“Tell me about the notes,” I demand. My lungs are losing oxygen as desperation for more answers consumes me.

“The notes, right.” Mr. Blackwood rubs his face with his palms, exhaustion taking over his expression as he seems to gather his thoughts. “Like I said, I tried to ignore Enzo’s calls to me. Even started seeing a therapist, convinced I was losing my mind. But one night, as I sat at my desk writing up a report on my latest case, the pen in my hand suddenly . . . well, it took on a life of its own.” He shakes his head, mindlessly tracing over the folder with a finger. “That’s the only way to explain it, really. My hands still held the pen, sure. But suddenly, I wasn’t the one writing, controlling the motions. One after another, the notes wrote themselves. I about had a heart attack. There was no way for me to deny it at that point—not when I saw the damn words, clear as day, right in front of me.”

His voice fades, silence creeping back into the room. I think he’s done talking, that maybe I’ve burned him out, but then he speaks again. “Almost as soon as they started, though, the messages stopped. Everything stopped, in fact. As though it never even happened.” His finger taps on the folder, tap, tap, tap. “Except I have these. No one else may believe me, but I know the truth, because I have the evidence right here.”

My fingers are trembling again as I lift the folder. I reread each word, slowly, warily. Taking my time as though I might miss some hidden detail if I rush.

After a few more coughs, Mr. Blackwood continues. “And so begins the story of my downward spiral. As the locals would call it, anyway.” I break my stare from the handwritten letters to glance up at the tired looking man. “I started researching. I was used to investigating already, so I knew how to do the initial footwork. Interviewed everyone from cosmologists to physicists to everything in between—anyone who would talk to me. Put together my own theories on it, some of which you read downstairs. None of them conclusive. All a bunch of hogwash and utter waste of time.”

“So that’s why you first moved here all those years ago? To try and get some answers?”

“Figured it was my best bet. Maybe he’d find his way home before anywhere else. And later, came this.” He reaches behind him and picks up the other book, then hands it to me. It’s the one I haven’t yet seen: Other Unsolved Mysteries.

I set the book in my lap, flipping through it gingerly with one hand and pressing my fingers to my heart with the other, where a strange knot is forming. I try to soothe it with a circular motion. It doesn’t take long to figure out what this book is about. 1908, boy claims to see deceased mother . . . 1922, family of six spends evenings speaking to the dead . . . 1949, woman wakes from coma claiming to have witnessed the other side . . . Page after page, story after story.

Closing the book, I meet Mr. Blackwood’s gaze once more. My voice is gentle when I speak, partially for his sake, and partially because the pressure in my chest only builds, the uncomfortable sensation taking over. “So much of your life, you’ve dedicated to trying to figure this out. Haven’t you? Trying to work out what happened to him. What he was trying to tell you.”

He grunts, hazel eyes turning bitter. “Lots of good it did me. Or him.”

“Is that why that lady was here a while ago? I remember a woman coming by, talking about failing to make contact.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve lost count of the money I’ve wasted on so-called clairvoyants or mediums, whatever you wanna call them.”

A thought crosses my mind, but I need to take a second to steady my breathing before I speak. My fingers continue the circular motion over my heart, and I close my eyes for a moment, trying to block the discomfort out. “What if—what if he wasn’t quite . . . on the other side, exactly?”

Mr. Blackwood’s brows press together, a frown forming. “What are you talking about?”

I’m talking about the notes, I want to scream.

I’M LOSING MYSELF.

THE DARKNESS CONSUMES ME.

PLEASE. I DON’T WANT TO FORGET.

I’ve tasted what it’s like to feel yourself slip away. To be consumed by the darkness, and to lose any sense of yourself. Who you were, who you are, who you’re meant to be. And I was only there, in that place, for a matter of minutes. To be stuck for days, weeks, months . . . years. A shudder runs through me. I can’t even imagine the type of strength it would take to try to hold onto yourself after all that time.

“I just mean, what if he never fully crossed over? If he’s . . . I don’t know. If he’s somehow stuck somewhere? Couldn’t that explain why none of the specialists you’ve hired have been able to reach him?”

“So could the fact they don’t know what in the hell they’re doing.”

I shake my head, the pressure within me only increasing and my vision starting to blur. Something’s not right. Slowly, I pull myself up. I don’t know if it’s the overload of information, or if it’s something worse—far, far worse—but something is definitely wrong. When I shift my feet, a wave of nausea hits me, and my entire body tenses. No. I know this feeling a little too well. Could it happen right here? Right now? I need to leave, to go home.

“I—I’m sorry, Mr. Blackwood. I’m not feeling so great. Can I come back another day?”

He pushes himself up, balancing with his cane, and eyes me carefully. “Yeah. You, uh, you need to stay here and rest awhile?”

