Page 3 of If I Stopped Haunting You

Alone. She was alone.

Chapter 1

PEN

PRESENT DAY

Pen’s hand tightened on her phone as she fought the urge to text Laszlo. Again. Were ten texts in twenty minutes too much? Pen didn’t know what was socially acceptable anymore, and the last thing she wanted to do was annoy the one person in the world who had stuck by her side these last four months.

Puffing out her cheeks, she slipped her hands into her pockets and squinted down the Royal Mile, regarding the thin crowd. Bundled in jackets, hats, and scarves, people wandered down the cobblestone street, meandering past wool shops and dark pubs, celebrating the last of the highs of New Year’s. Despite the chill, Pen found herself smiling.

There were moments since she’d landed, small, freeze-frame instances where she imagined what it would be like to live here. She’d spent the last two days getting lost amid the brick and cobblestone, traipsing through Edinburgh’s Old Town while munching on Scottish shortbread, her breath turning to fog in the air. Pen had hidden inside small cafes with fresh pots of tea as she watched the passing crowds through the glass. She’d buried her nose in antique books, curling onto worn leather sofas and nestling into warm, dark corners that smelled of spices and roaring fires. Edinburgh felt like magic. It was a place built of fantasy, with bronzewater fountains, wilted gardens, and Gothic architecture all under the same roiling gray clouds. She was glad she’d come to Scotland a few days early. She’d had a chance to see and enjoy the city before she, Laszlo, and several other writers disappeared into the Highlands for their retreat. And now that she’d gotten to know this city, it felt like she was meant for this place.

“You made it!” Laszlo called, rushing through the crowd. The passersby parted for him, rolling their eyes as the tall, gangly American swerved between them. A lock of his blond hair slipped out from beneath his beanie, flopping into his eyes as he laughed and threw his arms around Pen. She couldn’t help but smile as he picked her up and squeezed tight, making it nearly impossible to breathe.

“Laszlo,” Pen wheezed, patting his back, “I can’t breathe.”

He set her down gently, hands on either shoulder to steady her as he leaned back to get a good look. She’d changed a lot in four months; even she knew that. Her skin had become paler, her cheeks gaunter. Her freckles stood out starkly against her pale skin, a spattering of galaxies across her face, disappearing down her neck. She looked as though she hadn’t seen the sun in months. Which, truthfully, she couldn’t remember the last time she basked in a warm ray of sunlight.

Though she hated to admit it, Pen had become a homebody. This was her first time out of Seattle since the Incident, her first time out of her apartment and away from her fluffy black cat, Apawllo. But if there was anyone to convince her to leave her little nest in a city of rain and hate and fly halfway across the world for a writing retreat, it was Laszlo.

When she’d disappeared from the world, she’d hardly spoken a word to her author friends, assuming that, like the rest of publishing, none of them wanted anything to do with her. Except for sweet, sweet Laszlo with his clear caramel eyes and sandy blond hair. Since Book Con, he’d texted and called, checking in on her.He’d been the only one. And despite his close friendship with Neil Storm, she loved Laszlo like a brother. Not that it was easy being friends with someone who talked regularly with one’s enemy, but timed rants, no-Storm zones, and the adoption of her cuddly companion, Apawllo, to help ease her loneliness had gone a long way in repairing her complicated friendship with Laszlo.

Just as Laszlo took a step back, a tall woman wrapped in a puffy blue jacket launched herself at him. Grinning like a fool, she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed, eliciting a wheeze from Laszlo.

“Pen,” Laszlo choked, prying himself free with a laugh, “this is my sister, Louise. Louise, this is Penelope Skinner.”

Louise smiled at Pen with soft brown eyes, her blond curls bouncing as she held out a pale, slender hand. Her nails were trimmed short, and several small scars crisscrossed her hands. “The famed Penelope Skinner! I liked your handiwork.” She winked conspiratorially.

“My handiwork?” Pen asked with a raised brow at Laszlo.

“Hope you don’t mind me joining,” Louise said, ignoring them. “I don’t get to see Lasz too often these days, and I’m visiting from London before I head back to the US for work.”

Pen smiled warily, taking the offered hand. “Not at all. What do you do, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Archaeology. I’m working down in Georgia now with a colleague.”

“And she wonders why I don’t visit her,” Laszlo muttered.

Louise shook her head. “There’s some beauty there, brother. If you would just visit me for once instead of making me chase you across the planet—”

“No, thank you.” Louise raised a brow, and Pen stifled laughter as Laszlo shot her a look. “So,” he said, actively ignoring them and starting down the Royal Mile, “are you ready for a bit of a fun surprise?”

Pen narrowed her eyes. “A good surprise?”

“All surprises are good surprises,” Louise countered.

Pen frowned at Laszlo, fight or flight taking shape in her gut like a stampede of butterflies. With a sigh, she hooked her arm through Laszlo’s and followed him down the street.

Now that she was actually in Scotland, the writing retreat felt more and more like a mistake. There were a million reasons why going was a bad idea. While Pen had the money to take a few weeks off for the first time in four years thanks to her side (now full-time) hustle as a freelance editor under an anonymous name, she’d never traveled outside the US, her passport tucked away in a drawer.

Besides preferring the quiet of her small apartment and judgment-free cuddly companion who consistently looked at her with round, bottomless eyes like she knew the answer to everything, there was Storm to think about. She hadn’t seen him since the Incident, and though Laszlo had insisted he wasn’t coming on the retreat, he’d paused on the phone. A short pause, possibly caused by a mere tickle in his throat, but Pen felt a strange nagging at the back of her mind nonetheless.

Except this would be good for her. This retreat could fix whatever was broken in her head, in her heart. She hadn’t finished a book since her debut, and with five years of blocked-up creativity, Pen had begun to wonder if she should give up. If she should stop trying to write. Her agent had dropped her, and she and her book had become public enemy number one. What was the point?

“You look like you’re thinking really hard about something,” Louise observed.

Pen winced. “That easy to tell?”