Page 180 of Love at First Fright

Then we’d ranted about the absolute state of modern charts—him utterly baffled that songs could be written by committees of twelve people, me defending some pop whilst simultaneously agreeing that yes, most of it was soulless drivel.

Somewhere in there, I’d told him more about Dad. About the gigs he used to take me to—tiny venues with sticky floors and speakers that rattled my ribcage. How music had been our thing until he died, and then it became just my thing, this painful reminder I couldn’t touch without bleeding. How I’d finally convinced myself it was useless, that I wasn’t special enough, that I should get a proper job and stop wasting my time on impossible dreams.

Bat had kissed me then, slow and sweet, and whispered that my dad would’ve been so bloody proud of me, regardless.

After that, we’d watched two rom-coms back to back, the mobile signal so glitchy it took almost six hours to get through them both. Bat had opinions. Strong opinions about why The Holiday was “proof that rich people have no real problems.” Then You’ve Got Mail made him “weirdly nostalgic for dial-up tones and that three-minute wait for a single email.”

We’d fallen asleep tangled together, the blankets just enough to shield me from the attic’s glacial chill.

The footsteps hit the stairs. Attic stairs.

“Bat!” I hissed.

His eyes snapped open—brown and warm and completely alert.

The footsteps thundered upward.

Bat disappeared.

One second, he was solid beneath my palm. The next, nothing. Just cold air and the faint impression of where he’d been.

The door burst open.

Brad stood there, red-faced and furious, dressed in his ExorSquad uniform still even though we were fired. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and he had a smudge of what looked like black salt across his cheek.

“What the fuck?” He glared at me. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

I scrambled upright, the blanket pooling around my waist. “I—”

“You weren’t in your room. You weren’t in the kitchen. I checked the bloody garden, Charlie. I looked down the well.” He gestured wildly at the rafters. “And you’re up here? Why?”

Think. Fast.

“Spider,” I blurted.

Brad’s expression flattened. “Spider.”

“In my room. Massive one. On the pillow.” I widened my eyes, aiming for traumatised. “I couldn’t—I just couldn’t sleep in there. So I came up here.”

Brad looked pointedly at the cobwebs draping every surface, hanging in thick curtains from the rafters. Decades’ worth of spiders had clearly made this attic their kingdom.

“Right,” he said slowly. “So you, with your crippling arachnophobia, decided the dusty attic full of cobwebs was the safe option.”

Bollocks.

“I had my eyes closed the whole time,” I tried.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m an exhausted liar. There’s a difference.”

Brad pressed two fingers to his creased forehead. “Look, I don’t care what weird breakdown you’re probably having over your goth ghost boyfriend. Just make sure you’re all ready to go when the mechanic arrives. It won’t take long to change those tyres, especially if I help him.”

His gaze raked over me—skinny, uncoordinated, absolutely useless with anything mechanical. The judgement was palpable. He definitely knew I’d never changed a tyre in my life.

“So get ready to leave,” Brad continued. “Pack your stuff. Say your goodbyes. We’re leaving the second those tyres are on. I’m getting Gerald to send me to Cornwall tomorrow. Even if Gary isn’t already dead, Gerald will need me there.”

He stormed off, his footsteps retreating down the stairs with considerably less urgency than they’d arrived with.