Page 73 of Ghosted

“Seriously, can you just get out? I’m trying to work.”

“Oh, I’m going to,” he says, still smiling. “Eventually.”

The red light swings above us on its thin silver chain, throwing his shadow across the wall behind him. He doesn’t move like Jagger. Jagger takes up space because he can’t help it. Johnny chooses exactly how much room to steal and makes you notice every inch after it’s gone.

His eyes flick to the prints behind me.

Johnny’s smile sharpens. “Poor little idiot.”

My stomach tightens. “What?”

“Jagger.” He nods toward the mark hidden under my sweater. “He really thought putting his hands on you first meant something.”

“It did.”

That comes out too fast.

Johnny’s eyes come back to mine, and for once, his smile almost disappears. Almost. Then it returns, smaller and meaner.

“Oh, pretty girl.” He laughs under his breath. “You should not have said that.”

I grip the tongs harder. “Why?”

“Because now I know which part hurts.”

My pulse jumps, and he sees that too. Johnny steps closer, so I lift the tongs between us, trying very hard to look like a girl who has a plan and not a girl holding photography equipment like a weapon because a very pretty psychopath found her alone in a basement.

“Don’t.”

He stops immediately.

That should make me feel better, but it doesn’t, because he looks delighted.

“Look at you,” he says. “All brave with your little murder salad fork.”

“It’s not a salad fork.”

“That’s your takeaway?”

“Your face is about to be.”

He laughs, real and low, and the sound makes my skin prickle. Jagger’s laugh feels like trouble. Johnny’s feels like evidence being hidden.

“You’re funny,” he says.

“I’m serious.”

He reaches up, slow enough that I track every movement, and catches the chain above him between two fingers. The red bulb sways, making the room tilt in and out of shadow. “That’s what makes this fun.”

“What are you doing?”

“Fixing the lighting.”

“That’s not funny. You’re going to mess up my prints.”

“No,” he says, looking at me through the red glow. “But you keep telling me things aren’t funny like I’m supposed to care, and well, I couldn’t give a fuck about you’re silly little prints.”

My throat tightens as he twists the bulb loose. The room dips darker, not black, worse than black. Red and shadow and Johnny’s smile too clear in the middle of it.