Chapter 21

21

Okay, it turns out it wasn't a diary.

Apparently, Grant decided to write a novel. And he decided that novel should be… a romantasy? Between a man named Zelvix Mistmael and a headstrong fairy named Furywa Wingrasmoril?

In any case, I don't think this notebook is going to hold the key to why I keep seeing Grant everywhere. And although I love a good romantasy, I'm really not enjoying his version very much. So I'm going to stop reading.

Oh well. So much for that.

I head back downstairs, and I don't bother to lock the attic behind me. I'm relieved there weren't any dead bodies up there but also a little disappointed. I hoped for an answer in that attic room, and I still don't have one. I still don't understand why my dead husband keeps appearing everywhere I go.

To distract myself, I grab all the casseroles from my refrigerator and load them into the trunk of my car. There is no chance I will ever eat any of them, so the least I can do is bring them to Marnie. Well, actually, the least I can do is nothing. But I'll do one better and give her the casseroles.

As I'm slamming closed the trunk of my car, once again, I get that feeling like somebody is watching me. I turn around, and of course, nobody is there.

But then I hear a sound. A slight rustling in the hedges at the far corner of my lawn.

Grant used to be responsible for our lawn maintenance. Despite the fact that he worked long hours at the office, he took pride in making sure the grass on our lawn was green and healthy. The hedges are still perfectly trimmed, so much so that when I notice the irregularity in the hedge, I know with absolute certainty there is something or someone within.

I also know that if somebody is hiding in those hedges, there is no way out. A high picket fence surrounds my property. Whoever is hiding will have to come out in plain sight in order to exit my lawn. I have them cornered.

I pop the trunk back open. The inside is now loaded with eight casserole dishes, but there's also something else—a shovel I keep in the trunk at all times in case I need to dig my car out of the snow in an emergency situation.

I remove the shovel and stride toward the hedges with more confidence than I feel. My heart is doing backflips, but my hands are surprisingly steady. It takes me a few seconds to cross the lawn, and I come to a halt in front of the hedge. The rustling has quieted, but I can tell from the shape that there is somebody hiding inside. I'm sure of it.

"I know you're in there," I say. "And you're not getting away this time."

And then I lift the shovel over my head.

I am prepared to bring it down with all my might. But before I can, a man leaps out, his hands in the air. He has dirty-blond hair and blue eyes and perfect chiseled features.

My husband is standing before me. The one who died in a fiery car wreck only two weeks ago. And now here he is, still alive.

I stare at him, the blood rushing in my ears. "Grant?"

Those familiar eyes meet mine. "No," he says. "I'm not Grant."

As much as I would love to believe that my husband didn't somehow come back to life, there is nobody who can tell me the man standing in front of me isn't Grant Lockwood. I was married to him, after all. I know what he looks like. And I know this is Grant.

But the next words out of his mouth change everything.

"I'm Brant. Grant's identical twin."