Whispering Hearts (13 page)

He tried to look casual as he strategically placed his book over his lap, then nodded toward his closet. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks.”

She didn't waste any time, quickly walking to the closet and pulling out a couple of T-shirts. She was tall, but his shirts would still be huge on her.

The thought of his shirt dusting across her long, slender legs, her breasts brushing the fabric…didn't help his predicament. He shook his head and picked up another book, burying his nose in it as if it held all of his attention.

He couldn't let himself look up at her. No way could he hide how much he wanted her. He wouldn't burden her with that knowledge.

Clearing his throat, he said, “If you need anything else, don't hesitate to come get me. Okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks again.”

He didn't set down the book till after she had gone and shut the door behind her. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the headboard.

This was torture.

If she wanted him, she could have had him at any time in the past couple of years. Garrett made no secret of that. Hell, she could have him right now.

No matter her reasons, she
didn't
want him. Not really. He had to keep reminding himself of that. And maybe that emotional pain would help him keep his physical reactions to her under control.

He wouldn't hold his breath.

Chapter Twelve

There was a ghost right outside the house. A stranger.

If the voice had been one of Michael's victims, menacing as they were, Rachel would have understood their presence. With that understanding, there would have been some twisted form of comfort. But this ghost was a complete unknown.

She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the window. The blinds were closed, but even still there were little cracks around the edges that would allow glimpses into the room from outside. Why hadn't she put in curtains?

Because Garrett loved natural light—and she didn't want to deny him even a particle of it.

Every room in his house only had blinds to cover the windows. Well, except for her bathroom, which had no windows at all. She considered sleeping in the bathtub, but that wasn't an option. As much as the windows bothered her, the mirror in that room—even covered—scared her more. The living room had the sliding glass door, so that nixed the couch.

There was always Garrett's room, with only one clear-glass window that would have a limited view from the backyard. A narrow row of frosted windows lined the wall that faced the front of his house, high up and running parallel to the ceiling. His bed was huge and looked very comfortable—especially with him in it.

Her mind immediately pulled up an image of him walking back to the house after the scorpion incident. That memory was burned into every synapse. His confident stride, the determined set to his features, his strong chest, his muscled legs, a certain other part of his anatomy…

The things she wanted to do to that man.

She knew he was thinking about it too—acting on their mutual attraction. But he was most concerned with protecting her. He wouldn't even let her get close to a tiny scorpion. It was sweet, but unnecessary.

She went through her list of all the reasons that she shouldn't be with him in the first place. At the top was how being involved with her would affect his peace of mind.

Learning about her powers—and that ghosts were real—had already impacted him negatively. When she went to borrow a shirt to sleep in, she noticed the blinds in his room were closed. He had always kept them open before. Always. He must be freaking out, trying to protect her yet again by shielding her from how much his new awareness disturbed him.

At least Rachel was used to dealing with this kind of thing. Now that Garrett knew ghosts were real and how prevalent they were, he might never be able to truly relax again.

She didn't want that for him. For any of her friends. Having Rachel around was a constant reminder of death. It robbed them of even the small comfort of thinking that death held finality.

Jazz wanted to help. So did Elsa. But Rachel wanted to preserve their peace of mind—just like she wanted to preserve Garrett's. She needed to figure this out on her own, to keep them out of it as much as she could.

The more they tried to help, the more they would internalize that none of them were ever really alone. It didn't make for a happy life.

She leapt up from the bed and started pacing. The soft fabric of Garrett's T-shirt brushed against her legs as she walked, distracting her from her anxious thoughts. It carried a hint of his scent. She paused and took a deep breath to saturate her senses with him.

She wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes, imagining that Garrett was holding her. He'd been doing a lot of that lately. It was taking a toll on both of them.

She was having trouble resisting the pull she felt toward him. The desire to be with him was stronger than ever. The more time they spent together, the worse it became.

But she was weird. He deserved normal. A happy, loving family to join with his, a partner who didn't get distracted by—

Something tapped on her window. Rachel's eyes snapped open. She backed toward the bed.

