Page 12 of Molt

His eyes are wet.

That scares me more than the jars.

“What the fuck is this?” I ask again.

“Yours.”

“I wasn’t alive in 1897.”

“I know.”

“Then why is my fucking name on it?”

He looks at the jar then at me. And something in his expression breaks. “Because you were.”

Silence fills the apartment.

I laugh.

I don’t mean to. It just comes out. One sharp, terrified sound.

“You’re insane.”

“Probably.”

“I’m calling the police.” I threaten.

“Okay.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“Stop fucking saying that!” My voice cracks.

He doesn’t move.

But when I grab the jar his entire demeanor changes. “Lenora.”

I hold it against my chest. “What is this?” I growl.

“Don’t. Just put it down!” He yells.

“Tell me.”

“Please.” He begs.

“Why?” I question as his eyes lock onto mine.

Is that fear I see?

Not of me.

For me.

“Because every time you find that jar,” he whispers, “you remember me.”

My fingers tighten around the glass. Something warm slides down the back of my neck.