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Cautiously, I edged around the bed and glanced out of the large windows flanking either side of it. The view overlooked the back of the house, which was nothing but black. No stars. No trees. Just … nothing.
Me and the house and, oh please, dear Lord, no ghostly visitors.
I sat on the edge of the bed and pressed a hand over my still racing heart when the mattress didn’t sink from my weight. There were faded marks on the wall where artwork had been hanging, and I couldn’t help but wonder whose room it was.
Was it hers?
Was this the place she’d lain awake and planned all the things she’d do when she left this town? Did she stare out the window and wish to see other lights, to see buildings and neighbors and life?
On the edge of the doorframe, I caught a glimpse of pencil marks, lining from about three feet off the ground, to about three quarters of the way to the top.
Don’t look, the voice in my head screamed. Ignore everything and just get some sleep.
But the same instinct that drove me over to this house, that had me patting Amanda’s arm and doing oddly kind things, had me standing to study the marks on the wall.
My head tilted, and as I moved another step closer, I heard the first sound.
A light scratching.
I paused, the hairs lifted on the back of my neck.
The scratching began again. A little bit louder.
“I can do this,” I whispered. There was a quaver to my voice that I ruthlessly ignored. “I can do this.”
I’d tell you what, though, you could say something until you were blue in the face and still know that you were absolutely full of shit. Because when the scratching got louder, followed by a plaintive wail that seemed to echo through the upstairs, I fucking bolted.
That’s it, I thought as I raced down the stairs. I was burning this place to the ground.
Maybe it was the cold grip of terror or the way I pounded down those steps, but my ass did not hear the sound of anyone—man or vehicle—approaching the house, so when I ripped open the door, and the first thing I saw was a tall silhouette of a man on the front porch, I screamed.
“It’s me,” he shouted, hands raised. “It’s Cameron.”
I sank against the door, my shaking hands speared into my hair, and I struggled for breath, heaving like I’d just run a fucking marathon.
“Holy shit, Cameron,” I gasped. My heart battered wildly against my chest, and my legs could hardly hold me up. “I thought you were a murderer.”
“Despite coming very close with my brothers sometimes, I’m not. At least not the last time I checked,” he said.
“Your sarcasm is helpful right now, thank you.”
“What happened? I heard you running down the steps.”
Running? Yeah right. I sounded like a hippo bearing down on that front door with the way I made my exit. There was no grace involved in what just happened.
His eyes tracked from the top of my head down to my bare legs, ending with a lip-twitching grin at the sight of my slippers. My fist gripped the front of the cardigan because the last thing this situation needed was my bra-less state to be proclaimed to the world.
I straight up ignored his question. “What are you doing here?”
“I was out for a ride on my bike,” he said. “Saw the commotion at the hotel and stopped to see if you were okay.”
I ruthlessly ignored the thoughtfulness of him stopping to check on me and focused in on his mode of transportation.
A bike.
Not that I knew much about them, but the machine parked next to my car was sexy AF—sleek and shining and black, with a brown leather seat. If I wanted to imagine such things, I could so easily see him straddling it, long legs forward, strong arms spread out as he gripped the handlebars. Someone of the female variety perched behind, her arms wrapped tight around his waist and legs pressed tight around his hips.
Nope, that didn’t do anything for me at all.
