Where’s he going anyway? I pop up from the seat and dash toward the front window, shoving the curtain aside just enough to peer out. Mr. Blackwood is stumbling down the winding pathway, inching toward the enormous iron gates. Huh. At least he didn’t try to drive in his condition. Still, he can’t expect me to just let him walk away on his own like this, can he? There’s a steep dip just on the other side of those gates, and I don’t know if a cane is going to be enough to keep him steady through it.

Without another thought, I push past the front door and jog after him. “Wait! Mr. Blackwood, wait!” He slows but doesn’t stop or turn around to face me. “At least let me help you down the hill. Please.”

He pauses just as I reach him, but he keeps his chin toward the gates. “What ever happened to ‘I keep to myself, you keep to yours?’” He quotes my words from the first day we met, and guilt surges through me.

“Look . . . I just want to make sure you get to the bottom safely, okay? I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

He turns then, full circle, so he faces me head on. “Listen, Lou, and listen good. I hired you for Tallulah. You got that?”

My eyes widen at the unexpected mention of Grams, but I keep my mouth shut as promised and give a simple nod.

“The least I can do is give her granddaughter some work.” His expression hardens, and such a look reminds me of someone, but I can’t place the familiarity. “But I’m no one’s charity case. I’m not a project to figure out. I’m not some ridiculous, superficial means of getting closer to Tallulah. And we, you and I, are not friends. I’m your employer. Now, if what you stumbled upon in my house bothers you so much, by all means quit. Won’t make a damn difference to me.” He quiets, letting those words sink in before adding, “Otherwise, I’m paying you to clean my crappy house, meaning what you will do while you are here is clean my crappy house. Nothing more, nothing less. Do I make myself clear?”

I can’t pretend his words don’t sting, no matter how much I know they shouldn’t. What did I think, that we were going to chat about Grams over some tea and scones? That the company of another person might fill the void in his heart enough for him to set aside the liquor for a few hours? Silly, naïve Lou.

My jaw is tight when I respond through clenched teeth, “Perfectly.”

“Good,” he grunts, like he’s relieved to be rid of me. “Now I’d appreciate some silence while I continue my escape.” He whirls around, steadies himself on the cane, and takes another uneven step toward the gate before muttering, “Takes a shitload of concentration to avoid falling on my ass.”

A smile tugs on my lips even as I roll my eyes. Just in case a miracle happens and he suddenly sees through his pride enough to ask for a helping hand, I stay rooted in place until he passes through the gates and disappears from view. Then I return to the house and get to work. That’s something I got from Grams, keeping my hands busy whenever my mind feels overwhelmed. Nothing like a good distraction to give one’s mind a little clarity, she’d say.

The thought of Grams makes Mr. Blackwood’s words replay in my head. The least I can do is give her granddaughter some work. What could she have done for him? What could have made such a lasting impression on someone like him?

Five hours later, the mounds of questions eating at me are actually causing my head to ache. I’m light-headed as I finish up with the vacuum, and for the first time since working here, I need to take a five-minute rest break. Shit, I hope I’m not getting sick again. That’d have to be some kind of record, right?

But why won’t he answer a single question? Just one? He and Grams have that in common, the desire to keep a tight lid on their pasts, and it’s driving me freaking crazy. The creepy messages, all the drinking, his supposed research, his lack of family or friends, his mysterious relationship with Grams . . . it doesn’t paint a very comforting picture.

It’s one thing for someone to end up so alone out of pure spite, but something deep in my gut tells me there’s more to Mr. Blackwood’s story. That his loneliness has been shaped by circumstance, rather than carved by his own hand. Maybe it’s the moments of sadness that pass through his eyes, or maybe it’s my own somber past that has me seeking out similarities in his. I don’t know. For whatever reason, I can’t stand to see him suffer like this. He’s downright killing himself.

Nope, no more. I decide right here and now that I’m a grown ass woman, and if I want answers, I’m going to get them myself. I slowly rise to my feet, taking a deep breath until I’m certain I’m not going to pass out from the nausea that’s been creeping up on me, and move my gaze to the filing system stowed beneath the coffee table. I bet there are plenty of answers crammed into that little container. If Mr. Blackwood refuses to talk to me, I’ve got to explore other options, right?

Just one peek. One teeny, tiny peek.

I take a step toward it. Then another. I reach forward, my hand only inches away—ah, hell. Who am I kidding? I can’t do it. Can’t cross that line. Clearly, I need to grow some balls.

In the meantime, there is another option that comes to mind.

The walk home is longer than usual, thanks to my increasing fatigue. I get a text from Bobby on the way that makes me laugh, though, which is nice. A few days ago, he accidentally sent me a random picture of his shoe, so I sent him a picture of a doorknob. And so a tradition was born. Yesterday our theme was windows, and today it’s apparently sidewalks. I smile and slip the phone back into my pocket, making a mental note to text him later.

My legs are shaking by the time I pull open the inn’s front door.

“Oh my gosh, Lou. Are you okay?”

Judging by Claire’s greeting, I look fantastic right now.

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s not as bad as it looks,” I lie, leaning onto her desk for support. “I was wondering . . . your mom knows everything about everything around here, right?”

