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Touched by Death by T.L. Martin (8)

Chapter 8

I’m still in bed when the room’s alarm clock blares in my ears. My skin’s damp, eyes wide as I stare mindlessly at the white ceiling. I can still feel the fire running through my veins—hot, burning flames of rage mixed with despair. Rage toward the monster in my dreams; the devil I wanted to make suffer just as much as those boys did. And despair . . . despair from the unwelcome memories of Dad that came racing back without warning.

The temptation of sleep wove in and out throughout the night, trying to corner me in my own mind and lull me away. I couldn’t do it, though. Couldn’t close my eyes. What if I saw red again? What if that’s all it takes to bring Dad’s lifeless gaze back into view?

So I just lay here. Looking at the vast expanse of white above me. People think it’s a bright and hopeful color, white. A promise of fulfillment. What they don’t realize is it’s a trick. A trap. It lures you in so effortlessly, and once it gets you, that’s when you see the truth. It’s just as empty as the rest of us.

Maybe that’s why I usually prefer to bury myself beneath the blankets, surround myself in black. At least with black, you know what you’re getting from the start.

I don’t know when it happens, but eventually, my mind wanders away from last night until it finds its way back to him.

Death.

A shudder ripples through me, shooting from my fingers to my toes and making my heart rate pick up at just the thought of his steel eyes boring into mine. No matter how hard I try, I can’t make sense of the reactions he pulls from me. It doesn’t matter that he let me go that night in the lake, something still draws me to him, a subtle force tugging at my soul. It’s not logical, not sound, yet it’s there all the same.

Questions and theories burst through my mind, one after another, until it feels as if my head will explode. Of course the loudest voice of all is screaming, You’re losing your freaking mind, Lou! but I prefer to ignore that one.

How could I see him yesterday, while other times I only heard or felt him? How does he just appear like that in the first place? And, more importantly, why? Also, that scar . . . I’d only glimpsed a small part of it, but how in the world would Death himself have a scar? I wouldn’t have thought someone like him could be marked in such a way.

Then again, I’d never have thought someone like him could have existed in the first place.

I kick off the covers, rising from the bed in a zombie-like fashion. I’m eying the room suspiciously when I walk to the bathroom, as though maybe if I narrow my eyes enough I’ll be able to see him. It doesn’t matter that I know he’s not here, that I can’t feel the heat he radiates; I have to believe I have some sort of control in all this, even if it’s from something dumb like squinting my eyes until I can hardly see.

I’m on autopilot while I freshen up for my first day with Mr. Blackwood. I slip on a pair of jeans and a loose sweatshirt, then tug my boots over my ankles and give my hair a quick brush through. My face looks like something out of The Walking Dead from such a rough night, but I don’t care enough to try covering it up with makeup.

Claire’s face is hidden by a curtain of blonde hair when I descend the steps. She’s hunched forward, using a manicured finger to scroll through her pink-cased iPhone. It’s because of her I’m on my way to work right now, and I figure the least I can do is be more considerate than I have been. Besides, the clock hanging on the wall behind her tells me I still have fifteen minutes to kill before I need to start walking.

I stop when I reach her, resting a hip against the desk’s faded oak. I’m just about to greet her when I hear a sniff and she brings a tissue to her nose. If not for my own unfortunate bonding experiences with crying lately, I would’ve brushed it off as a cold.

“Claire?”

Her whole body jolts at the sound of my voice. “Lou!” Her face brightens when she spots me, but her nose is tinted pink and her eyes are swollen. “Good morning. I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

There’s something wrong and unnatural about seeing innocent blue eyes gleam with repressed tears, and it makes my stomach drop. I want to ask what happened, but I don’t. I won’t pretend it’s my business, force her to address it with me, or make her uncomfortable. Instead, I offer a small smile and keep my voice soft. “Don’t worry about it. I haven’t been here long.”

Her lips curve, but the smile doesn’t match her eyes. “It’s great seeing you up and about so early.”

“Thanks to you. Looks like I’m about to become a housekeeper.”

Her brows furrow, and she tilts her chin to the side. “Housekeeper?”

“Yeah, it turns out Mr. Blackwood’s not the one who’s been putting the ads out for a caretaker. Seems to think he doesn’t need one.” I shrug a shoulder before adding, “Honestly, it didn’t really look like he needed one to me either.”

Claire’s lips drop into a frown and the crease between her brows deepens. “Well of course he’d say that,” she tells me between sniffs, “but my mom says he just doesn’t know what’s best for him.”

This comment takes me aback. Her mom, too? It’s no wonder the guy’s so angry—everyone’s shoving a huge slice of I-know-what’s-best-for-you down his throat. No use in biting Claire’s head off for it though, so I bite my tongue instead and change the subject. “When do you get off for the day?”

“If Paul gets here on time, six.”

“Paul?”

“You haven’t met him yet?”

I shake my head. I truly was starting to think Claire was the only employee working here.

She shrugs and says, “Probably because he’s usually late, and he works the night shift most of the time anyway.”

“Well, I ask because I’m thinking of checking out some of the restaurants around here and I’d rather not be the only total loser eating alone on a Friday night.” I’m lying. Dinner out wasn’t originally part of tonight’s plan, and I couldn’t care less about eating alone or what other people think of it. But it’s obvious the girl could use some company, and I have to admit I could really use it, too. “Think you’d be up for it?”

