Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Things are strange between us.
The sex is fantastic. I mean, really, really good. I could sleep with that man twenty times a day and never get sick of it. He knows exactly what to say and how to touch me to send me spiraling down into full body, back-arching orgasms.
Which is a very good trait in a husband.
But he’s also still strangely reserved. He doesn’t talk about himself that often. When he does, it’s always how broken he is, how dark he is. But I don’t really see it.
From my perspective, he’s a lost soul.
These plants, for example. What kind of murderer cares for so many plants? He loves these things and practically dotes on them. Which is how I’m sure he’s not actually an emotionless murder robot.
He cares about things. He cares about me.
But no matter how hard I try to talk myself into feeling like this is a normal relationship, I can’t get there. He’s still got too many secrets.
And we still haven’t talked about my ghost.
I find myself up in the hallway again once the plants are taken care of. I drink coffee and stare at the locked door. I have no clue how to get it open, but I’m getting to the point where I need to know what’s inside. If he’s got corpses in there or something terrible—
I just have to know.
Because I’m starting to feel things for him.
Little things. Don’t get me wrong. He’s still terrifying.
But I like waking up and feeling how warm his side of the bed is.
I adore his smell. There’s nothing better than watching him get dressed in the morning. He’s so good with his hands, it’s obscene. When he makes me coffee, he does it with this shocking grace and ease, like he’s dancing around the kitchen.
And there’s the way he looks at me.
Like I’m his salvation.
I hated it at first. It freaked me out. I never wanted to be someone’s everything, but it’s clear he’s deeply obsessed with me in a very unhealthy kind of way.
But I like it. I love the attention. I can’t get enough of the way he’s constantly checking in with me, seeing what I need, going out of his way to give me little gifts and tiny kindnesses.
I’m acclimating to him.
I’m actually kind of starting to like being in this house.
Except for this stupid door.
I finally give up and open YouTube. It takes me a few minutes to find a good video, and I watch it straight through twice until I’m sure what to do.
“This probably won’t work,” I mutter to myself as I dig some tools out of the basement. Lucky for me, he’s got what I need. “I mean, there’s no way it’ll work.”
I shove a pry bar under the trim and smash it with a hammer until the wood pops loose. I remove the side covering the strike plate and bolt mechanism, making it really easy to access. Then it’s just a matter of shoving a credit card between the latch until it loosens just enough to slide it back.
The door opens with a loud thunk.
“Holy shit!” I leap back and laugh hysterically. No part of me thought that would actually work. Except now I’ve got a long piece of door trim lying on the floor and a door creaking in toward me.
I’m elated by my success. I’m not exactly the handiest girl in the world, so it’s a minor miracle that I figured this out.
My joy slowly fades as I stare inside.
It’s about the size of the other bedrooms. The lights are out, but I can see shelves. Lots and lots of shelves. They fill the whole space like a miniature library. I step forward, hands shaking, and I know what I’m going to find. I don’t want to see it, really, really don’t want to, but I flip on the light anyway.
My old coffee spoon is at the top of the shelf on the left. I recognize the star pattern on the handle. I thought I’d lost that years ago. It’s lying next to a bunch of hair ties, dozens of them, some with long brunette hairs. I step into the room, feeling sick. There’s a little pearl button from my old winter coat. Several sugar packets with the natural cane sugar from the fancy coffee shop I love. A bookmark with little cat ears. I got that from a second-hand store when I was twelve and I was pretty disappointed when my ghost took it three years back.
Flower petals. Nail files. Gum wrappers. Three movie ticket stubs and a library receipt. Dozens of earrings and missing socks. The bastard. A price tag and a pencil eraser and a leaf. A bottle cap, three zippers, a shopping list in my handwriting. An old Polaroid selfie I thought went missing. I’m smiling in it like I’m the happiest girl in the world.