Sometimes all it takes are the little details to make us step back for a second, look around, and realize . . . Hey, I’m okay. For me, it started with the way I dressed this morning. Not what I wore, but how I went about selecting the outfit. While I’d usually just throw something together based on the weather or practicality, today I took my time flipping through my jeans and tops, even stopping to check their fit in the mirror. Next was my hair. Instead of just a quick brush and dash, I did a full blow dry. I glossed my lips and added mascara, just for the hell of it. It didn’t matter that it’s a cleaning day, I did it for me, and damn if it didn’t feel good.

The nightly visits with my Death might have a little something to do with it. Or a lot. Wait, what? Whoa there, Lou—not my Death. Just Death. The Death of the people. Nothing to see but equal Death opportunity rights here.

I’m smiling as I stroll up Main Street, unable to push him out of my mind, and not wanting to either. I haven’t commented on the fact that he’s coming over on his own accord now, but he has to know I’ve figured it out. It’s not as though he’s trying to hide it. It’s Wednesday and he hasn’t missed a single night.

There are a lot of things we haven’t discussed yet, and I realize I should use his visits to ask important questions; I even plan on doing that very thing every day before he shows up.

But then . . . well, he shows up. With those smoky eyes fixed on me, and that elusive dimple making an appearance here and there.

I can’t suppress another smile when I think of the few laughs I’ve pulled out of him, each one mentally recorded as the clearest and most addictive reel in my mind. I’m still the more talkative one, but I don’t mind. Not when I see the way he hangs onto every little thing I say. His expression reveals more these days than it ever has before. The way one corner of his lips slowly curves up when he quietly watches me, or the way he presses them together when he’s trying not to laugh at something ridiculous I’ve said.

But sometimes, at random intervals when we’re talking, I see these fleeting moments where his expression goes serious. He’ll get quiet, face falling and eyes darkening, and I know he’s thinking about the stark reality of our situation.

I know this because it hits me in spurts like that, too. The fact this shouldn’t be possible. That we both know nothing good can come of it. That we come from entirely different universes and shouldn’t fit together as well as we do. And that something must be terribly wrong in order for any of this to even be occurring. My throat thickens at the thought, a wave of nerves rolling through me.

But just when I think he’s going to be the first one between us to voice these thoughts aloud, he seems to do the same thing I do—shove it away into the furthest corner of his mind.

Just until tomorrow.

It’s always just until tomorrow.

Mr. Blackwood isn’t home when I arrive at his place, which seems to be a bit of a theme for him lately. The moment I step past the front door, I notice he’s actually organized his papers for once. There are still a few scattered notes here and there, but there’s also a new accordion filing system tucked right beneath his coffee table.

I get right to work, and it takes extra effort today for me to avoid the guest room. I decide to skip that room again and instead focus my time on cleaning the main living areas. It’s not because I don’t want to dig around that particular bedroom some more, but because I do. I want to yank that manila folder from the bedsprings, pour out all of its contents, and find out what the rest of the messages say. Then I want to unclasp the accordion filing system sitting not ten feet away from me and flip through every piece of paper tucked inside. But, I won’t. I won’t because I need to give Mr. Blackwood a chance to clear this up with me himself. I won’t because I don’t want to put a dent in our already paper-thin relationship.

But he better get back soon because the curiosity is scratching at my back and I can’t take much more.

Just then, the sound of keys jingling pulls my attention to the front of the room, the door swings open, and in walks Mr. Blackwood. Well, not so much walks as stumbles. And I’m not talking about his usual limp either; this is a full on drunken stupor type of stumble. A loud clank fills my ears as he tumbles right into the coffee table, grunts, and wobbles in place for a second as he tries to get his bearings. I’ve dropped the rag and spray bottle and am already rushing his way, reaching him just in time to pull his arm over my shoulders for support before he loses his balance completely.

“You stink,” I mutter, carefully setting him onto the sofa. I’m used to the faint scent of whiskey lingering on him, but today he smells like he dumped a full bottle over his head and then rolled around in the dirt.

“Good morning to you, too,” he slurs, “you ray of sunshine, you.”

I snort and place a hand on my hip. “What would you know about rays of sunshine, Mr. Doom and Gloom?”

“I know more . . . I know more than . . . hey, where’s my drink?” He shoves his right hand inside his coat, digging around the inner pockets, but I beat him to it and snag his hidden flask before he even knows what’s happening. His white brows furrow, his thin body swaying as he takes a moment to center his eyes on me. “Give it back,” he grumbles. “I’m thirsty.”

“Oh? Would you like me to get you a glass of water?”

He scoffs. It’s loud and exaggerated, and I’ve never seen him in quite this state. Not only is he far more inebriated than usual, but his brows seem glued downward, his eyes distant and bitter. I go into the kitchen and pour a glass of water anyway, setting it in front of him when I return.

“Mr. Blackwood,” I begin, keeping my eyes trained on his as I settle into the recliner beside him, “where have you been going lately? You taking a break on your research?”

The look he throws my way is hard and cold. “None o’ your business.”

So that’s how we’re playing this.

“Okay.” I keep my voice nonchalant. “You don’t wanna tell me where you disappear to, that’s fine.” I press my lips together. “But I do want some answers.”

His eyes narrow. “Answers to what.” He barks it out like a statement, not a question.

“That’s up to you. You can either tell me how you knew Grams . . .” I pause, looking for a reaction from him, but he doesn’t give me one, “or, you can tell me why there’s a hidden folder in your guest room with messages that say ‘Save me.’”

His face goes slack for only a second before his jaw, buried beneath a scraggly beard, shifts from side to side as he grinds his teeth. I fold my legs beneath me, curling into the cushion, and let out a loud sigh that tells him I’m not going anywhere until he dishes.

“And how in the hell would you know anything about what’s hidden in a house that is not yours?” His words are tight, controlled, as though my comment alone was almost enough to sober him up.

“I wasn’t snooping, Mr. Blackwood. I dropped something under the bed and bumped into the folder when I went to grab it. A few pages came tumbling out, but that’s it, okay? That’s all I saw.”

For a minute, he just stares at me, eyes stone-cold and unmoving in a way I’ve never seen from him. But then, his gaze drops to the ground. One wrinkled hand scrubs down his face. He leans back against the padded pillows and eyes the flask still in my hand. “If we’re gonna do this, I need that back.”

I have to force my jaw not to drop. He’s really going to talk to me about this? He’s going to answer my questions for once?

“The damn whiskey, child,” he snaps. “Give it here.”

“Oh. Right.” I lean forward, hand him the bottle, then settle back into the recliner. I realize I probably shouldn’t just hand the drink over to him when he’s already so wasted, but if that’s what it’s going to take to get him to talk, so be it.

Several seconds pass while he twists the thing open, gulps it down, and seals it back up with a satisfied sigh. After tucking it securely back into his pocket, he pushes up from the sofa with his fists, knees shaking for a moment before he steadies himself into a standing position.

“Mr. Blackwood, what are you doing?”

Ignoring me entirely, he takes a few short steps toward the cane resting against the armrest—the one that’s always there even though he never uses it, ever—and grabs its brown handle. He leans onto it, adjusting his weight, then turns around, limps his way past me, opens the front door, and walks right out. Not a word. Not a glance in my direction. He just shuts the door behind him, leaving me dumbfounded on the recliner.

Dammit. I should have known it wasn’t going to be so easy.