Chapter 22 #2
The ghosts pretend not to jump as Cassius zip ties my wrists and lays out my choices.
I pick friction cut and bicycle until smoke plumes up from plastic.
The alley man watches my feet and looks impressed against his will.
The kneecap ghost shows me a better angle with two fingers and a lift of his chin.
I try it; it’s easier. I hate that he’s right. I love that he’s right.
A new one lingers near the weight rack. A woman in a red blazer, mascara comet-streaked and a rope-burn necklace ringing her throat.
Don’t feel bad for me, she says, conversational, almost gentle.
I earned it. She crooks a finger at my hands.
Thumb under palm. Make the wrist smaller. You’re fighting yourself too much.
I tuck my thumb. The band bites, then gives.
She’s learning, the alley man says, almost bored, but I know it’s his version of praise.
She’ll end up like us, the grocery creep sings.
She’ll end up nothing like you, Gideon answers, tipping his brim toward Cassius this time. Not if he keeps his head.
Sometimes this scares me. Sometimes I scare myself. The part that wants a harder knot, wants to beat my last time, wants to see pride break his face. When those parts show up, the ghosts lean in.
We switch drills. Blindfolds. Gag removal.
Somewhere between the second and third attempt, the woman in red shakes her head at my mouth and mimes jaw, not teeth.
I angle the fabric; it slides. No, he doesn’t only kill men, she says without heat.
He kills what needs killing. Her eyes cut to Cassius, then back to me.
If you can’t stomach this, run. Or—she holds the bobby pin on the mat hostage with her heel—learn faster.
By the end of the first week in January, the numbers on his notepad are inked odd: 3:11. 2:49. 1:59. I like beating myself. I like the way he looks at me when I do, the way good girl lives in my bones hours after.
At night he smears arnica over the cord-burns and liquid silk on the parts that will hate me in the morning.
He braids my hair loose so it won’t pull, tucks a heat pack across my shoulders, an ice sleeve over my wrist, pulls me into his chest and reads Monte Cristo until my breath evens.
Sometimes the ghosts gather in the doorway and listen like it’s a bedtime story.
“I will always come for you, Lindy girl,” he tells me, forehead to forehead, voice low and fierce. “No matter who takes you. No matter what they do.”
I believe him. And also—I believe me.
The next morning, before he asks, “Again?” I beat him to it, already reaching for the rope. The ghosts take their places. The bag thuds. My breath counts odd. My hands don’t shake.
Watch me, I think, and aim it at all of them—dead and living both.
Watch me become.
Victoria is halfway through her salad when she sets her fork down and leans across the tiny patio table like she’s about to spill classified intel.
“So,” she says, lowering her voice, “what do you think happened to Wyatt?”
My stomach clenches, but I sip my iced tea like nothing’s wrong. “I have no idea.”
“He disappeared. Poof. Gone.” She waggles her fingers dramatically. “No text. No call. Didn’t even show up for the meeting with the author that’s starting their tour next week. There’s a theory he ran. Like, ran ran. Maybe something shady came out about him.”
I force a small, curious-sounding hum, like this is just office gossip and not a ghost breathing at the edge of my vision.
“That’s wild.” But he is. The alley man from the first night slides into the reflective glass behind Victoria’s shoulder, one clouded eye and that curious tilt of his head.
The woman in the red blazer leans against the lamppost, rope-burn necklace pale today.
Gideon touches his brim. The air shifts the way it does when a memory decides to sit down at your table.
Too bad these are Cassius’ memories and not my own.
“Or, you know,” Victoria laughs, “maybe he got in too deep with one of the many crews in this slimy city and ended up chum.”
I smile, but I’m not hearing her anymore. Across the street, a man lingers. Too long. Shoulders hunched, head low, eyes flicking like he thinks I won’t notice. No food. No phone. Just watching.
He’s watching me.
My pulse steadies instead of spikes. In three.
Out five. In seven. I reach into my bag, pretend to find lip balm, and flick the safety on the switchblade Cassius insisted I start carrying.
The woman in red crooks a finger and points to my feet.
Street side, not wall side. I shift my chair.
The alley man tips two fingers. Make him turn his hips.
My napkin goes down. I stand.
“Melinda?” Victoria’s voice trails behind me.
I cross the street, calm and sure-footed, and stop directly in front of him. He’s taller up close. Dirty nails. Twitchy fingers. Scent of sweat and last night’s liquor.
“Got something to say?” I ask, loud enough for him to know I’m not afraid.
His eyes narrow. “You shouldn’t—”
He doesn’t finish.
Cassius appears out of nowhere, stepping between us like he was carved from shadow at my back, coat flaring. The ghosts go very still. So does the man.
“If you so much as look at her sideways,” Cassius says, voice low and lethal, “or breathe your nasty ass breath in her direction again, I’ll cut your tongue out with a dull knife and shove it down your throat.”
The man stumbles, shaking his head, then bolts. Cassius stares him down, death given form, until he disappears. Alley man watches him run and looks…satisfied. Woman in red lifts a brow at me. Not bad. Gideon tips his brim to Cassius. Then, like a tide pulling back, they fade.
I exhale when Cassius’ hand settles at the small of my back. He turns and gestures for Victoria to follow. “Let’s go.”
Victoria snatches her tote and hustles beside us in stunned silence. Cassius doesn’t speak again, not until he’s escorted us all the way to the door of our office building. He leans close, mouth brushing the shell of my ear.
“You handled yourself well, darling.”
“You knew he was there?” My voice is steady. It surprises me. It pleases him. I feel it in the way his fingers flex at my back.
“I knew the moment you sat down. I tried to let you handle it. I apologize for stepping in. You were doing great. My first reaction will always be to protect you.”
Victoria never speaks a word to Cassius, but her wide eyes say she’s filing away everything for a future interrogation. She fumbles with the door, giving us a long glance before heading inside.
“She’s going to have questions,” I murmur.
“Lie, darling,” he says, the corner of his mouth kicking up. “But not about being my wife.”
He kisses the corner of my jaw and then just like that, he’s gone, disappeared back into the city like he was never there.
But I feel safer. Because I know he always is.