It happened again—a fluttering thump.

She took a deep breath, then slowly approached the window. At least it was shut. She was certain of that. Still, the persistent flutter-thump was making her heart beat in her throat. When she was close enough, she pulled on the cord that raised the pleated blinds.

Outside the window, all she saw was inky darkness. The light cast by the bedside lamp was strong enough that she could see the reflection of the room around her in the glass.

And of the pale, blonde ghost staring back at her—
from inside the room
.

Rachel's heart beat even faster. There couldn't be a ghost in the house. She had cleansed and warded the whole thing.

She took a deep breath and let it out. So did the woman in the window.

Her heart seemed to stop. It wasn't a ghost at all. It was her own reflection.

Rachel avoided any mirror bigger than a compact. She couldn't remember the last time she'd actually seen so much of herself at once. Her eyes were wide and there were dark circles beneath them. Her hair was a tousled mess.

No wonder everyone was worried. Especially with the obvious fear on her face, the lines of stress etched around her eyes. In the dark glass of the window, her reflection was translucent. It was as if she was the ghost, haunting her own life—a living shadow.

Rachel leaned closer to the window just as something huge and bright yellow whacked into the glass. She yelped and jumped back. She was still holding onto the cord for the blinds and it tangled around her arm. As she tried to free herself, her movements caused the blinds to bang against the window with an awful racket. She quickly grabbed at them, pushing them against the glass to stop the noise.

Still holding the blinds, she looked at the windowsill. Two lubber grasshoppers stared back at her. Each was at least three inches long, with bright yellow and orange carapaces. Lubbers were everywhere in Florida, but she'd never noticed them being active at night. One crawled a few inches toward her while she watched.

“Rachel?”

She jumped again, jostling the blinds and getting her wrist tangled in the cord even more. Garrett ran forward before she could extricate herself. He was just wearing pajama bottoms.

She was staring again, but she couldn't bring herself to care. His chest was covered in fine dark hair that flowed together and cascaded down his stomach, all the way to—

“I didn't mean to startle you,” he said.

“It's okay.” She laughed and shook her head, trying to force the image of Garrett naked out of her mind with limited success. She tried to lighten the mood, wiggling the cord as he helped free her hand. “I guess I'm a little high-strung too.”

Apparently, he wasn't in a laughing mood. He didn't say anything until he had lowered the blinds.

“Was that ghost bothering you again? I thought the poppets were supposed to keep them away.”

“It's not always ghosts.” She wanted to help him normalize what he'd learned. Maybe he wouldn't fixate on the idea of ghosts if she gave him another explanation. “There were some grasshoppers flying against the window. They must have been drawn to the light coming out from around the edges of the blinds.”

“Grasshoppers at night?”

She shrugged. “I didn't mean to disturb you.”

Again.

“I was already up.”

“You can't sleep either?”

He shook his head. His gaze kept flicking to her wrists, his eyes getting an angry, haunted look.

She was tired of it. She was tired of people—especially Garrett—asking her if she was okay and looking at her like she might shatter at any moment. He had done enough for her. Maybe she could do something for him.

“Do you need me to tell you about it?” she asked.

“What, the bugs? I was born here too. I know all about the pesky things.”

“About what happened with Michael.”

He looked away and shook his head. “You don't have to tell me.”

“I think I do. I need to tell someone what really happened.”

“I thought you talked it all through with your doctors and the police.”

A lump was forming in her throat. She shook her head.

“Only part of it. What they could believe.”

His mouth opened and shut. His chest stilled as he held his breath, waiting for her. Always waiting. She walked to the bed and sat, then patted the spot next to her.

“Sit with me?”

Garrett hesitated for a moment, but then joined her.

How to begin?

Not with the feeling of dread when she entered Michael's house—yet another warning sign she had ignored. Not with the chloroform or waking up in darkness chained to a wall.

As bad as that was, she wasn't haunted by what Michael did to her. She was haunted by the voices of the other women. The ones he had killed.

The voices had started before she woke. She was dropped into the middle of a conversation between half a dozen ghosts sharing the room with her. Sharing their darkness.

