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That raises another question. “Sara, how do you know?”
In that fleeting moment, I catch the realization crossing her features. How could she know? Unless Hayes confided in her, unless it was…
Lyric.
“You just told me.” Sara attempts to brush it off, but I can see through her façade. It’s in the slight crease of her brow and the evasive glint in her eyes. She’s not being truthful.
The rest of the session unfolds in an atmosphere of tension. She fractured our tenuous trust, and an invisible thread of doubt now hangs between us. There’s something at play here, something lurking beneath the surface, but I can’t quite grasp what it is. It’s like trying to catch a shadow with my bare hands.
As the session concludes, I’m left with a sense of unease. My instincts tell me that there’s more to Sara than what meets the eye and that this therapy session was a subtle dance of revelations and concealments. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being manipulated in ways I can’t yet comprehend, and the uncertainty lingers long after our conversation ends.
Fourteen
I’m notsure when Halloween blew up into something that took on a life of its own, much like Christmas or Easter, but Halloween wasn’t ever really a holiday with a cult-like following until recently. Now, it’s everywhere.
Storefronts are draped with webs and giant spiders, while lights shoot across the sky like a mesmerizing laser show. Halloween isn’t something I despise—in fact, I quite like it—but this town takes it to an entirely different level. Nearly every house is transformed into a haunted spectacle. Even the homeowners are out front, dressed up and interacting with passersby, and it’s not even trick-or-treating night. This is just for the school kids.
Our footsteps slow as Milo and I approach the school. A vibrant scene unfolds before us—kids laughing and chattering, all decorated in imaginative costumes. Even the parents have embraced the festive spirit, appearing as ghouls, goblins, and a motley assortment of characters.
“I feel underdressed,” I remark to Milo, glancing down at his wild wig.
“I told you to dress up,” Milo retorts, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “There’s Winston. Lottie, can I go play with Winston?” Milo points toward the playground. We’re early, thanks to Milo’s insistence, and now I understand the reason—as the parents make arrangements, the children enjoy the playground.
A fleeting memory of a little boy brushes against my mind. Nibbling on my lip, I wrestle with the impulse to refuse but ultimately manage to push the words out. “Go ahead, I’ll watch from here.” A knot twists in my stomach as Milo dashes toward a boy dressed as a mini cop. Excitement dances in their eyes as they meet, and they race toward the monkey bars together.
“That seemed like a tough decision for you,” Desmond observes as he joins me, two cups in his hands. He hands one to me. “Hot chocolate?”
My mouth waters at the mere thought. “Thank you.” I bring the cup to my nose, inhaling the rich aroma wafting from it. “This smells amazing.”
“Shaken, not stirred,” he quips.
“Mr. Black, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were flirting with me,” I tease, feeling oddly lighter than I did yesterday. It’s not just from therapy—that session left me bewildered. No, I think it’s the laughter that surrounds us now, lifting my spirits.
“Miss Hart, did it really take you that long to figure it out?” His deep eyes trace my face, and my stomach flutters beneath his gaze. “You didn’t realize, did you?” he asks, his tone holding a hint of something unspoken.
“That you were flirting with me?” I hedge playfully, glancing at the bench overlooking the playground. “No.”
“I should have guessed as much,” he murmurs, guiding me toward the bench. His hot palm brushes the small of my back, where I swear I feel his touch burn through my clothing. “I’ll have to make sure my words are more direct from here on out.”
I hum in agreement and take a sip of my hot chocolate, the rich liquid spilling over my tongue almost sinfully.
“How was your session with Sara?” he inquires, catching me off guard with the question. His gaze remains fixed on the playground as he asks, as if he’s reluctant to meet my eyes.
“Are you asking out of genuine curiosity, or do you already know how it went and want to say something about it?” I whisper, ensuring only the two of us can hear. I suspect he’s well aware of the details of my therapy session, and that he’s privy to all those dark, private moments.
He looks down at me, his eyes shifting between mine. There’s a palpable electricity between us, making it difficult to maintain eye contact, yet I manage to hold his gaze. “I do know how it went, Charlotte,” he says, confirming my suspicions, “but I’m interested in how you feel.”
“I feel like I’m in the middle of the ocean, struggling to keep my head above water,” I admit, nervously moistening my lips as I hold his gaze. “Sharks are all around me, and a thick fog rolls in, but I can’t see that there’s a boat within that fog to save me when all I can focus on are the sharks.”
“In that vision, who am I, Charlotte?” he queries, making a cascade of butterflies flutter in my stomach.
I shake my head, uncertainty clouding my thoughts. “I don’t know yet.”
He hums softly and averts his gaze. “Maybe I’m the ocean, and all you need to do is surrender to me, Charlotte.”
His words cause my mouth to part involuntarily, a rush of heat surging through my body. First Lyric, now him. I hardly know both men, and they exude danger. I study his profile intently. He sort of has a baby face with a thick, cropped black beard. His dark hair spills from under his hat, and the collar of his coat is flipped up. There’s a dangerous beauty about him, like a viper ready to strike.
In nature, it’s often the most stunning creatures that are the deadliest.
