Page 46 of The Ghost and the Graveyard (Knight Games 1)
"Sorry," his voice echoed around me. "I -I'm not sure what happened there. I think I should go."
A mist hovered above my head. I tilted my face up. "Uh, me neither. Weird though. It's way past my bedtime anyway. See you tomorrow?"
"Well, I'm not going anywhere...I think." The mist filtered up through the vent.
I approached the plywood board and started prying the knives from the wood.
Good Morning
Alone in my bed that night, I slept better than I had in a long time. I didn't even dream until the early morning hours. In that space between sleep and awake, I was running through the cemetery-naked. Logan was up ahead, calling my name. He needed help. He needed me. But something was behind me, at my heels with panting breath and heavy footsteps. Just before I reached Logan, a hand gripped my shoulder. I twisted my head around. Rick was behind me, naked and panting. His eyes were black as coal. I fell into his arms. Under the elm tree where we'd had lunch, between rows of headstones, he took me from behind, sliding into me and driving his hips home.
It might have been a scary dream, but it wasn't. I had the overwhelming feeling that I'd wanted Rick to catch me all along. Like he was saving me from something or someone. We were two pieces of a puzzle, fitting together in a way that was right.
When I woke up, I was on the floor next to my bed. What the hell? Had I humped my way off the mattress in my sleep? My obsession with the caretaker and his dark and dangerous persona had officially made it into my subconscious. What did this say about my mental state? Maybe it was biological. It had been months since I'd had sex. A girl has needs.
Cheek to the carpet, I pressed my hands to the floor to push myself up. When I turned my head to crack my neck, I saw a wink of raspberry beyond the dust ruffle and lowered myself back down. Prudence had left something under the bed. I reached out a hand and fished the object toward me, then criss-crossed my legs under me.
The old-fashioned hatbox had stripes down the sides and a gorgeous floral lid that gave it a Victorian quality. I rubbed my hands together, anxious to see what Prudence left behind, maybe an antique hat or, I don't know, a box full of money might be nice. With both hands, I attempted to lift the lid. "Ow!" Blood bubbled from a pinprick-sized hole in my finger. I stuck it in my mouth rather than wipe it on my shirt. With my good hand, I turned the box and found the offending staple. It looked like the box had originally had a handle of some sort. Carefully, I reached for the lid again, avoiding the sharp barb.
What I found when I lifted the lid was a leather scrapbook. I cracked the cover. On the first page was a clipped newspaper column: MOTHER DIES GIVING BIRTH. I scanned the article. This was about my mother! Why did Prudence have an article about my mother's death under her bed? I flipped a page, and then in confusion, I flipped another. Pictures of me as a baby, riding my first bike, my first dance, singing in the church choir, my graduation from nursing school. All of them taken from far away, like paparazzi pictures taken with a telephoto lens. What. The. Fuck. I closed the scrapbook and tipped the box toward me. The only other thing in there was a blue velvet bag, the kind large jewelry might be stored in, but the bag was empty.
Two theories formed behind my fluttering lids. One, Prudence was a stalker who targeted me as a child. Two, this was my father's album left in Prudence's house. Neither theory made sense.
I tucked the scrapbook under my arm and jogged downstairs. Logan had again made me coffee and also an omelet fit for a five star restaurant. It was steaming hot when I reached the kitchen. Either he had amazing timing or, more likely, had been watching me.
I flopped the scrapbook onto the counter. "What is this Logan?"
"I have no idea." He materialized as he spoke.
Flipping open to a spread that included six photos of six-year-old me with my first dog, Nigel, I held it up in the direction of his glowing orb.
He sighed. "I can't talk about it. I literally cannot. Prudence has forbidden me to, and since she's the senior ghost, I must obey her."
I slapped the counter. "Why can't you tell me anything? You still haven't explained how you ended up in my attic."
"I told you, I'm not supposed to talk about that, either."
"Why not? What possible reason could Prudence have for not telling me why you're living in my attic? Or why she kept pictures of me under her bed."
"It's for your protection, to keep you safe. The secret must be revealed in a certain way."
I groaned, exasperated. "Can't you give me a clue? Anything?"
He placed his hands on his hips and hung his head.
"Logan, come on," I said.
"How did you get the name Grateful, anyway?"
Way to change the subject. I hated talking about my name, but people were naturally curious about it. I decided I'd try to use it as leverage. "I'll tell you, but in exchange you need to tell me what I want to know." I crossed my arms and tapped my foot.
"I told you-"
"I know you can't say it straight out, but you can give me a clue. That's all I'm asking for."
"Deal."
"My dad named me Grateful because my mother died in childbirth and he was grateful to have me."