They spoke in whispers, even knowing Michael couldn't hear them. They were that afraid.

How could Rachel help Garrett understand? Hearing those spirits, she could almost feel their pain—pain strong enough to keep them chained to this world even after death.

“What you're imagining is… It's not what happened,” she said. “It's not what anyone thinks.”

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “I'm listening.”

She took a deep breath and blew it out to steady her nerves before she began.

“I had been avoiding Michael all week. I would tell him I was busy setting up Dante's loft after work at the gallery—which was true. But I went out of my way to make sure I didn't have any spare time. When opening night for Michael's show was close, I realized I couldn't avoid him any longer. We met for lunch and I told him we were done.”

“I can't imagine that went over well.”

“That's the thing—it did. He said he was proud of me for figuring out what I wanted and saying something about it. That it was high time I took a stand for myself.” Her stomach churned at the memory. “I ate it all up. Every word. When he asked me for one last favor, it seemed such a small thing. He seemed reasonable.”

“What did he want?”

“He wanted me to sit for him. To pose for a final portrait so that he could
keep a piece of me near him forever
.” She let out a tinny laugh. “Little did I know.”

She shivered. Garrett scooted closer to her, but she didn't let herself lean into him for comfort. The whole point was to let him know that she was stronger than he thought—that this hadn't broken her.

“Rachel, you don't have to tell me this if it's too hard.”

“What's hard is the way you've been looking at me. How worried you are about what Michael did.”

“How could I not worry?” he asked.

“I won't lie. It was terrible and sickening and for a while I didn't know if I would make it through with my sanity intact. But there were other things going on. Things that made what he did to me more bearable—less awful in comparison with what he had done to others. Because I escaped. Do you understand, Garrett?
I escaped
.”

Garrett looked perplexed. His brow furrowed and he shook his head. “I don't understand.”

She didn't want to come out and say it. Saying it made it more real. But she had to. She had to help him understand.

“The others didn't.”

Her eyes burned with tears, but she held them back. Understanding flowed over his features as he sucked in a breath.

“There were ghosts with you? People he had…”

“Killed. Yes. Half a dozen that I could distinguish. I heard whispers as soon as I arrived at his house. They were so quiet, I could barely hear them. But I didn't even try. I tuned them out, like usual. If I had only tried to listen to them, maybe I could have escaped. Prevented what happened to Elsa and Dante.”

Garrett shook his head. “No. You can't let yourself go down that road again. Remember what Dante had to say on that. None of this is your fault. You can't keep beating yourself up over what Michael did.”

She closed her eyes and the tears she had been fighting spilled over. The lump in her throat grew. She forced out the words anyway, her voice raw with guilt and fear.

“I can't keep hiding my head in the sand, either.”

She had to start helping people—the living and the dead. She was sick of always being the one who needed to be rescued.

“After I woke up, the women kept talking about what happened to them. About what was going to happen to me, in graphic detail. They said I was lucky because…”

“Rachel—”

He started to put his arm around her, but she needed space to get through telling him. She shook her head and put her hand on his chest, which was…probably the best possible thing she could have done.

The sadness and fear dispersed as she took in the feel of him. The soft texture of the hair on his chest. The heat of his skin and the strength of the muscle beneath.

Warmth flooded her—not the fiery chemistry she was used to fighting with him, but soft waves of well-being and safety. She felt his desire to comfort her and drew on that strength to go on, her voice much stronger than before.

“They said the women he had killed more recently were lucky because he had more practice. He was better at taking blood and knocking us out when needed—even at using the blood for his paintings. He had it down. They said I was lucky because it would be over quicker.”

She could feel each deep breath he took, her hand rising and falling with the movements of his chest. Focusing on the rhythmic motion helped her go on.

“Thanks to Dante and Elsa, I was only there for one day. The other women were held for days or even weeks. And the ones that couldn't move on after… The ones haunting him were with him for
years
.”

“God, Rachel. That's awful.”

“Do you see now? Those women—they were alone when this happened to them. They couldn't hear the voices of the others hovering near them.”