42. 42
Harlow
I rest my head on an old throw pillow, my hands folded in prayer beneath my cheek.
The old couch is lumpy, but I will never sleep in my bedroom again.
Not until I solve the camera mystery and that nightmare clown is proven truly a figment of my imagination.
Regardless, I should be able to sleep here — in the living room.
Work was exhausting. I was on my feet all twelve hours of my shift.
Yet, I am wide awake.
I check the clock.
Seven AM.
The sunrise hasn’t arrived. The second gold rays hit my curtains, it’ll make sleep impossible. Even with blackout curtains, I’ll feel it behind my eyelids, bleeding in at the edges.
Please, God. Let me go to sleep.
Car brakes sound. Huh.
Those seem close. Whoever is here must be visiting a neighbor.
A car door shuts.
Silence.
Then—
Creak.
The gentle noise was so soft, I almost missed it.
Was that the front door? Oh, my God. Did I not lock my door?
I’m frozen.
A footstep.
Holy shit. Someone’s in my house.
What do I do? Do I move? Scream? If it’s a robber, he might shoot me if I see his face.
As subtly as I can, I open one eye and peek at the front door.
It’s shut, but there’s movement.
A man’s figure stands by the small kitchen table. It’s a living silhouette. His head turns my way. I squeeze my eyes shut. My heart pounds against my eardrums. Papers rustle softly. Maybe he’ll take something and leave. The problem is, I don’t have anything worth stealing.
I peek around the corner once more and squint. The man’s form sharpens.
Curly black hair. Tall. Handsome. Damaged.
Killian.
I can’t help but gasp into my palm.
He doesn’t react. He keeps rummaging, sifting through items on the table.
I’m on my feet without a second thought, tiptoeing closer.
“Killian?” The name sticks in my throat, making my voice small and pathetic. I clear my throat and say it louder. “Killian.”
He glances sideways, as if he isn’t surprised that I’ve caught him breaking into my house. He certainly doesn’t care.
“What is this?” he says gruffly, and holds up a piece of paper.
It’s the note. He plucked it from the dead roses still collecting dust in the middle of my kitchen table. Evan’s roses. I never threw them away.
I shrug, trying to appear calm and composed despite knowing he won’t be happy with my answer.
“They’re from Evan.”
“I know who they’re from. I can fucking read.” He crumples the note and tosses it over his shoulder. “Why do you still have them? Why do I have to see them every damn time I’m here.”
My eyes widen, and I gasp.
“You’ve been here?” I whisper.
“Don’t change the subject.”
Stunned, I simply point at the trash. “You can throw them away. I don’t care.”
“Why haven’t you thrown them away?” He shakes his head in disgust.
I squint, confused. “Is this real?” I reach out, hovering my hand over his arm, afraid to make contact. “Can I touch you?”
“Answer the question, Harlow. You haven’t seen me for months. Why isn’t there something of mine you keep on the table?”
“I kept the car.”
His expression doesn’t change. “That isn’t what I asked.”
I blink. I must be hallucinating. I keep my eyes on his, then press my fingertips against his arm.
It’s hard. Warm.
Real.
My knees almost give out, and I clutch onto his bicep to hold myself up.
“Killian!” I gasp. “You’re here! You’re okay!”
“Why are the roses here?”
I scrunch my brow. “They need to be thrown away like everything else on this table.” I do a quick scan of the trailer. It’s fairly messy. “I don’t spend a lot of time here except to study and sleep.”
“Bullshit,” he dismisses harshly, causing me to flinch.
“Because!” I blurt unexpectedly. “Evan tried. I wanted roses from you.”
He gawks. For once, he’s stunned.
I’m sure he’s high. His cheeks are sharper and his eyes are too bright, but all I see is Killian. Alive. Standing in front of me. It is dark in here. His scars. They’re deeper, having widened in reckless form. Gosh, he’s just as handsome and beautifully damaged as I remember.
“You wanted roses,” he mumbles.
“Killy,” I murmur, reflexive and breathless. “What’s important is I have missed you. We need to talk.”
“Killy,” he echoes, then snatches the roses from the vase and walks toward my bedroom.