I almost smile. I want to make a joke, tease him for sounding remarkably similar to how a friend might. But I can’t seem to muster the energy. I need to get to where Death can find me. So I just shake my head.

I’m out the door and on the street in an instant, my thoughts as hazy as my vision. Not again, not again. Please don’t be happening again. If I cross over now, I don’t know that I’ll ever find my way back.

I walk and I walk, one foot in front of the other, hardly feeling my legs as I do. The sky is a grey, dull blanket above me, the breeze a sharp whip to my desensitized skin. The streets are quiet other than the sparse vehicle here and there, nothing but the sound of the wind’s push and pull whirling through my ears. Another step, and another, and soon I can’t feel myself at all. Any sensations in my bones, my flesh, are fading away, becoming numb, until my body is nothing more than an empty shell of my soul; a part of me I’m not connected with and yet can’t seem to separate from.

My surroundings swirl as I collapse on the sidewalk, but I don’t feel the impact. I must be on my back because the sky looms over my face, spinning even as I lay still, trying hard not to blink.

Do.

Not.

Blink.

If I do, the darkness might take me. If I do, I may never see the sky again.

“You’re okay,” a low, gentle voice soothes, then his face is looming over me. Dark lashes shadow those piercing green eyes, and windblown hair falls around his forehead. The firm line of his lips and hard clench of his jaw are such a contrast to the softness in his gaze. I see his arms wrap around me, but I can’t feel them. I can’t feel them at all, and it breaks my heart. I’m scared, so scared, and I need to feel his warmth, his touch, his comfort. “Shhh, you’re okay.” He’s stroking my hair, and I must be crying because he keeps saying, Shhh, shhh, you’re okay.

Colors blur around us as he walks, taking me away from the streets. As the sidewalk disappears, everything becomes green and deserted. We abandon civilization and press on, far into the meadow, until we’re shadowed by long, barren branches as he leans back against a tree. He slides down to the ground, cradling me like a child.

I’m still shaky even as I realize I’m okay. I’m safe. I’m still here. “Y-you’re here—”

“Shh, don’t try to talk right now. Just rest.”

“B-but I know . . . I know who you are . . .” My throat, it burns like matches scraping against a matchbox, too dry to catch a flame. I close my eyes, taking in the sensation. The burn. The pain. Because it means I can feel something again. It means the numbness is fading away.

“Rest,” he murmurs, his fingers sliding through my hair, brushing over my neck. He pulls me in tighter, and I cuddle up against him, pleased to find that I can. That my body is listening to me again.

Fatigue floods me, and my eyes are still closed when I speak. “Do you know who you are? Who you really are?”

He’s quiet for a moment, nothing but silence and darkness around me as my eyes rest. I wonder if I’ve fallen asleep, if the weight of my weariness has lulled me away. But then I feel the low rumble of his voice against me, making me curl into him even more. “I’m beginning to remember.” His words are slow, almost careful. “Not all of it, but enough. Enough to know I can’t . . .” He pauses, and the foreboding tone he’s taken has my eyes fluttering open, my chin tilting up so I can look at him. His voice is hoarse when he says, “I can’t keep coming back here, Lou. I can’t—I can’t see you again.”

I sit up too fast, a dizzy wave rushing through my head, and I wince. His hands help steady me as I shift on his lap, so we’re almost eye level. “Why would you say that? Of course you can see me again.”

He shakes his head, a pained expression crossing over his face as he stares down at me. “It wasn’t until last night, after my evening with you,” his gaze drops to my mouth at the mention of last night, lingering, then his thumb slowly strokes my bottom lip, “that it started coming back to me. Images, memories. Most of it’s in fragments, broken pieces, but the single moment I remember with full clarity is the day of my supposed death.”

“Supposed death? But the accident.”

He shakes his head again, his touch still holding me captive as he trails his fingers along my jaw, into my hair. “I was there, in the car, yes. And I was as good as dead. I knew I’d lost too much blood. There was no way I was making it out of there alive.” His gaze goes distant, jaw clenching, and my heart breaks a little more. “I was already wasting away, drifting, losing consciousness. But I wasn’t dead, not entirely, when that pull from the other side came for me. I still felt a shred of life running through me—hanging by a thread, but it was there.” His eyes narrow, sparking with a quiet, simmering anger. The expression is almost intimidating enough to make me shrink back. “When the car blew, the world shifted below my feet. My surroundings changed, and then I was there. In the darkness.”

I’m shaking my head, not wanting to believe it. What would it be like to go through something like that? It hits me now, as I really look at him, how exhausted he seems. Like someone who’s lost a week’s worth of sleep. God, if he didn’t start remembering any of this until last night, that means he’s had less than twenty-four hours to process it. I can’t even imagine coping with something like this, and all on your own, too.

