Ghost (The Halloween Boys #1) (4)
The moment the sound of the elevator doors closing reached my ears, I grabbed my jacket and whirled out of the room. “Email me Blythe Pearl’s file and cancel my day,” I ordered at a wide-eyed Shannon. I didn’t care that I had another client in thirty minutes. They didn’t make me feel alive. It was Brandon Peters and all he did was drone on and on about his hedge fund and hookers and why he couldn’t settle down. Pathetic. The current batch of newly lured in townies had so much money they bought themselves problems to solve so they’d have something to fill their brainless days. Those clients didn’t have any real problems. Except, you know, being trapped here. My other clients . . . Well, their problems were my fault anyway. The least I could do was talk to them. There were no skeletons in their closets. Predictable, boring, tragic. But Blythe . . . She spun in like a desperate tornado on the verge of destruction. I knew that look; I tasted and recognized the fear. It was all I could do to remain somewhat professional. To walk her down casually, so casually, from her panic attack. As if I were just another nerdy, gentle giant of a therapist. My mask.
Blythe Pearl knew what true horror felt like. And I was all sorts of fucked up for finding that sexy as hell. Her ass helped too.
I took the stairs, walking out the moment her long golden-brown hair floated behind her through the revolving doors. Reaching into my briefcase, I pulled out my black beanie and tugged it on, sure to keep my gaze downward—though it was an effort not to watch her walk. I should be reining myself in, therapizing myself into better behavior, but I wasn’t kidding myself. I was long past that. The guys and I were too far gone. I’d accepted my reality, my need to feed.
I almost stumbled as she stopped and turned to the side. Recovering, I quickly pushed up next to a brick building, partially ducking behind a garbage bin. She was looking in a shop window, considering for a moment, like she may have wanted to go in. She turned and kept walking to her car. Slinking out of my spot, I eyed her getting into her Honda. My car was parked right outside the shop she was looking in. I paused a beat to see what caught her eye. A costume. Perhaps she would take my advice and go to Hallows Fest. I was counting on it.
Her forest-green beater rolled past as she looked forward. Oblivious. A sitting duck. An easy target. No family, no friends, no roots. No one to miss her if she vanished.
Blythe was perfect.
Following a good two car lengths behind, we took off toward the south side of town. I dialed with my thumb and jerked my phone to my ear.
“The fuck do you want? I’m in court.”
I smirked at the mirth in Onyx’s voice. “I got one, brother. I got a really fucking good one.”
“Really?” His tone was hushed now.
“Meet at the underground later. Call the guys.”
“Well goddamn, it’s been months since The Halloween Boys found a victim. I’m salivating.”
With a huff of laughter, I ended the call. Finally. Fucking finally.
My sweet, innocent, rosy-cheeked target crawled to a stop in a residential driveway. A small, seventies townhome. I sat with my foot on the break across the street and leaned my seat back, watching. She grabbed her bag and stopped to pet an orange cat before walking down the gravel and to the side entrance. Not the front door, huh? I pulled out my phone and did an internet search on the address. Like I suspected, a basement apartment. Could be a smart move for a girl like her. Old Man Moore and his wife resided upstairs, and by the looks of the advertisements, something possessed him to rent out his tiny studio basement for extra cash. She’d never be alone with him right above her. Plus, she was in the suburbs, which posed another obstacle. Neighborhood watch and busybody joggers and soccer moms were better security than most law enforcement. It was pretty good; I’d give her that. She’d mastered her routine.
But it wasn’t good enough. Not nearly enough. An illusion of safety was all it was when monsters lurked everywhere. And one had followed her home.
She called herself a ghost. But I was the one that was going to haunt her.
CHAPTER 3
Blythe
DON’T SCREAM
When I was a child, I was afraid of ghosts. When I grew up, I realized people are more scary.
Unknown
The purple tint of my lava lamp greeted me as I collapsed onto my bed. Well, it wasn’t my lava lamp, it was the Moore’s, and it probably really was from the seventies. My entire basement apartment was covered in shag carpet and daisy wallpaper. The only window was the one above the squeaky door, and my only furniture was a rickety white metal daybed. It was a nice neighborhood, though, and knowing Mr. and Mrs. Moore were upstairs, hearing their slow and steady footsteps and the vacuum roar to life promptly at eight every morning, had offered me some level of strange comfort. My panic had waned and left me exhausted. Anxiety was like being on a treadmill while being chased by a lion. I was constantly spinning my wheels but getting nowhere but closer to the carnivore’s maw. Dr. Cove had helped though. My heart fluttered while rolling his piercing stare around in my mind. The way his knuckles went white and the muscles in his hands flexed. He pulled me from my dark place with a snide comment over my favorite band. I wondered if that was a therapist trick or if he was flirting. Likely the former. It had been so long since I’d had any sort of meaningful interaction with a man, my body was short-circuiting. Embarrassment flooded me at how frazzled and weak I probably looked to him. He took me in out of pity and had likely forgotten all about me by now. But he was all I could think of. I closed my eyes to imagine I had the nerve to actually hug him goodbye and thank him. And maybe I’d pull back and look up and gently brush his shaggy black hair out of his eyes, off his glasses. My thumb would graze his prickly five o’clock shadow eliciting that damn smirk . . . My core warmed at the fantasy.