Chapter 14
Ileave the den and walk through the kitchen, stopping at the bottom of the stairs near the front door.
I look to my left into the living room and see nothing and no one.
The couch is empty. A throw blanket half-hangs off one side, like someone got up in a hurry.
The coffee table’s cluttered, an empty glass, a few coasters, one of Rafe’s hockey magazines folded backward like it’s been thumbed through too many times.
I take a deep inhale, my eyes falling closed. That scent again, mint and something sweeter underneath it. Not strong. Just enough to catch at the edges of my awareness. Like the ghost of something. My eyes snap open, and I look up the stairs. Grabbing the railing, I take them two at a time.
I come to the first landing and wait for a second.
My hand stays on the railing. My chest rises slowly.
My nostrils flare. There it is again. That smell.
Just a trace of it, pulled up by the draft of my own movement.
Mint, but not the cold kind. Warmer. Softer.
I swallow. My throat feels dry, like I haven’t had water in days.
I start on the second set of stairs, again taking them two at a time. Each step lands a little heavier than the last. My hand tightens on the railing.
I finally reach the second floor and am greeted with a hallway. The walls are familiar. White with trim that looks darker in this light. A few family photos hang spaced along the left side, black frames, evenly aligned. The air feels cooler up here.
Down this hallway is Rafe’s room. It’s at the very end and to the left. I don’t look toward it. I know that’s not where I’m heading.
I turn to my right and follow the banister that frames the opening for the stairs.
It’s sturdy, dark wood polished smooth, the top rail catching the ambient glow from a nearby wall light.
Below it, I can see the curve of the staircase and the first landing where I paused just moments ago.I stop at the opposite side of the stairs.
There’s another hallway here. The overhead light hums faintly, casting a pale glow down the stretch of carpet and closed doors.
Down this way is Morella’s room, a few guest rooms, and one of the guest bathrooms. The other bathroom is to my right, just behind me, the door cracked open, dark inside.
I wait a moment, staring down the hall. This is definitely it.
I start down the hall. And the smell hits me like a brick wall.
Minty. Sweet. Stronger than before. It floods my senses, sinks into the back of my throat, winds around my ribs like it belongs there.
I falter. My eyes fall closed as I breathe in, long and deep.
My lungs strain, like they can’t get enough of it.
It’s not just a scent anymore. It’s a presence.
My feet start to move again and I’m pulled forward, straight to an open door.
The light inside is soft. Steam is still floating in the air, the mirror completely fogged over.
The overhead bulb casts a muted glow through the haze, softening every edge.
The tiles on the floor are slightly damp. The air is thick with leftover heat.
I peek my head inside. Empty. No movement.
No sound. But the light’s still on. I glance at the counter.
A few bottles sit at the far end, clustered near the corner where the shower meets the wall.
Not the usual ones Rafe’s mom keeps for guests.
My eyes flick toward the shower where the curtain hangs closed.
I look back down the hall in both directions. Still quiet.
I step inside the bathroom. I close the door quietly behind me, pressing the latch into place without a sound. The scent is overwhelming here. It clings to the steam in the air and wraps around me.
I make quick work of the space between me and the bottles, snatching one off the counter without hesitation.
It’s still wet. Droplets cling to the ridges of the cap, one trailing down the side and catching the soft light before it falls to the counter.
The label is soft pink, almost translucent, with silver snowflakes scattered across the surface.
The text is pale teal. Candy Cane. Below that, it says shampoo.
I pop the lid open and take a big whiff. I have to stifle a moan. The scent crashes into me, stronger now, no longer diffused by the air. It’s sharp and sweet and cool all at once. Like something designed to pull you under.
My knees wobble. I reach down and grip the counter with my free hand, palm flat against the cool surface, just to steady myself.
My fingers tighten, hard enough that the muscles in my forearm lock.
I slam the bottle back onto the counter.
My head hangs forward, breath shuddering.
God, that smells so… good. This is what I’ve been smelling all week.
Everywhere. In the halls. In the den. It’s been driving me insane.
I hate sweets. Never liked them. The smell of sugar, frosting, syrup. It always turned my stomach.
But this… This is different.
I grab another bottle. The plastic is soft pink again, the snowflakes even shinier on this one.
The label reads Shave Oil. I press the pump, careful, letting the smallest drop land on my fingertips.
It’s thick and shimmery. Almost iridescent in the light.
I glide my thumb through it, slow, watching how it clings. How it moves like silk across my skin.
Then I bring my fingers to my nose. A full-on groan slips from my mouth before I can stop it.
I press my hand flat against my face, breathing through my fingers like that’ll somehow make it easier.
It doesn’t. I pull my phone from my pocket and snap a photo of the label.
I set the bottle back exactly where it was, adjusting it so it’s angled like before. Like I was never here.
Then I turn and head for the door. My hand wraps around the knob. It’s cool against my skin. I give it a slow twist and ease the door open, trying not to make a sound.
But the second I step out. I walk straight into someone.
I stumble back a half step, instinct already tensing through my shoulders.
My hands fly out, grabbing hold of two soft, small arms. I swing us around, guiding the person back against the wall to keep from falling.
The thud is soft. A startled yelp escapes her lips, barely more than a breath, but sharp enough to cut through the haze in my head.
I look down. Olivia. Her eyes are wide, mouth parted like she’s mid-word or mid-breath. Her whole body is trembling beneath my hands.
My grip is too tight. I see it now, my fingers pressing into her shimmering skin, leaving behind warm, soft pink imprints on her porcelain arms.
I don’t move. I can’t. My gaze lifts, slow, tracing the line of her collarbone, the slope of her neck, until it lands on her hair.
Wet. Freshly washed. Still clinging to her temples and the sides of her face.
A single drop clings to the tip of one strand near her jaw.
The scent hits me again. Not in the air.
Not lingering in the room. It’s coming from her.
My grip tightens before I can stop it, a tremor running through my fingers. It’s her. The smell that’s been haunting me. Making me obsessed all week.. It’s been her.
My mouth parts, and my tongue glides over the bottom of my top teeth.
“Archer…”
She stutters out my name, barely above a whisper.
It’s the sound of it pulls me out of whatever the hell this is. I look down again. She looks like she’s in pain. Her eyebrows are drawn, her breath shaky.
A line forms between my brows. That’s when I see it. Dark circles under my thumbs. Shit. I release her arms instantly, like they’ve burned me. I take two quick steps back, heat still surging in my chest, but now it’s twisted. Nauseating.
I throw on my mask. The practiced one. The one I’ve worn since I was old enough to know what people expected from me.
“Watch where you’re going next time,” I say, voice flat, clipped. I turn on my heels before she can say anything else.
I take the stairs two at a time again, but this time it’s to get away.
At the bottom, I move past the living room, past the kitchen, and duck into the small bathroom.
I twist the lock behind me. The fan hums to life overhead.
I brace both hands on the edge of the sink.
My breath is loud in the dark, heart pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to break free.
That smell, it’s still clinging to me. In my nose. On my skin. On my hands. I turn the faucet on cold and scrub like hell.