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I whirled round. The young man was standing by the fireplace, in a black shirt, a smart jacket, and jeans.
How the hell did he get into the room?
He watched me warily. “You can see me, can’t you?”
Fear mushroomed in the pit of my stomach. All I heard was the sound of my shallow breathing.
I’m insane—insane with grief. It’s the only explanation.
“Perhaps you can’t hear me?” he said, more to himself as he narrowed his eyes and rubbed his chin with long fingers.
From the pit of my stomach, I found my voice. “I can see you and hear you. How… how did you get in here?” I whispered.
“Ha! I knew it!” he shouted. “I knew it! A girl! Shit!”
Taken aback by his outburst, and because of some deep-seated primal instinct to protect myself, I stumbled backward, away from him.
Why is my delusion shouting and swearing at me?
And instantly my grieving soul provided the answer.
Because you survived.
This was my subconscious punishing me.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he continued, his voice softer now, dumbfounded. “Why you, though? Why is it that you can see me, Emily Beauchamp?”
Oh, he knows my name. And he’s pronounced it correctly. Bee-cham.
“Who are you?” My voice wavered. “What are you doing here? How did you get into my room?” Fear kept my voice a whisper. Remembering the paintbrush I was holding, I brandished it before me like a weapon.
“I’m not going to hurt you!” he said, clearly appalled. “I don’t understand how you can see me.” He ran both of his hands through his hair again, much like Dylan did, his expression changing to one of complete bewilderment. “I was so weak… so weak, and now, here you are, and I’m strong—and you can see me. I don’t get it!”
I gaped at him, unsure what to say.
“Shit!” he growled.
Two pounding heartbeats later, the doorbell rang and he vanished.
Why does he keep doing that?
I stood rooted to the spot, gawking at the space he’d inhabited nanoseconds before. The doorbell rang again.
From nowhere, he hissed, “Go answer the door. It’s Tallulah.”
The pounding tempo in my heart increased and my scalp prickled.
“Where are you?”
“The door!” he snarled.
Galvanized into action, I dashed out of my room and downstairs to the front door, still clutching my paintbrush.
What just happened? Who is he?
Lulu was standing on the doorstep, her scarlet lips in full pout.
“There you are, Emily. Where’s Dylan?” she demanded.
