Page 40 of How I Met Your Murderer

A metallic crack split the air.

The erratic man stopped trying to stab me long enough to let me jerk my head up, just in time to see the chandelier chain snap.

And just like the Second Sight had shown me, we were laying right beneath it.

What it hadn’t shown me was Eric. My knight in designer jeans.

He was quite a vision as he rode the falling chandelier like a sailor swinging down from the rigging of a ship—hands gripping the chain, momentum carrying him in a perfect arc as his lovely dark hair streamed behind him, his eyes glittering and hardened with determination as he stared down the knife-wielding maniac.

I shoved the man off me and rolled away as the chandelier smashed into the floor just inches away, exploding in a shower of sparks and crystal.

Eric landed hard—or would have, had he been alive—and planted himself between me and the would-be robbers. “Don’t you fucking touch him!” he shouted, the force of his words somehow drawing another shower of sparks from the chandelier.

The intruders screamed as Eric faded until he was fully transparent, knife-guy tripping over his partner in his haste to bolt for the door.

But Eric was fastest of them all, slamming the door shut with a force no living person could manage. The new oak shuddered and the bolt slid home. The men swore and yanked at the handle—and Eric—with increasing desperation, but they couldn’t touch him while he wasn’t solid, and he held the door firm.

He wasn’t looking at them, even as they shoved an arm through his head or a fist through his stomach. He was still looking at me where I sprawled on the floor, finally starting to struggle upright. “Are you hurt?”

Breathing hard from the effort of sitting up, I shook my head. Bad move, because it made me instantly dizzy again. “I’m—I’m grand, thanks to you. Hold them there.”

I limped carefully back to the chair, drew my gear bag from beneath it, and pulled out a shiny new roll of duct tape.

This was one of those rare times that reading The Handbook had actually paid off.

Rule #117: Always Carry Duct Tape

Some spirits are strong enough to tear at or otherwise destroy clothing; duct tape can save both your dignity and mobility in high-stress situations.

I tore off strips of tape with my teeth and bound the men’s wrists and ankles while they muttered a few half-hearted threats and curses. Mostly, they were too scared of Eric to do anything but stare into the distance and shake. They got even quieter when Gráinne came to stand watch while Eric and I wandered around on the front lawn, trying to get enough service on my phone to call the Gardaí.

They were local lads, so it only took them the better part of an hour to make the trek uphill to the castle in their patrol car and round up the two idiots while Caoimhe and Jordy—who I had also called after the police—checked over the castle’s property for the incident report.

It was nearly three in the morning by the time all was said and done, the chandelier still a glittering ruin on the foyer floor, but no other great losses.

“You’re a regular hero,” Jordy had said through a yawn, and only I knew the praise belonged to someone he couldn’t see.

Now it was just me and Eric alone, Jordy and Caoimhe having left shortly after the police. Eric hovered beside me in the parlor as I rubbed my knee, and he was starting to look as solid as he had during the earlier part of our night—only now, instead of fun or mischief or desire, it was worry anchoring him to his earthly form. After watching me for a few minutes, he sat beside me, his thigh cold but solid pressed against mine on the small Victorian settee.

“I know you’re not hurt. Or at least, no new hurt,” he said softly. “I’ve checked on you probably twenty times. But . . . are you okay?”

I stopped messing with my sore knee and looked at him. Really looked. At the line of concern cut deep into his brow, the unhappy, downturned set of his full lips, his mussed hair, and the tension hunching his shoulders. The adrenaline had faded, leaving something raw and honest in its wake. Holding his gaze, I thought of everything I’d vowed to tell him after the party—how I couldn’t do this, couldn’t let this thing between us carry on or grow, because it would mean missing him too much and I didn’t want to live with that.

Finally, a few glasses of water in and seeing clearly, seeing him, I realized what had escaped me before.

I was going to miss him for the rest of my life already, miss him every single fecking day, whether we kissed or not. The stories he told, the things he had shown me, his smile—he was already a kinder voice inside my head than my own. Kissing, touching, whatever he wanted to do with me, none of that would make it hurt more or less when I helped him move on or this job ended. It was too late to not hurt.

I was always going to carry him with me. The rest was just . . . anything we wanted it to be, while we still had time.

Eric was still watching me, leaning in as he waited on an answer I’d yet to give.

“I actually am,” I said, watching as relief, fear, and longing all tangled in his expression. “Because of you.” I paused to swallow, but my voice still came out low and unsteady as I gave what felt like a confession I’d been carrying for years: “And I’m not. Because of me—because I’m mad at myself for missing so many other chances to do this.”

Eric’s breathing hitched—or at least, he made a sound like the memory of a halted breath, even though he no longer needed to breathe.

I reached out slowly, giving him every chance to pull away, and cupped his jaw. He leaned in closer, palms braced on my thighs like he still needed to balance, holding my gaze all the while. I already felt at home in his eyes, which made it easy to settle into this new closeness, rubbing my thumb in small circles against his cheek in welcome.

“Look at you . . . you’re fierce lovely,” I breathed over his lips. “Not just in videos, not just in my dreams, but in real life, too. Inside and out. I could look at you forever.”