He comes by every day. Friday night he stood in my kitchen. Saturday, he drove by with Carter Cross, Sunday he came alone and now it’s Monday night and he’s outside again.

I act like I don’t see him. I’ve always done that. Everyone leaves you alone if you act like you don't exist.

The thing about Sebastian though, is that he doesn’t leave until he knows I know he’s watching me. Or maybe that’s just what I think because I feel his gaze on me every time and I have no desire not to look back at him.

I pull back my curtain when the car outside idles and idles. A book is open in my hand, its pages unread. I let it shut as I peek outside to see who it is. The large text closes with a dull thud that matches the single pound in my chest when I see him out there.

I try to swallow but my throat’s dry.

Angie said it’s an intimidation tactic. I shouldn’t have told her anything about Sebastian coming by like this. She concocted about a dozen theories of what’s going on with the murders and Sebastian and why he’s checking on me and instructing me on what to tell the cops. She was animated, to say the least, but I was more interested in hearing about what she did on Sunday with her new boy toy than anything that has to do with this shit city.

My eyes drift down, meeting Sebastian’s and instead of glancing away, I hold his gaze for a moment.

I would feel it, wouldn’t I? If his intention was to intimidate me, I’d feel fear, or a chill maybe? I’d feel something other than the quiet stillness that settles deep in my bones, the smoldering heat that simmers in my blood. Just looking at him, my body relaxes.

I swear I even see his lips tug into an asymmetric smile when I don’t look away.

My heart does that thud again, and I have to loosen my grip on the thin curtain and let my head fall back against the headboard.

He’ll only ever be at arm’s length, so this power he has over me, this innate emotion he controls inside of me, can’t be good.

The idling stops, fading into the sounds of the night and that warmth and soothing feeling disappear with it. It’s sickening that something so small could garner so much emotion from me. As I reach for my book, I see my phone out of the corner of my eye.

I don’t have a fucking clue where I left off. My fingers run along the edges of the pages as if my memory can lead me to the right page, but all I can focus on is the phone.

Shoving the book off my lap, I reach for it.

The cops didn’t come to question me. I text the number I know is Sebastian’s. He’s never explicitly said it was him and usually he texts me, but I know it’s his number. I want to tell him he can resume pretending I don’t exist.

When he doesn’t reply, I skim through the previous messages.

The first one reads: You did good today. He sent it a few nights after the infamous kiss. The night I first slept peacefully in this house after my uncle took me in.

Who is this? I asked, but he never answered.

When I first moved in, my uncle didn’t have a spare room ready for me. We’d had to clear out the cluttered room he sometimes used as an office. Almost all of my mother’s things had to be thrown away in the move. Same thing with some of my possessions, not that I had much. This townhouse was already full, and I wasn’t even sure if I was staying here for long. No one told me anything. No one but Sebastian in a nameless text.

The phone pinging in my hand scares the shit out of me, spiking my adrenaline and forcing my heart to race up my throat. I nearly slam my head back against the headboard, but somehow manage to calm myself down.

The memories of the week my mother died have always haunted me. That week brought awful nightmares, ones that have come back in full force now that the past is being dredged up.

It’s only Sebastian, I tell myself and breathe in deeply, calming every bit of me, although the task feels even more impossible than staying awake long enough to see what he’s written.

How are you sleeping?

It’s fitting he would ask that just as I rub my eyes with the palm of my hand and feel the sting of the burning need to sleep.

I chew on my lip, my fingers hovering over the screen. I don’t want to lie to him here, not on the phone; I don’t want to taint these messages that mean so much. After a moment I tell him the truth and see exactly what I expect in return.

Not well.

Have you been drinking your tea?

The vial is on my nightstand, staring at me as if I’m to blame for this shit. I nearly took it last night, but I don’t do drugs. Not any sort. I’ve seen what addiction can do. Although I’ve also seen what desperation can do. And I’m desperate for one night where I close my eyes and I’m not haunted by memories of the past. I was doing so well for years. Her murderer being found is what set everything off. And the nightmares have come back with a vengeance.

Take it. His message sends a chill down my spine. It’s as if he can hear my thoughts.

It takes me longer than I thought it would to write him back. Mostly because I don’t know what his answer will be, but I know what I want to read.

If I take it, will you leave me alone? I text him and then grab the vial. I don’t have a cup of tea handy, but I have a glass of water. Without even thinking, I put one drop, then another, then the third.

I watch the liquid swirl as I wait for his message. The other night I thought it was clear, since in the tea I couldn’t see its color.

But it’s pink, a pale, pale pink that quickly disappears in the water.

Before I take a sip, I check my phone only to see he hasn’t responded. The lip of the glass feels cold as I bring it up and take the first gulp, wondering what it will taste like.

It tastes like nothing at all. Maybe a tinge of sugar. Just a faint hint.

I’m still considering the taste when the phone goes off on my lap. You need to sleep. How typical of Sebastian to respond without answering my question.

He has no fucking idea how badly I need to sleep. I’m delirious.

I chug the rest of the glass and intend on telling him that I drank the stuff he gave me, or maybe telling him something just so he’ll stay with me on the phone until I’ve fallen asleep.

