Page 74 of How I Met Your Murderer

Subject: Re: Titles Checked Out by E.J. Crawford

Hi again,

Just confirming that the last three titles on your list were returned sixteen years ago, including Critical Failures: A Statistical Analysis of Bad Dice, An Astronomer’s Guide to Cats, and The Gentle Art of Not Feeling Like a Disaster. Eric swears he dropped them all off before his family trip to Ireland, which would have been circa June 2009.

Also, regarding the burn mark on the previously returned Chaotic Good Eats cookbook and whether it happened in his care: he says no. Says it came to him “pre-charred and under seasoned.” His words, not mine.

Cheers,

Raff

I hit send.

Eric leaned into me, his cheek brushing mine. “You’re very thorough.”

“Just making sure you aren’t very overdue, since it’s on the list,” I murmured, turning and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He laughed as we broke apart, and my phone screen flickered briefly like it was laughing along with him.

A reply came in before I’d even finished my tea.

Hi Raff,

Yes, all titles are accounted for. Your friend’s record is officially cleared. And we’ll take his word about the burn.

Thanks again for following up, and please tell him to come in and update his information if he’d like to start a new card, as it’s been quite a few years.

Eric let out a soft sigh of what might have been relief. But when I met his eyes, they didn’t look happy at all. “Another item off the list, huh.”

I nodded, unable to force a smile like I usually did in moments like this. Every item completed was another step toward him moving on. Another thread cut. Another day closer to losing him.

He tucked a lock of hair behind my ear and said the words that were becoming a mantra softly spoken between us each day. Mostly by him, whenever I got a certain look on my face. “Still here.”

For now, I didn’t say.

Just once, I wished doing what was right could also be what was easy.

Days to Halloween: 13

Mr. O’Shea, an older line cook whose bright red-orange hair and beard reminded me a little of Chef Máirtín, handed me the heavy plate like he was passing over a relic. He had kindly agreed to cook me a full Irish breakfast, though I suspected his willingness had something to do with Caoimhe telling the staff to give me anything I asked for. It felt like something she would do, like some kind of misguided attempt to charm me into overlooking how she didn’t care if people died here every few decades and ghosts went missing in the name of her profit margin.

The kitchen around me hissed and steamed as Mr. O’Shea cooked for the few other daytime workers present this morning, copper pots rattling faintly on their hooks as he banged open drawers and rifled through cabinets. But something foul lingered beneath the sweetness of the butter-and-bacon-scented air, something damp and mineral that seemed to seep up from the stone floors and poison every breath.

It made me vaguely nauseous as I carried the plate to the back of the kitchen, settling at the little table Eric and I had more or less claimed as “ours.” This part of the room was dim, the autumn light thin and watery where it managed to peek in at all through the high-set windows.

Eric was already waiting and seated, fully manifested. None of the few people coming and going from the room seemed to look twice at “Raff’s cute friend,” who Caoimhe seemed to have told the entire castle about in the span of days. The warmth coming off him wasn’t even faint anymore, but something I noticed the moment I sat next to him. His soft, steady heat made my skin prickle with pleasant memories of everything we’d gotten up to the night before.

As I settled in, he watched me like I was the only thing in the room worth looking at, even though sampling a full Irish had been important enough to make it onto his list of world-crossing, soul-moving business.

“I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” he said, his hazel eyes bright and eager. “Or doing this again, I mean. You spoiled me with the charcuterie board at the banquet, too.”

He tracked my fingers as I picked up the fork and started on the sausages. As I cracked open the lightly charred skin with a soft snap, steam curled up from the plate, carrying the scents of pepper and sage and a hint of sweetness, like maple.

I lifted the bite to my mouth, lips parted, and ran my tongue along the sausage’s blackened underside, fully aware of the effect this little show would have on Eric. Of course, I didn’t bat an eye when the kitchen lights glowed brilliantly, then settled into their usual softness.

The moment the sausage actually touched my tongue, heat flashed through me. Partly because of the scorching juice, but mostly because of the way Eric had a hand pressed over his mouth and was leaning forward in his seat, his posture tense with anticipation.

“Well, it’s hot,” I murmured after I chewed. “Not just warm, but like . . . fresh out of the skillet. The temperature hits you straight away, before you even taste the herbs and the local syrup.”