Page 52 of Some Kind of Haunted

“Sorry,” I murmur, moving out of the way so he can exit.

He mutters something I don’t catch and harrumphs on his way past me. I don’t mean to watch his retreat, but something screeches. When I look behind me, he’s dragging his cane along the cement and something about the sound reminds me of nails on a chalkboard.

Of claws against stone.

I shudder at that unbidden thought and throw myself into the diner. It’s doing its usual brisk business. I think the same people must come every day, order the same things, and have the same conversations. And I want to think that’s small-minded and boring, but I feel a little jolt of jealousy that these people know their place in the world—and each other’s. That they belong here.

Of course, then I remember the whole Feed thing that comes along with all this belonging.

Jealousy is not the predominant feeling.

The diner is buzzing with the sound of all these familiar conversations. I look around, clutching my notebook to my chest, suddenly feeling as out of place as that cane screeching across the pavement outside. Like I’ve made a serious mistake. I should have waited for Logan. I should have—

“Lexi.” I look toward the sound of that low voice and find Jack standing behind the counter. He doesn’t give me that trademark scowl in greeting—an upgrade, I think—but it’s still a frown. He jerks his chin, a nonverbal come here that I would normally feel honor bound to resist on behalf of every woman ever, but I am holding a veritable manifesto of all the things I’ve spent my life trying to hide, so obedience feels safer.

I move to sit on one of the stools at the counter, but that’s not what he means. He wants me to come behind the counter. Where he is. I can’t begin to parse why that feels . . . intimate. Or maybe I know that I shouldn’t parse it.

Either way, I try to keep my expression appropriately neutral as I move into the employees-only area.

“Sit,” he says, pointing to a stool in the corner, out of the way of the bustle of the kitchen.

Said bustle is comprised of Jack, the ever-present Marleen, who made him laugh yesterday, and a teenager with a mop of dark hair who looks somehow both frazzled and helpless at the same time.

“You know Marleen,” Jack says, nodding to the redheaded woman who has her back to me. “That’s Braxton,” he adds, indicating the teen, who smiles at me, then ducks his head.

Jack growls at him. This seems to be some kind of order, because Braxton hurries to grab a mug and then carefully walks it over to me. He hands it out like some kind of offering he’s expecting I’ll refuse.

But it’s another latte like yesterday and that was amazing, so I take it with my murmured thanks. Braxton stands there awkwardly until Jack growls again, and then he hops to attention and scurries out from the kitchen area toward the waiting customers.

Marleen hefts a tray full of loaded plates and then follows him out. If she glances at me, I don’t see it, but she seems to leave an air of friendliness behind her anyway.

“So?” Jack asks me. “Is that it?” His gaze moves to the notebook I’m still clutching in one hand.

I nod. Part of me feels very pleased with myself and all the things I’ve recorded. Another part of me refuses to let go of the notebook. “I’m not sure I remembered everything, and I feel like I should warn you what I remember might not all be pertinent.”

I should have edited this, I think. Or only included the dreams involving the clock tower. Why did I think I should vomit every questionable memory into ink and paper to give to Jack, of all people?

“Lexi.” His voice has that weird edge to it—soft or kind or something that I need to start recognizing as pity, because what else can it be? But he’s looking at me very seriously, and there’s nothing like pity in his gaze. “Any little bit helps.”

Helps. That word feels so big and important. It makes me want to cry, if I’m honest. I’m a lot of things, but not one of them has ever been a source of help. But according to all the things they told me last night, I can be now. I can choose the side I want.

“I want to help,” I tell him, very seriously, because it is that serious to me. It feels like a rolling sort of storm inside me, how much I want to be one of the good guys. Maybe my coming here was a sign, heralding the coming horror. I can’t change that.

But my staying here? Maybe I can make that something else entirely.

Jack is quiet for a moment, but our gazes hold. I swear he sees all the things I can’t possibly explain. And when he speaks, it’s as weighty as all these things feel. “I know you do.”

The moment stretches out. I don’t understand how this man can say these things to me. That he gets that I can’t help what I am. That he knows I want to help.

It’s like he sees me and understands me and doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with me.

And yet still sometimes glares at me like I am the bane of his very existence.

It’s definitely been a long few days.

He comes closer to the stool where he told me to sit and holds out a hand. A large, faintly scarred hand that I absolutely will not take in mine and hold close to my body, because that would be weird.

When he stands there, gazing down at me, I know I should hand him the notebook. That’s the point of this. Of having written out all those dreams in the first place. I wrote them down knowing that I would give them to him.