Page 77 of Some Kind of Haunted

Sure, hair wreaths can’t hurt me—as far as I know—but now they’re trapped.

Absently, I reach for the last book, only to realize it’s not a book at all, but a kind of shadow box.

Of hair.

Hair braided in the shape of the clock tower.

I manage to swallow down the strangled scream, then flip it over, so the back of the frame is facing up instead. I still know what’s under there, but . . .

I rearrange the books so they’re on top of that, too.

I’m feeling a little clammy, a little panicked. I reach into my bag for something to put over my bare arms and pull out the sweater Nora lent me weeks ago. I keep meaning to give it back to her, but for now I pull it on.

This feeling is just exhaustion, I tell myself. And worry. About Cleo and Virginia. Feeds past and Feeds come early and my grandmother sacrificing herself. I need to get some rest, just like Nora said.

I need my sleep routine. I need to center and ground myself in this new place. Everything will be fine then.

I grab my toiletry bag and head down the hallway. Everything is dark and in shadows. I think maybe the rustling I hear is Nora settling into her bed in the main showroom, but I don’t want to investigate to find out. I would hate to be wrong about that.

I slip into the bathroom. There’s nowhere to set everything out. Even with a shower, it’s cramped. The frustration of trying to do everything without any counter space or room to move is annoying.

By the time I’m done, I’m a little sweaty and not in any way less panicked, and I want more than just a palmful of water to swallow my pill down with. I want a glass. I don’t remember seeing any in my room, and who knows if they’d be tainted by hair if there were, but if I creep downstairs I can swipe a glass from the diner.

Jack wouldn’t mind, I tell myself. Or maybe I know he would and that’s why I’m tempted. I leave the bathroom, including my bag and sleeping pill that I prop precariously on the lip of the sink, and move into the hallway. I use the wall to guide me out to the stairs where a red EXIT sign lights my way down.

If I take a left, I’ll go to the antique store. Where Jack is probably sleeping in his grandfather’s office.

What would it be like to go find him instead of a glass? Open his door, slide into his bed, and press my cheek to his back like I did on the motorcycle?

Crazy, Lexi. It would be crazy. Maybe there’s that moment at the airport looming in my brain now, but he walked away. Of his own volition. He has given me no real reason to think this is something I should fantasize about. Sure, he’s been kind at times. Under his gruff exterior is clearly a very good man.

And what would I do with that?

So I push on. Avoiding looking out the window at the clock tower as I move into the diner. Where there’s a light on.

At the counter, Jack is sitting on a stool. He is illuminated by one solitary light hanging above him. He has an array of things spread out on the counter—an old-looking journal, a legal pad, and something on the other side of his arm I can’t see from my angle.

I stand there and watch him. He’s deep in it, because he doesn’t look up. Every once in a while he runs a hand through his thick dark hair. Agitated. Frustrated.

I would really like to run my fingers through his hair in a much less agitated and frustrated manner. And sure, that could be chalked up to simple attraction. A little forbidden fruit, since Harrison seemed to warn me off his grandson.

But whatever this yearning is feels different than what I’ve known before. It’s deeper in my chest. Simple attraction doesn’t have daggers and hooks. At least, not in my experience.

The way he jumped out onto that roof to help Virginia. The way he said he wouldn’t hurt me that first night. The way I’m sure he almost kissed me and then took the curves easy on his motorcycle today, making sure I was holding on. His care with Harrison and Nora. There’s a good man in there, under all the gruff.

And all the hot.

I don’t say anything, but eventually he looks up like he can sense me there.

He takes in my pajamas. The cheese illustrations and garish yellow that’s easy to see in the dark—something you think about when you could wake up anywhere. My bare feet that could definitely use some socks since the tile floor under them is cold. There’s a considering kind of look in his gaze, like he’s not sure about me.

I get it. “I’m not sleepwalking,” I offer into the silence.

“Good to know.” He looks back at his book and I move closer. I peer over his shoulder at the leather-bound book. There’s one of his maps on one page and the faded script of some ancient person’s recounting of demons on the other.

“Do you not sleep?” I ask him.

“I’ll catch a few hours eventually.” He says this in an offhanded way that is not at all believable. Because he is the de facto leader. Because he takes everything on his shoulders, like this is all . . . his responsibility, and only his.