Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
“There’s a haunted asylum in Crowsbridge Hollow?” Emery’s eyes widen with excitement, and she picks up her phone.
“Slow down, Nancy Drew.”
“Joke’s on you, Nancy Drew books were my favorite when I was a kid.” Her expression melts into something wistful. “When I had book fair money, that’s always where I spent it.”
A faint smile ghosts her lips as she says it, but it’s fast. Like good fortune didn’t come often.
“That absolutely tracks,” I say. “You have a certain vibe.”
“What, curious girl with a notebook and bad timing?” she teases.
“Exactly that.”
She laughs and reaches for the plate in the middle of the table, snagging a piece of toast. “So. What’s the costume situation? Do people go all out?”
“The actors do. They’re putting on an entire performance and really get into character. Some of the tourists do too but it’s usually too cold to be wearing thin, plastic costumes from Halloween Barn.”
“Please.” Emery snorts. “I don’t buy costumes. Wren and I make our own.”
“Of course you do.”
“Well, I’m almost out of clean clothes and I want to get a feel for the situation before I plan a costume, so maybe next year I’ll come up with a more creative outfit. I’ll wear something warm and practical this year.”
Next year. I really like the sound of that.
“Solid plan.” I glance toward the laundry room. “You can do your laundry here, if you want, or I can take you shopping.”
“There’s a washer and dryer at the inn.” She stretches, reaching her hand to my side of the table and tickling her fingers over my sleeve. “But I haven’t been spending enough time there to use them.”
One hundred percent my fault and not a lick of guilt about it. “I’d apologize, but…”
“You’re not sorry?”
“About having you in my bed the last few nights? Absolutely not. Having you waste money on a room you’re not using, yeah.” In fact, I should tell Mrs. Applewood to give me Emery’s bill when she’s ready to leave. Something tells me Emery’s the type of woman to say no if I offer to pay her room tab. But since I’ve monopolized her nights here, it seems like the right thing to do. Not like I can’t afford it.
Fuck the money. I don’t want her to leave. At all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Emery
The House of Ink & Iron seems different at night. Spookier. Maybe it’s the garish red lights in the window or the glittery black skull ornaments dangling from the tree in front of the shop. The town has gone full creepy-Christmas mode but somehow Declan’s tattoo shop looks sinister tonight.
For the third time, I unbutton my heavy winter coat to run my hands over my flowy black velvet dress with the high cream lace collar. Declan’s already seen me in it—the first day I arrived in Crowsbridge Hollow. But it’s the cutest thing I brought with me and about as close to a costume as I could manage with the contents of my suitcase. At least my thick black tights are fleece-lined. I won’t freeze my butt off.
I pull the door open and the bell jingles. The front room is empty, but voices murmur from somewhere down the hall.
The shop smells different at night. Less antiseptic, more soapy with a hint of warmth underneath. The overhead lights are dimmed, leaving the red glow from the windows to wash the walls and flash art in shadows.
I pause just inside the door, letting it close behind me.
This is ridiculous. I’ve filmed in abandoned buildings with worse lighting than this. I’ve stood alone in graveyards and crawl spaces without blinking.
Still, the sensation of being watched slithers over me. I peer out the front window but can’t make out much with the red glare distorting the view.
My boots whisper across the polished floor as I head toward Declan’s workspace, catching my reflection in the glass of a display case. Dark coat over my dress. Pale collar. Even paler face. Hair loose and a bit windblown around my shoulders. Jeez, my reflection looks like a malnourished ghostly Victorian child. I pull a tube of lip gloss out of my pocket and dab it on.
Lucy’s bright, easy laugh echoes down the hall followed by Declan’s voice, lower and edged with amusement.
I round the corner and stop. He’s leaning against the counter with a thick stack of white paper in his hand. I should pull out my phone. Take some behind-the-scenes footage of the preparation that goes on in a small town before their biggest spooky spectacle.
Instead, I stare at Declan. Plain black, Henley that stretches over his chest enough to scatter my thoughts and scramble my brain. Black jeans. Heavy black boots. Clean-shaven, hair tamed into place.
Declan drags his thumb down one page. “Mr. Baxter leaned hard into the dramatics this year, huh?”
Lucy grins and flicks her gaze to the papers in her own hand. “Baxter’s missing out on a career writing horror novels.”