Ghost (The Halloween Boys #1) (2)
Blythe
SLEEPY HALLOWS
I am pretty fearless, and you know why? Because I don't handle fear very well; I'm not a good terrified person.
Stevie Nicks
That day, it was a cell phone ringing that made me want to die. Two weeks ago, it was a laugh. A distinct, grumble of a chuckle that sent my pulse through the roof. A month ago, it was a rusty red pickup truck.
But that day, it was a cellphone I had to contend with. My mouth went dry as panic flooded my system. I searched the diner, scanning every patron before landing on a petite old lady. The breath that left my lips was shaky, uneven, as I tossed a crumpled twenty on the greasy table and grabbed my purse. I sucked in a breath of September air while I scurried to my car, checking under it before I got in. As always, I surveyed the back seat before I even touched the leather interior. Clicking the locks three times, just to make sure, I fished my phone out of my bag and called. I doubled clicked the only number in my contact list. The only number in my recent calls log. Once, twice, just a voicemail.
I drove to the blandly-colored office building in the middle of town, parked, and power walked inside. If I kept moving, I wouldn’t break. If I kept moving, I wouldn’t cry.
If I kept moving, he wouldn’t find me.
The elevator beeped and I stepped in front of the receptionist. I tapped my fingers anxiously along her desk while she finished a call. Finally, she faced me with a wary smile. “Miss Pearl,” she coaxed as if I were a child. “We don’t have you down for an appointment until next week.”
I could feel my breaths coming in shorter bursts. My hand jittered against the desk of its own accord now. “It’s an emergency. Please, if Dr. Omar could just squeeze me in—”
“She’s not in today. All our doctors are booked.”
I ran a sweaty palm through my hair, feeling strands loop free from my claw clip, messing it up thoroughly. “I’m begging you. I have to talk to somebody, any—”
“I can see you,” a deep male voice boomed from behind me. “My one o’clock is a no-show.”
“Thank you,” I responded, turning on my heel. I usually preferred female therapists but I’d take what I could get right now. I halted in my tracks, staring up at him. Thick-rimmed glasses were perched on his stoic face as he crossed his arms and assessed me. Something fluttered deep inside my belly despite the rising panic in my chest. Suddenly, I became aware of my appearance. My face was blotchy, my hair askew, my white T-shirt stained with my morning coffee.
“Dr. Cove, that’s very generous of you, but I haven’t pulled Miss Pearl’s clinical notes. I’m afraid nothing is ready.”
“That’s alright, Shannon, I’m happy to take this one on the fly. Please, step into my office.” He gestured with a wide, strong hand. Why did I have an unnatural fetish for man hands? His were perfectly huge and worn. I gulped before nodding and scurrying past him. “Have a seat. Can I get you some water?”
He was pouring a glass of ice water and sitting it in front of me before I could respond. I perched on the loveseat adjacent to his leather armchair and took a small sip, letting the cold cup alleviate some of my rising heat. “Thank you,” I breathed, staring at the ice.
Dr. Cove’s chair squeaked, and I caught his black loafers in my periphery. Maybe this was worse than enduring the panic attack. How could I possibly talk about this with such an attractive man? I considered faking an excuse to leave when he broke the silence. Dr. Omar never broke the silence first.
“Overrated band,” he remarked.
I glanced up and arched an eyebrow, unsure what he was referring to. He flicked a lazy finger toward my breasts. Thank God my face was already flushed or I would have been as red as a beet in that moment. Then I realized he meant my T-shirt. “Fleetwood Mac? Are you kidding me? Stevie Nicks is one of the greatest lyricists of all time. Why don’t you like them?”
He shrugged, offering only the hint of a half smile. “I’ll educate you on how you’re wrong if you tell me why you were so desperate to get in here today.”
With a sigh, I clutched a pillow and slumped back into the loveseat. Somehow my anxiety was lessening since I’d first walked in. Maybe just being around mental health professionals calmed me. Maybe it was because Dr. Melissa Omar had been my only friend since I moved here. Well, not really a friend, but the closest thing I had to one. “I guess I’m only seeing you for today, so I’ll give you the nutshell version.” I fidgeted nervously with the tassel of the pillow. “My childhood wasn’t great. My mom had a bunch of guys in and out. She finally settled on this one real winner of a human, who beat her, and sometimes me. I spent most of my teenage years being afraid to close the refrigerator door too loud or look at him wrong . . . ,” I trailed off, feeling my chest tighten again. “My mom’s death was ruled a suicide but I blamed him. He either did it and covered it up or he drove her to it. Either way, it’s his fault. So when I was nineteen, I packed a small duffle of everything I owned and took off.”
His dark gaze held mine with intensity as I glanced up at him. His black button-up shirt and tie did nothing to conceal the evident strength beneath formal attire. But his stare . . . I had to look away. “On my way out of town I made a call to the police with an anonymous tip revealing his cocaine and narcotic stash. They busted him that night.”