“Wha—What?”
“I hate this fucking trailer,” he calls over his shoulder.
Dead rose petals flutter onto the floor. They crunch under my feet as I follow him down the hall.
“What are you doing?” I say, frantic.
“How can I keep you safe if you take down my fucking cameras?” he asks, and lifts his chin toward the bed. “Or did you do it so you can cum for other men without me knowing?”
Cameras. Plural.
“Whoa.”
One word.
That’s all I say. I’m too busy gawking at him as I strain to process what this man just confessed.
The one in my bedroom belonged to him. If Killian installed it, then the man in the mask—
“Then I find out you’re seeing a therapist because you think…” His voice cuts short, and he snarls in disgust.
Flick.
White noise.
Killian holds a lighter. Its blue flame glows bright in the darkness. He lights an old rose, and my heart leaps into my chest. As if it’s nothing, he tosses it onto my bed.
Oh, my God!
I jump, picking it up and blowing on the burning petals. The flame almost snuffs out, then flares. Another rose is lit. This time, he holds it to a drape, igniting the old fabric.
“No!” I scream and rush to pat it out.
It burns my palms. The flame on the other rose crawls down the stem, meeting my hand. I drop it onto the floor. The carpet smolders. I grab a blanket, smothering its flame. The drapes burn brighter. I try to snuff them, but they crawl to the ceiling.
I turn. Killian is on the move, lighting each rose and setting parts of my home on fire. When he throws a lit rose into the tub, fire catches the curtain and climbs fast. In seconds, my bathroom is engulfed.
I stumble backward, thumping into the wall.
I lunge down the hall, rushing to get my phone in the living room and call 911.
Just as I pass Killian in the kitchen, he tosses another rose over his shoulder.
Instinctively, I try to stop him, grabbing his wrist and swatting at the few remaining roses in his hand.
Thump!
My back slams against the front door. His hands clamp around my shoulders, firm and immovable.
“You didn’t tell your therapist about Evan pressuring you to become a prostitute. No. You two spend the entire time telling yourself I’m the monster.”
I gawk, unable to process this. Smoke fills the room and inches lower, dark and suffocating. It’ll reach us soon.
“Killian! We need to leave!”
“You want me to be a monster? He’s your fucking monster.” He looks at the smoke-filled ceiling.
Then he grabs my bag from the coffee table and drags me outside to an idling car, shoving me into the backseat.
The driver looks at me and smirks. It’s Brax. “I remember you. Keysha’s friend at the pool party.”
Killian drops into the seat beside me.
I wrench at the door handle.
He grips my arm, firm and effortless, stopping me.
The car glides away from the carnage that is my home. The flames fill the rearview mirror, reflecting across my face. The neighbors. The fire department. Someone will call. They’ll get the flames out. My home is okay. I’m okay.
“I’m okay,” I whisper.
“Was this your plan coming here?” Brax asks Killian.
“No,” he says, his voice far too calm for the chaos he just created.
My chin quivers and I can’t speak. I’m in shock. Killian reaches over, taking my hand in his.
“I shouldn’t have left you,” he murmurs.
I shake my head, slow and subtle. He’s closer now. His eyes are darker than I remember.
He wipes a tear from my cheek. The villains’ faces inked down his arm have never looked more like an extension of him.
“You need a place to stay now. If you ask nicely, you can stay with me.”
I gawk. He really is insane.
Just then, he clutches my jaw, moving my mouth like I’m his puppet. He mimics my voice, far more pathetic than necessary:
“Yes, Killy. I’m ungrateful and called you a rapist, but please, let me live with you.”
I thrust his hand away.
“Don’t touch me,” I hiss.
He smirks, wicked and cruel. “I can touch you whenever I want. The other day, you begged me not to stop.”
“That was you?” My voice cracks. “In the mask?”
His grin widens. “Who else?”
The nightmare wasn’t a dream.
“Don’t stop, Killy,” he taunts, mimicking me once more, cruel and sinister.
I sit back into the seat, too shook for words.
My house — no my life — is in flames.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t think.
I sob.