That doesn’t happen though. Instead, I stare at the empty glass, feeling lightheaded and drowsy all at once. My sense of time begins to warp, feeling like it passes slowly but quickly just the same.

I barely get the glass on the nightstand before the darkness takes over. I’m able to slip under the covers, feeling the weight of sleep pulling at me. And I give in to it, so easily.

“You’re late.” Tamra’s voice is clear as can be. She always had a slight rasp in the last word of every sentence and she kept her lips in the shape of that word for what seemed like an odd amount of time.

Where am I? I can feel my brow pinch; this room is familiar, but not so much that I know where I am. The carpet’s thin and worn out in front of the television where the car seats are. There are three of them, although they’re empty now. No one’s here but me, sitting on the sofa that’s just as worn as the carpet and Tamra, who’s standing in front of the open door.

“He made me stay overtime.” My mother’s voice drifts in through the tense air. She’s agitated and suddenly anxiety runs through me.

“Well, then, this is overtime for me. I can’t watch these brats for free.”

I’m not a brat. I swear I was good. I was good. I want to tell my mother, but I know to be quiet. With my hands in my lap, I wait stiffly. I’ll only move when I’m told, I’ll only speak when I’m spoken to. With my throat tight and dry, I wring my fingers around one another and glance at my bookbag at the end of the sofa. It’s already packed, and I didn’t forget anything. I never forget. If I do, I don’t tell my mom and I hope she doesn’t find out.

“Of course, you’re gonna fucking charge me,” my mother spits out her anger at Tamra. Anger which I know will be directed at me on Monday when she watches me again unless she tells my mom she’s not going to watch me anymore without being paid early. Which she’s done before. In that case, I stay in my room all day and don’t answer the door. But Mom got in trouble for doing that once.

“Let’s go, Chloe.” My mom barges into the living room as Tamra stays where she is, keeping the front door open. It’s late and I still have homework to do, but I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to read the words and I need someone to tell me, but Tamra won’t and Mom’s mad so I know better than to bother her.

I can tell from the way she stomps across the room it would be a mistake for me to do anything or say anything. I get up quickly. But I have to be quicker. If I move fast enough it won’t burn when she grabs my arm.

“I’m coming,” I tell her as fast as I can, snatching my bookbag and scurrying to her side even though fear is racing through me and begging me to run.

I’ll be quiet; I’ll go to sleep. Miss Parker will help me. It’s only second grade, she keeps telling me I have time to do it at school if I get there early, but that I have to learn to read. I’m trying. I promise her I am.

“You see how no one helped me?” I hear a voice from outside this moment, a voice that sounds so close, so real. So full of rage and vengeance. My mother. Fear runs down my skin and up the back of my neck, freezing me where I am as I swear I feel her hot breath at the shell of my ear.

She didn’t say that in the memory. She’s telling me now.

I look back at Miss Tamra, still trying to keep up with my mother, even though her grip tightens so hard it’s going to bruise. My blood runs cold and a scream is caught in my throat at the sight of Tamra leaning against the back wall, her left hand on the sofa. Blood coats her hair where a bullet wound mars her skull and it leaks down to her cheek, dripping onto her collarbone. I blink and suddenly she’s standing there, yelling at my mother that she’s an ungrateful bitch.

The chill doesn’t go away, the sight from just before still stealing my breath and sanity.

The hand around my arm twists, burning my skin where my mother is touching me. It hurts. Mom, it hurts! I scream out, but the words don’t come. I’m no longer there. It’s dark and the bruising hold changes to something else, feeling like the kiss of a spider climbing up my arm in the darkness. I try to jump back, but I’m trapped, with nowhere to go and I can’t see a damn thing.

She’s here. My heart races and dread ignites inside of me, but I can’t run. I can’t see her. I can only hear her so close to me.

“No one ever helped me,” she tells me. “They’re going to pay for that.”

It felt so real last night, the sensation of my mother being so close to me.

An uncontrollable shudder runs through me as I slowly walk down the stairs. My heart won’t stop racing and I can’t clear my throat. I feel like I’m suffocating.

It was only a dream.

It’s only a dream.

My chest tightens and the fear rips through me anew as I swear I hear something upstairs, something in the bedroom.

“Knock it off,” I grit between my teeth.

The floor behind me creaks, loud and heavy. It almost sounds like someone’s walking down behind me quickly and not hiding their weight, making me scream and I nearly fall down the last four steps. My back pressed against the wall and my chest frantically rising and falling, I stare behind me. No one’s there. No one’s here.

“It’s only a dream,” I remind myself and ignore the flow of ice that rolls over my body and how every hair on my body stands on end as I remember my mother’s words. They’re going to pay for that.

I’m not crazy, but I feel like I am. Crossing my arms over my chest, I feel my blunt nails dig in and remind myself that I’m alive.

The night after my mom died, I had the same type of dreams. The ones where she felt so real, following me even when I woke up.

“Please, go away,” I beg her as I fall to the floor, sitting on the steps and wishing the wave of coldness that keeps coming over me would go away. Go away forever.

I told you, I hear my mother’s voice, but I know it’s just a memory.

She’s not real. This isn’t real.

The dead don’t stay away for long. And they’ll pay. Every single one of them will pay.