fifteen minutes in my car pretending to check emails just in case he walked in again.
I fantasize about the cut of his shoulders and the way it’d feel to tuck my face there, to be steered by a warm palm at my hip, his mouth at the hinge of my jaw, his breath saying good girl where only I can hear.
I imagine stubble scraping my throat, the heavy hush of his body pinning mine—not to trap me, but to quiet the static.
The ridiculousness of it makes my cheeks burn.
I straighten a second price tag just to have something to do with my hands.
It’s a lie, of course. I’ve never been good at lying. Not to myself. Not when it matters.
I’m stalking him. Badly. This isn’t on any of my Vegas goals. I made a Vegas Bucket List and slid it inside his favorite book when it showed up.
stand in a closed room with a man at work and keep my breath steady
edit a book that makes me believe in love and magic
make one real friend and don’t spend the whole time waiting for them to leave
spend one whole day alone on purpose and have fun
unpack every box and hang art without measuring
drive the Strip by myself and not shake
learn my way around the city by heart without maps
say no once and don’t apologize after
It does not say chase a man who feels like a crime scene in a suit. If I can’t make this work here, if I can’t chase passion at work, make a friend, and build a life I’m not afraid of, what was the point of leaving London?
I pretend to examine bell peppers I won’t buy while watching him from the corner of my eye.
He’s wearing a black hoodie and jeans, pushing a cart with the ease of someone who could kill you with one hand and organize your pantry with the other.
He doesn't look dangerous here. He looks normal. But I know better.
His phone buzzes. He looks down, thumbs out a reply, then lifts his head slowly. I freeze, my heart slamming into my ribs.
He so obviously knows I’m here, but he doesn’t look at me, not directly. There’s a twitch of a smile on his lips that makes my stomach twist. He’s playing along. Letting me think I’m getting away with something.
I backtrack toward the pastries, cheeks flush with embarrassment I have no right to feel. This thing between us—it’s only texting. Words on a screen. Snippets of a man I shouldn't want. I haven’t even seen him outside of that one time, not really.
I keep texting him. I keep replaying the grocery store aisle, the way he touched me like I was his. I keep inventing errands that end in his orbit. I keep making excuses to be near him even though I know him from a distance isn’t enough. It never will be.
I’m still deciding what that makes me when someone steps up beside me.
“Melinda Westbrook?”
I blink. “Yes?”
The woman flashes a badge. “Detective Sarah Blake. Do you have a moment?”
No. “Sure,” I say. There goes number eight on my list. We step aside, away from the bread and the cookies and the illusion of normal.
“I was hoping you could answer a few questions about someone you may know. Cassius Ashenheart?”
My spine goes stiff. My palms start to sweat. I wipe them on my jeans and line my basket handle with the grout line on the floor.
“I don’t really know him.” Over Detective Blake’s shoulder, movement snags my eye.
Black hoodie, head down, that deliberate, unhurried gait I’d know anywhere.
The automatic doors breathe open, chime once, and a slice of winter light hits the silver zipper on his leather jacket before he’s gone.
He doesn’t look back. I school my face, smooth the edge of a coupon display with my thumb to keep from shaking, and force my eyes to the detective again.
“Really?” Her smile says she’s already decided I’m lying. “You were seen near his block about two days ago. Traffic cams put you in the neighborhood after midnight.”
“I got turned around. I’m new here.” I keep my voice even, I hope. “It was a mistake.”
She hums like that’s cute. “Mmm. Did he say anything about his job? His background?”
“I’ve never spoken to him,” I say. “I’m sorry. I don’t have anything that would help you.”
Her smile tightens. She slips a card into my hand. “That’s too bad. If you do remember anything, even something small, use my card. Don’t hesitate.” She walks off like she’s doing me a favor.
I feel sick.
In the car, I lock the doors, check them twice, then a third time and that gives me some relief. I text him with shaking thumbs.
A detective just talked to me about you. I didn’t say anything. I swear. I don’t even know what she’s fishing for. I’m sorry.
The dots appear almost immediately.
Cassius:
Blake’s just fishing. She’s harmless. We’ve had her flagged for weeks. Thank you for being honest with me, darling.
My heart stops for a beat. Then thunders.
Not thanks. But, Thank you for being honest with me, darling.
Like it matters. Like I matter. I line my phone perfectly with the edge of the console.
I watch the review mirror like a picture frame, waiting for the man with no hands to try to buckle himself into my back seat.
Of course he already knew. Cassius doesn’t get surprised; he arranges the room and lets surprise happen to other people.
This is the architecture of him: he learns names, times the doors, knows which cameras have blind spots.
Mine is commas and spines in alphabetical order.
Our worlds shouldn’t touch, but he drags them together like it’s easy.
Comfort rolls through me so hard it registers as fear.
Flagged tastes like a paper cut. It means there’s a list and a watcher and a net he strung before I even knew there was water.
Flagged means her name bolded on that list and mine somewhere near it, and that should scare me.
It steadies me instead—and that scares me more.
God help me—I’m already in too deep.