I kept my head down and my hands busy all day, but really my mind was spinning with questions about Mr. Blackwood and Grams.

How exactly did he know her if he didn’t move to town until twenty years ago? Then again, perhaps Claire’s mom was wrong about that.

What would their relationship have been, though? Not going to lie—I even entertained the possibility of him being my grandfather, in spite of their huge age gap. See, Grams? I accuse silently. Could’ve prevented all my wild notions if you were a little more open with me. Sometimes refusing to talk about something is exactly what beckons the curiosity in others. Nosiness thrives on closed doors.

Dad called it ‘filling the vacuum.’ The expression had come up one day when I asked why he always seemed sad. Even on his happy days, the sadness never quite left his eyes. Just like all of my memories involving Dad, I remember the day as vividly as if it were yesterday.

“Um . . . Daddy?”

“Yes, pumpkin?”

“Why . . . why are you so sad all the time?”

He looked away from the open hood of his car, eyebrows furrowing as he fixed his gaze on me. “Now why would you think a thing like that, Lou? I’m not sad when I’m with you.”

“Sometimes, I hear you at night. When you’re having bad dreams. And I know you’re sad, Daddy. I know it.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the wrench in his hand a little tighter. After a moment, he opened them and smiled softly at me. Even his smiles were so, so sad. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. Sometimes when you’re sad, it just means your heart is so wonderfully full of happy moments. And mine, pumpkin? My heart is packed. Achingly so.”

I smiled a little. That didn’t sound like such a bad thing at all. “Can you tell me?” I asked, angling my head upward to see him better. Daddy was a tall man. “Can you tell me what kind of happy moments are making your heart ache?”

He opened his mouth, but the screen door swung open, and Grams quickly hushed him up, mumbling something about how wallowing in the past never helped anyone.

Dad turned to her and said, “And you think secrecy does? You think not talking about things means they never happened?” When she didn’t respond, he shifted his attention back to me, kneeling down so we were eye-level. There was a serious look in his eyes then, a look that showed up often those days. “Never feel the need to close your eyes on the things that make you who you are. The good, the bad, and the ugly. You understand?”

I nodded eagerly, drinking his words down like chocolate milk despite having no concept of their meaning at the time. “Yes, Daddy. I understand.”

“Good. That’s good, pumpkin.” Then he stood and walked over to Grams, raising an eyebrow. “And you,” he said quietly, “the only thing you’ll accomplish by constantly shutting down her questions is getting a girl who spends her time filling the vacuum, concocting wild stories in her mind to provide her own answers.”

Grams took a step toward him, narrowed her eyes, and put a wrinkled hand on her hip. “Trust me, Steve. Sometimes even the wildest stories are better than learning the truth.”

I shake my head, trying to push the memory away. I can never decide if reliving moments like that make me happier or sadder than I already am.

The more I thought the situation over while scrubbing down countertops today, the more I returned to the idea that Mr. Blackwood and Grams being romantically involved couldn’t be right. I don’t exactly know how old Mr. Blackwood is, but he must be around twenty years younger than she was. I’ve done the math, and he would have been only a child when my mother was born. There’s no way.

Regardless, I found myself staring at him a little too much throughout the day.

He never once looked up from his papers, but I’ve suspected the man’s more observant than he lets on. In an attempt to not seem so creepy, I tried to distract myself from disturbing images of him and Grams by filling a bucket with hot water and soap and working on all the baseboards in the house. I then occupied my mind by searching through his bookshelves under the guise of dusting. I was trying to glimpse his work, any of his published books, but I was disappointed to find none. Whenever I’d find my thoughts straying in the direction of Grams and Mr. Blackwood again, I’d force myself to think of other things.

Of course, that only led to one other thing. One certain individual, actually. By the time I’m saying goodbye to Mr. Blackwood and walking out the front door, all I can think about is him.

I wonder—or more accurately, obsess over—why he saved me, the mechanics behind how I can see him, talk to him, and who he really is beneath the morbid title. Where does he go when he disappears? I recall the ice-like sensation that consumed my hand when it trailed after him, and a shudder runs through me.

It doesn’t help that all the questions racing through my head only bring to the surface the vivid image of him standing in my room. Right in front of me. The subtle roughness to his voice, the way his dark hair falls messily over his forehead, the green specks of color that sometimes seep into the otherwise blackish-grey of his eyes, and that tick of his strong jaw.

When I reach the inn’s front door, I’m so lost in thought that it takes me a minute to notice the familiar black truck parked on the street just a few feet away. It isn’t until the truck’s door clicks shut that I snap out of my trance and fully look up. Bobby’s walking around the vehicle, dressed casually in a pair of worn jeans and a grey pullover. He gives a slow, charming grin when he reaches me.

“I was hopin’ to catch you,” he says, pulling the door open for me.

“Really,” I reply, returning his smile. I never thought I’d see the day where it’s actually nice to run into my ex like this. At least, not during those last years of our relationship when all I ever saw was drunk Bobby. Sober Bobby, though, that’s a different story. “And why’s that?”

I nod at Claire, who’s standing behind the front desk with a wide and suggestive grin as her pretty blue eyes dart between the pair of us. “Evening,” she sings before he can answer my question.

Bobby turns his attention to her and smiles smoothly. “Hey, Claire.”

A light blush creeps up Claire’s cheeks. “H-hey.”

I suppress a chuckle but let my eyes roll. It’s a light-hearted gesture though, one that’s been ingrained in me from so many years of being Bobby’s girlfriend. Truthfully, I don’t feel a lick of jealousy at the subtle interaction, not like a typical ex-girlfriend might anyway. Actually, I find Claire’s reaction endearing. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, my lack of possessiveness toward Bobby . . . probably not so great for him, I realize with a frown.

After a painfully quiet moment of the three of us standing in place staring at each other, I decide to let Bobby come upstairs with me. My muscles are sore from a long day of crouching and scrubbing, and I want nothing more than to change out of my stiff jeans and collapse onto my mattress. Or the rocking chair . . . Nothing like sprawling out on your bed to send a guy the wrong message.

“Come on,” I say, turning toward the stairwell. “I’m exhausted.”

He offers Claire a small wave and trails up the steps until we reach the top level. I stick my key in the door before shoving it open. For half a second I’m busy looking down at my pocket as I tuck the key back inside, but when I finally bring my gaze up, I swear my heart leaps out of my body. My hand flies over my chest as though the gesture could keep it in place.

It’s him. Death is standing—no, pacing—in the center of my room, stalking back and forth like a panther guarding its territory.