Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Sagan

I’m scaring her.

Shit. I do that to people, sometimes.

I gotta find my zen.

No one hurt her, Sagan.

She’s safe because she’s here with you. You are literally warming her feet with your big, ugly mitts.

I have to convince myself to take her at her word because the only other option is to scare her away.

Just like I almost did at the fall festival last year.

I remember how her eyes went wide when I told her there was no way in hell she was getting a neck tattoo.

“But I need a sigil of protection,” she’d said, undaunted.

That was the spookiest shit any chick had ever said to me, and it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

“What do you need a sigil of protection for?”

She’d shrugged and said nonchalantly, “I live in my family’s creepy old mansion and weird shit goes down every year between Halloween and Christmas.”

She said this like it was a completely normal thing.

I meant to say she didn’t need a tattoo but a hired security guard, which should be me.

What I said was, “You don’t need a tattoo. You need a gun.” My brain was trying to protect me from saying something stupid, so I ended up sounding aggressive.

“Does that work on ghosts?” Esme had asked.

What I saw in her eyes then was troubling. Her smile was heartbreaking, but behind those eyes lay true heartbreak.

I couldn’t help myself. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

The color left her face.

“What do you mean?” She asked, desperately trying to laugh me off though she was shaking in her expensive designer boots.

“Are you OK?”

Finally, she dropped the smile.

“No. I’m not.”

As I painted on a temporary tattoo she chose from my binder, she told me a few things, careful not to reveal her true identity. Even if she’d said her last name, I don’t know if I would have put two and two together. I was focused on the revelation that she struggled to leave the house. That she sometimes fought for the will to do the simplest tasks.

She felt safe with me. And she’ll be safe with me now, here, in her room, because I’ll show her who I am. I’ll take care of her like no one ever has.

Socks. She had on socks before.

“I’ll be right back.”

She nods, hugging her bathrobe tighter when I let go of her feet.

I go to Esme’s closet and turn on the light, revealing a space bigger than my prison cell. Hell, it’s bigger than the room I was assigned to at the halfway house in Fate after I got out.

The walls have built-in shelves and racks that look more like a small designer boutique than a closet. Shoes and hats are displayed like artwork. A tall glass case in the center houses an array of fine watches and jewelry, and the display inside rotates like the fucking Hope Diamond exhibit. On the other side of the jewelry case are plush benches and stools for putting on shoes.

It takes a few minutes to find a proper pair of comfortable socks, the kind you lounge in.

In fact, considering how cold her room is, there are not a lot of warm clothes in here to choose from. A lot of fancy dresses and gowns, but not a lot of wool. The warmest thing I can find is an ultra-soft sweater that’s too thin, which I assume is cashmere. I run my hand over the soft fabric, wondering where rich people buy these things. They don’t sell this kind of shit at Army-Navy Surplus.

Esme remains perched at her vanity when I return with the socks. I get a whiff of her soapy scent as I kneel before her and help her put her socks on.

Next, food.

“Ready to eat now?”

She bites her lip, embarrassed. Shakes her head no.

“I need to lie down,” she says, fiddling with the belt of her bathrobe.

“Look in the mirror, Esme.”

Her eyes snap to mine. “I already did.”

“Look again.”

Her shoulders rise and fall, her eyes momentarily defiant. But then she gives in because she knows what she’s up against. I’m a teddy bear, but I ain’t a pushover.

She lets out a small sigh and turns to the mirror.

“You see that person? That’s not the Esme I know. You’re twenty pounds thinner and you look like a vampire.”

The vampire comment shocks her, and a tiny corner of her lip curves up. “Thanks,” she says, shaking her head at my audacity.

“You can barely think, let alone function. You know what will fix that? Food.”

She squeezes her eyes shut. “Nothing tastes like anything. Everything tastes like nothing.”

I glance over at the domed tray by the door. “You want me to call down and have them cook something else?”

Esme shakes her head. “No. It’s not that it’s bad food. It’s just…I don’t know what I want. They ask me what I want to eat, and I don’t know how to answer.”

She’s talking, which I mark as progress.

And based on what I’m hearing—and based on what I know about her—I’m getting an inkling of what’s going on here. I might be wrong, though. I’m no doctor, but my gut is hitting on something important.

“You don’t have to decide shit anymore. That’s my job now. Come on.”