Page 75 of I Will Break You
He was here last night.
Or was that a dream?
My gaze darts to the window. It’s closed, but I’m sure last night it was open.
I force myself up with a groan, only for a wet curl to smack me in the eye. When I run my fingers through my hair, it’s sticky with ectoplasm. Some of it even coats the side of my face.
What the hell happened to my salt circle? I lean across the bed, only to find it intact. As I fall back into the pillows, my shoulder hits something solid that sloshes.
Holy water.
I crack it open and take a lukewarm swig.
What fills my mouth tastes nothing like water or even plastic. Gagging, I hold the bottle up to the light and swear it looks cloudy. Do I detect a trace of salt?
My phone rings, pulling me out of my thoughts. With agroan, I reach across the nightstand and pick it up without looking to see who’s calling.
“What?” I croak.
“I’m outside in the car,” Myra says, her voice brimming with excitement.
A horn honks somewhere on the edge of my awareness. I close my eyes, wondering why Myra drove across town to see me when she should be at work.
“The doors open at ten, but the queues start as early as six,” she says. “If you want a chance to pitch your novel, we have to get to the book fair early.”
My eyes snap open.
Book fair?
Shit.
Thirty minutes later, Myra and I wait outside Beaumont Town Hall, where a white banner proudly announces the book fair. It’s a beautiful neoclassical building with tall columns that hold up a pediment over the entrance. Back in the Prohibition Era, it used to be a speakeasy. At some point in history, it was gifted to the government, and now it’s a hub of community events.
I glance up and down the line, noticing that many attendants brought wheeled suitcases. My chest thrums with excitement as I recognize a few book influencers. I take a sip of the supersized spirulina smoothie Myra bought me to chase away the dregs of my thumping hangover and sigh. This book fair is the break I need from Xero.
Myra found an early version of my manuscript she’d printed out the morning of Xero’s execution. The appendix contains all the letters we sent to each other, plus some extra research I made around Xero’s crimes.It’s a relief that mementos of our relationship still exist, although I’m not sure if I should be pleased that she’s brought it to share with the public.
She loops her arm through mine and beams. “Ready?”
“Can we not pitch the Xero book?” I ask.
Her face falls. “What are you talking about?”
“Xero doesn’t want me sharing our story with the world.”
“Xero’s dead,” she says, her words flat. “So is his family.”
My insides churn. Every time I tell her about being haunted, she explains it away as nightmares or hallucinations. Even the rope marks around my neck aren’t enough proof that I’m being plagued by a vengeful ghost. According to Myra, Chappy could have attacked me in my sleep, or maybe one of Relaney’s many criminal associates.
“I’ve brought a copy of Rapunzelita,” I say. “And I have a few ideas for books that don’t include Xero.”
She closes her eyes and sighs. “Middle-grade books don’t blow up on social media like true crime or dark romance. I wouldn’t know how to market something without graphic murder or spice.”
Guilt claws at my heart, and my chest tightens at everything Myra has left unsaid. I’ve wasted her money, her time, and all that effort she spent helping me polish my manuscript.
“How about an erotic ghost story?” I ask.
She raises her brow. “Do you have a synopsis or the first few chapters?”