She perks up, her smile finally beginning to reach her eyes. “Really?”

I nod in answer. She sets her phone down and looks upward in thought. “Okay, let’s see. What do you like? If you’re willing to venture outside Ashwick a bit, we can find Italian, Chinese, Thai, Mexican . . .”

I can’t help but feel a bit better as I watch her bounce back to her sunny demeanor while she rattles off the various options. “I’m good with a burger and fries if you are.”

“Done.” She beams. “I’ll text Paul to make sure he gets here on time.”

Speaking of being on time, a quick glance at the clock reminds me to get going. I give her a smile and turn toward the door. “See you then.”

“Have a good first day!” She waves a wide, bubbly goodbye.

I don’t think I’ll ever grow fond of walking, but it’s not so bad today. Not so creepy at least, now that I’ve been inside the Blackwood house. It’s kind of hard to be terrified of a man whose only weapons are a cane, stale food, and notepads, and it certainly wasn’t what I’d expected to find when I stepped inside yesterday. I still don’t know if I’ll actually go through with accepting the job, though. Yes, I need the money, but my conversation with Mr. Blackwood seemed strange. One second he was telling me to get the hell out and the next he was hiring me as a housekeeper.

This time when I approach the heavy iron gates, I swing them open without pause and stroll down the winding path until I climb the few steps to his front door. I can hear the doorbell’s high-pitched ring from the outside. It doesn’t take long before the door swings open, and a familiar grunt sounds from inside.

I don’t know what his thing is for abandoning the door before I can see him, but it definitely ups the creepy factor a notch.

I step into the living room, close the door behind me, and watch Mr. Blackwood settle onto the sofa. He doesn’t bother to remove the crinkled sheets of newspaper littered over the cushions as he does so, and it makes for a loud and uncomfortable sight when he plops down, drink in hand. When he says nothing, I lower myself into the recliner before him, scooting a worn notepad aside before I crush it.

“Tallulah Adaire,” he grumbles, almost to himself. His grey hair somehow manages to look even stringier today than it did yesterday, and his wool sweatshirt smells of whiskey.

“Lou,” I remind him.

He ignores me and takes a swig. “Tell me something. Lou.” His wrinkled eyes are aimed downward, centered on the glass, his wrist rotating the drink so it sloshes around. “What year were you born?”

It’s an odd way to ask how old I am, but I answer smoothly. “Nineteen ninety-five.”

“Ninety-five . . . Christ, I’m old.” He stays focused on his drink, but the distant look on his tired face tells me his thoughts are elsewhere. After a pause long enough to make me shift in my seat, he finally looks up and mutters, “Three days a week. I don’t care which days you pick as long as you stay out of my way while I work.”

I glance around the room again, wondering what the man actually does for a living. No one’s mentioned it, but judging by the size of this property he’s done well for himself. “What is it that you do?”

He lets out another grunt. “Research. Now how much do you need to make?”

“Oh.” I wasn’t prepared for the blunt question. When Dr. Gregorian hired me at the chiropractic office in LA, they set my salary, no questions asked. “I’m not sure what the standard rate for housekeeping is.”

“That wasn’t my question,” he mutters before downing the remaining liquid and all but slamming the glass on the coffee table. “How much do you need to make?”

Why didn’t I prepare for this? I don’t know if he’s being patient or if he’s too wasted to care, but he doesn’t pressure me while I calculate the costs in my head. It’s a large property and a filthy one at that, so I’m assuming the days will be long. But I don’t need much, and this town’s dirt cheap. Mostly though, I don’t want to charge an old man any more than I need to. “Um, seventy-five dollars per cleaning?”

“Six hundred bucks a week,” he replies without hesitation.

“But that’s—”

“You clean what you want, go where you need, but don’t touch the damn papers.” He looks me right in the eye, his stubby index finger pointed for emphasis and voice sharp as a knife. “Do not touch a single piece of paper in this house. Do you understand?”

I doubt my expression is doing much to hide the confusion I feel at the strange instructions, but I nod. When his aged eyes narrow in response, I add, “Okay. I won’t touch any papers. But Mr. Blackwood . . .”

He doesn’t wait for me to finish before pushing himself up from the sofa and heading into the kitchen. “Mr. Blackwood,” I repeat. “Your offer. That’s two-hundred dollars a day, just to clean.”

“I know how to count,” he slurs from the other side of the wall. “I’ll draw up an agreement for you to sign by the end of the day. Otherwise, you’re on the clock starting now.”

Now? My back is stiff, hands clasping around my knees and fingers drumming anxiously. I shouldn’t be so on edge; I’m not an anxious person. But I’ve never been hired to do housework before, and the fact that he’s offering a novice like me more than double of what I’m fairly certain he should pay makes me uncomfortable. And what’s up with the freaking papers? They’re on the sofas, coffee table, and some are even on the carpet. I even spy a few white sheets wadded up on the dusty bookshelf across the room.

“I said now,” he barks, coming into view with a fresh bottle of whiskey in hand, and I shoot to my feet.

“Yes, sir,” I mumble under my breath. At least we’re off to a great start. “Oh, and the cleaning suppl—”

“No one’s going to hold your hand, child. You do your job, so I can do mine.”

It isn’t until six hours later, when my neck is cramped and my hands are blistered, that I realize just how sincerely he meant those two simple sentences.

I am on my own.