Page 80 of I Hope This Email Finds You in Hell

But I sure will.

“I’m no angel,” I tell him, meeting his half-lidded gaze.

“Liar,” he says with an air of affection. “You’re named after one.” He finishes the thought before I catch up to it. “Aren’t you, Gabriella?”

My brain short circuits. “What did you just call me?”

“Sorry,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering shut. He’s fading. “I’m sorry, Brie. For everything.”

And then he’s out cold again, leaving me reeling. It shouldn’t be a surprise he knows my full name. There’s plenty of paperwork around the office that likely has it. The guy probably knows my Social Security number for crying out loud. But nobody calls me Gabriella. Nobody except my parents. Everyone in my old life called me Gabby. Brie was my chance to be someone new.

But am I, actually? I just sutured a wound like it’s second nature. I drove in the dark, something I haven’t done since that night. And I’m feeling again, that deep stomach burn that I thought was gone for good. If only it wasn’t the banished brother of the fucking devil making me feel like this.

Luke’s chest rises and falls, expression peaceful for once. I stand, needing to get some of my jitters out. I take in the rest of the room now that I’m not bent over Luke stitching him up. It’s simple, with chipped plaster walls that are a dark maroon shade. On the far wall are pieces of paper—drawings.

There are dozens stuck with peeling tape. Most done in crayon, and the better ones in colored pencil. Those seem newer, though all boast yellowed edges, the lines on the paper faded. All are monstrous and gruesome. Of creatures with multiple appendages, or claws or fangs or all of the above. Some are furry, some have scales, some are animals.

Somehow, I know he and his brother drew these images as children. This was his room.

The Polaroid picture pinned to the dusty lampshade tells me I’m right. It looks ancient, like something you’d find at an estate sale in an old album box. In it are two young boys, no older than ten. They’re not identical, but they’re unmistakable as brothers. The picture is black-and-white, faded sepia with age. They share the same nose and dark hair. I can only tell that the boy on the right is Luke thanks to his dimples. But the other boy looks so…normal. Not like a devil-in-the-making. Even his toothy smile is innocent against Luke’s mischievous grin.

I drag a rocking chair from the corner of the room to beside the bed, curling up on it. Resting my head against the back, I stare at the photo until sleep pulls me down into its ruthless, nightmare-ridden embrace.

Twenty-six

It’s still dark out when I wake.

I reach for my phone to check the time before remembering I gave it to Krystal. Krystal. My heart aches at the thought of my friend. I hope she’s already back in the overworld getting help. If I cling to nothing else, it’s that.

I fell asleep with my contacts in, so it takes a few good blinks to clear my burning eyes. When I can finally see, the first thing that registers is the empty bed in front of me.

Empty as in, no Luke.

I launch out of the chair, joints cracking with the movement. Every part of me is sore, and to make matters worse, I have a crick in my neck. But it doesn’t stop me from bursting through the closed door of the bathroom. The shower is on and steam billows out around me. Tripping over discarded apparel on the floor, I catch myself against the counter. I stare at the jeans and boxers before lifting my gaze to the shadowed body behind the shower curtain.

“Luke?”

He can’t be up and about. The guy was on the brink of death. There’s no way—

“You could have knocked.”

I’m tempted to rip the curtain out of the way just to see if he’s really here or if I’m eternally trapped in a nightmare that’s getting weirder and weirder. My mouth opens, but only a pathetic squeak comes out.

He pokes his head around the curtain. Exhaustion mars his face, but it is him. “Hi, Brie.”

“What are you doing?” I glance between the open door leading to the bed he was dying on a few hours ago and him, alive and—well, not thriving, exactly, but alive.

“I’m taking a shower,” he says simply. Despite the casual tone, his words are edged with pain. “I was trying not to get your bandages wet but I don’t think I did a great job.”

I don’t know what to say. I’m so relieved I have a head rush. Or maybe that’s the steam mixing with the fact I have yet to put food in my body.

“Sorry if I scared you by not being there when you woke up.” He disappears behind the curtain and I try not to track the shadow of his body as he continues showering. I can’t see anything specific, and it’s not like I’m looking.

Much.

“Sorry I barged in here.” I start to leave. “I’ll give you your privacy as long as you promise not to keel over in there.”

“Stay.”