“You see, Lou?” he says vaguely. “I wasn’t dead, but I wasn’t alive. I was something in between.”

I hear myself swallow, my mind working a million miles per second and my eyes locked on his. Something in between. “That’s . . . that’s why you were stuck? Locked in the in between, unable to reach the other side?”

He nods slowly. “How do you cross over to the other side when you’re more than just a soul, still connected to your body? And how do you return to reality when your heart can’t remember how to function on its own? I was unfit for either world.”

My eyes drop to the ground, taking it all in, and I find myself thinking back to the notes. His cries for help, his attempts to get his life back. “So you fought it. You somehow held on to who you were, and you tried reaching out through messages.”

He lets out a breath, runs a hand through his hair, and leans back, his weight sinking further against the tree. “That part’s a little hazier, but I remember fighting, yes. I remember feeling that I was slipping away, forgetting everything I’d ever known. And I remember being desperate to get my life back.” His lips press together tightly, letting me glimpse that anger again. “But you can only hold on for so long in a place like that. I don’t even know how I became Death, exactly, except that over time, I’d evolved. Adjusted to my surroundings. Acclimated, until I was fully a part of that place. You stay there long enough, and you become it.”

My stomach twists into knots, and I think I might be sick. The bile is coming up, and I have to force it back down. “So, does that mean . . . the others out there, in that place. You said before there’s more than one Death.” My eyes widen, the reality of what I’m about to say weighing heavily on me. “Does that mean they might be like you? Lost souls? Stuck, with no idea who they are?”

His gaze drops for a moment as he considers my question. “I’d say it’s very possible.”

I let out a loud whoosh of air, as if I’d been holding my breath for hours, and I shake my head. I don’t know where it comes from, but fresh determination rises from somewhere deep within me. “Okay, well now we know. Now we know who you are, what’s happened, and we can fix it. I can fix it. I’ll go to Mr. Blackwood—”

“Who?” His brows are pulled together, eyes narrowed, and my face falls.

Could he really not remember Mr. Blackwood? The very man who’s dedicated his life to helping him?

“Y-you don’t remember who that is?”

I can see the focus on his face as he tries to recall, but he gets nothing.

“The man you sent your messages to. The person you contacted all those years ago.”

Regret washes over his features, eyes closing briefly. “I’m sorry. I recall reaching out, but not to whom.”

I stare dumbfounded for a moment, the realization of how that knowledge would affect Mr. Blackwood dawning over me. To dedicate your entire life to trying to help someone, to getting them back, and they don’t even remember who you are? It would kill him. But then, I suppose he doesn’t have to know.

I shake the thought away, pulling my shoulders back and returning to my new plan. The words come out rushed, almost desperate, but I can’t help it. “Okay, that’s okay. He’s just someone who’s done a lot of research on this sort of thing. So, between the three of us, we can figure something out. We’ll put our heads together, and we can fix this. We can get you back.”

The blood is coursing through me, adrenaline pumping through my veins as I start to stand, but his hands come up around mine and gently tug me back down onto his lap.

“No.”

I sit stunned, eyes widening. “What?”

“I said no.” His voice is quiet but firm. Decisive. “Don’t you understand, Lou?”

“No. No, I don’t understand why you could possibly not want to fix something like this. You’re not meant to be there. You’re meant to be here, with me.”

He shakes his head softly, his chin dipping toward his chest. “If it could happen to me, getting trapped in that place even while I was still alive, then it could happen to you. Dammit, Lou, it already is happening to you.” His eyes squeeze shut. “Because of me. The more time I spend here in your world, the more it hurts you.”

“What? No.” I bring my hands up to his face, cupping his cheeks and gently lifting his head so he meets my gaze. “Death—” I shake my head, then correct myself. “Enzo.” His fingers come up over mine, and they tremble as I say his name. His real name. I lean in, planting a soft kiss on one cheek. “Enzo.” The other cheek. “Enzo.” And finally, his lips. “Enzo.” His fingers dig into mine, his chest rising and falling.

“I won’t.” His words are tight, rough, the slightest quiver in his voice. “I won’t let it happen to you, Lou. You’re going to live a full life, here, where you belong. You’ll get married, have a family if you want. Grow old, be free, always knowing who you are.” He stops, giving his head a small, firm shake. “I won’t let it take you.”

I pull back slightly, my hands still locked on either side of his face by his own grip, and I watch as he swallows hard. “You can’t blame yourself for what’s happening to me. You saved my life, remember?” He says nothing, a sense of torment clouding his expression that tears me up inside. I lean forward again and press my forehead to his, my eyes falling closed at the same time his do.

“In so many ways, Enzo, you saved me.”