She laughs. “That’s what she likes to tell us, yes. Why? What’s up?”

“I was hoping I could talk to her? It’s about Mr. Blackwood.”

“Oh, no.” Her face falls in an instant, blonde brows knitting together. “I’d heard the rumors, but I try not to listen to them. He’s really as bad as they say?”

“No, no, it’s not that. He’s fine. I just—I have a few questions.”

“Sure. Well, you called it—my mom’s the best person for the job. In fact, she’s probably home right now if you want to . . .” Her words trail off as her nose scrunches up. “Um, well, maybe you should wait till tomorrow? After you rest some?”

I groan, becoming more nauseous with each passing second. “Yeah, probably a good idea. Where will I be able to find her tomorrow?”

“She’s helping with setups for the weekend festival. It’s right on Clark Street.”

“Great. Thanks, Claire.”

“Yup, anytime. Hope you feel better soon.” She flashes me a warm smile.

“So do I.”

Just as I start up the stairs, I hear her voice call from behind me, “And be sure to call the front desk if you need anything! Maybe Paul will share some of his . . . medicinal herbs . . . with you.”

I can’t help but laugh at that, and I can hear her own giggle fade behind me as I slowly progress up the steps. By the time I reach my level at the top, I swear the hallway is spinning. The floor moves below my feet, and I’m impressed I’ve made it this far as I fumble with my key. I barely manage to close the door behind me before I head straight for the bed, so ready to collapse. Except I can’t stop swaying. Or the room won’t quit moving, it’s one of those. Almost there. Just a few more steps now.

Crap, it’s hot in here. Or is it cold? Am I even walking anymore? My vision is closing in on me, the shape of my bed gradually losing form. No, no, it’s definitely warm. I know this heat. His warmth. It’s here. Behind me. No, in front of me? My eyes squint, trying to latch onto something solid, but it’s all blending together . . . the bed, the loveseat, the nightstand. I can’t make them stop spinning.

“H-hello?” I stutter. My voice sounds like someone else’s. A far off, muffled noise. “Are you here?”

Seconds later, another wave of heat pours over me from head to toe. A heavy blanket settling over my body. He’s here. He must be. I feel him. Right?

Jesus, I don’t know what’s real or what’s in my head anymore.

My neck, scalp, shoulders, toes—that heat, it’s everywhere, hot breaths brushing over every inch of me. But something, something’s wrong. I can’t pinpoint it. Every second of contact he has with me is also a moment of absence, every stroke of heat mixed with ice. It’s like the warm blanket wrapped around me has been punctured, and sharp icicles stab through its holes until I finally start to break down and shiver.

The clouded blur of my vision deepens, swirls of darkness taking over, and my bones ache beyond belief. I’m losing strength by the second, losing any part of myself that feels solid. My knees buckle, giving out from beneath me. I should be collapsing, but I can’t tell if I am. I don’t feel any muscles holding me up, even my neck has turned to mush, and by now all I see is pitch black.

Somehow, I know I’m no longer standing in my room.

What’s happening to me?

My body, I’m drifting. Floating in a black void.

I’ve never heard a silence like this before. It’s not like the night of my car accident, when the lightning filled my eardrums with a resounding echo. No, at least that kind of silence offered me something to hold onto. Something to fill the void. This here, it’s not even a shell. No walls exist to catch an echo, no air brushes my skin, and I don’t need to see to know it’s deserted in the most literal form of the word.

I can’t hear my heartbeat or my breaths. Don’t know if I’m alive or dead. The single feeling I’m left with is an impossible sense of abandonment. It’s a cold sensation. So numbingly cold. Not the kind that makes you shiver. The kind of cold that completely bypasses your flesh, reaching into your core and ripping your very soul open with a single slice, until it’s raw and naked.

And it’s the scariest moment of my life.

A sudden hot spark ignites in my fingertips, making me gasp, and a large hand wraps around my own through the darkness.

It’s him.

I reach out with my free hand, grasping desperately for any part of him I can get. Anything but this. Please, please make it stop.

There’s no way to spot him in the sea of black, and I’m grappling blindly with empty air until the hand holding mine squeezes and tugs me forward. I collide straight into his solid warmth. One strong arm wraps around my waist while the other comes up around my shoulders, fingers in my hair. He’s holding me so tightly I don’t even realize I’m crying until my body starts to tremble against his.

Piece by piece, his warmth sews me back together. My heartbeat finds its rhythm, air flows through my lungs, colors float into view as the darkness dissipates. The round rug, the rocking chair, the fireplace . . . I’m back in my room.

I don’t know how much time passes before his grip loosens. Hair matted to my cheeks from my silent stream of tears, I finally look up to face him. Those steely grey-black eyes pierce into mine, unreadable and daunting. His jaw is locked, lips pressed in a tight line.

He’s angry.

I don’t remember doing it, but my arms are wrapped around his neck, my fingers tangled in his thick hair. I drop my arms quickly, but he’s the one who pulls away. It’s not much, but it’s enough to leave me feeling strange and unsteady, knees weak. His eyes are locked on mine. Or maybe it’s the other way around. For a moment, no one speaks. The tension building between us is like a tangible force, a heavy current emitting from him and ricocheting off me.

It’s going to be a long night.