Page 97 of Some Kind of Haunted

That causes a slight hitch in his stride. He doesn’t have a quick answer for that, and only lets out a long, hard sort of breath.

That makes me feel like an asshole, but the thing is, I think it’s a reasonable question under the circumstances.

“I want to end this, but I don’t want it to be the end of us,” I tell him as he pushes the bathroom door open. I am the most sincere I can remember ever being, to anyone.

He drops my hand and I don’t like that much, but he looks down at me and I see all that heat and light, grief and intensity in his gaze. “We can only do this one step at a time. And the first step is getting you a shower.”

Then he reaches beyond me, practically pressed up to me because the room is tiny, but it’s not like I mind that. He fiddles with the faucet in the shower and gets the water going.

“Jack.” My hands are curled into his shirt of their own accord. I don’t really want to let go.

But I do when he peels my hands off, with a curve to his mouth that makes it all feel soothing. “I’m going to grab you a towel and some of your clothes. Wash up.”

It’s an order, and it feels like an actionable item with no imminent death or demon threat, so I listen. I toss the awful jail clothes in the corner and step into the miniature shower stall. Then I stand under the tiny trickle of poor water pressure, glad it’s at least hot water.

For a moment it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, because there was a point in my brief stint in jail where I was convinced that I was never going to feel clean again.

The longer I stand there, though, I come back from the jail of it all and can admit to myself that as showers go, this one is not going to win any awards. That’s okay. It’s not as satisfying as I’d like, but it gets the job done. I manage to wash my hair with some shampoo I find in the stall that smells like strawberries. I scrub my skin with a questionable bar of soap, but hey, it lathers and I feel cleaner afterward.

Everything and anything is better than jail—though as I think that, I think of the fact that Nora’s there right now, and that doesn’t make me happy.

I hear the squeak of the door. “Towel and clothes are on the sink,” Jack says. Then the door closes again. I frown a little at how much space he’s giving me. Not real space, but distance.

Except he didn’t hold on to me outside like he wanted distance, so maybe I need to worry about what’s actually important. Cleo dead. Nora in jail. Demons feeding early.

I turn off the shower then dry off with the towel Jack left—surprisingly big and fluffy. I put my own clothes on—hallelujah. I try to tame my wet hair with my fingers, but I don’t like the sight in the mirror.

Pale. Miserable. A hunted look in my own eyes. So I turn away from the mirror and step back into the hallway. Jack is waiting.

“You could have come in,” I point out. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

But he wraps his arm around my waist like he isn’t sure I can walk on my own two feet. He doesn’t say anything, just takes me to the room I slept in before—or sort of slept in for a little while before ending up on the flood wall.

I hesitate a little when he opens the door, but when I glance inside I’m surprised to see the protections from Amelia’s house arranged on the little dresser next to the bed. There’s also a plate of food—a fruit cup and half a sandwich. Things that will keep if I don’t eat them right away, I note.

“Nora must have done that before she . . .” Jack’s voice is grim as he gestures at the little heart-shaped rocks, but then he turns to me. “You need some rest.”

“No, we need to—”

“Your dark circles have a whole slew of baggage, princess. Nap or eat. Those are your choices and I suggest you do both. Whatever we end up doing at the rock tonight is going to require strength. Build some up.”

He takes me over to the bed, pulls back the comforter, and nudges me into it. But I don’t know how I could do either of the things he wants me to do. Especially if he leaves me here . . . which he should.

The man has a job—a diner full of people here for the Halloween festival. He has a life, but if I am here alone I might actually—

“Someone will be right outside your door the whole time, so you don’t need to worry about going anywhere,” he tells me, very seriously. Jack sits down on the edge of the bed, and when the mattress tries to roll me into him, I let it. He holds my gaze as he reaches out, then brushes a wet strand of hair off my cheek. “We’ll figure everything out tonight.”

He says this like it’s possible. More than that, like it’s a foregone conclusion. Even if I don’t entirely believe him, his certainty is comforting. It’s something I want to lean into.

Because I want to believe, first and foremost, that we will somehow survive this.

Unlike Cleo.

I blink back the tears that threaten when I think about her. Then I suck in a shaky breath. Eventually—and mostly because his gaze is on me and far too green—I manage a nod.

I’m not sure I believe we’ll figure everything out, or figure anything out, when I know from years of bad dreams and sleepwalking episodes that there are some things no one ever figures out. There are some things you just have to live with as best as you can.

This is different, a voice inside me says sternly.