Page 41 of She Haunts Me Still

Grimacing, Mallory covers her mouth and scans the moonlit room. But nothing seems out of place.

Then, just as she starts to wonder if she’s imagining it, the smell slips away. Replaced by lingering candle smoke and Ezra’s intoxicating cologne. Mallory’s entire body relaxes, and she looks down at Ezra, still asleep, hair tousled.

Without giving herself time to change her mind, she lies against him, fitting herself neatly along his bare chest before tugging the covers over them both. He doesn’t wake, but his arms fold around her anyway, instinctively adjusting to keep her close. This time, there’s no burning heat between her thighs from his touch, no desperation to taste his kiss. Only a hunger for safety, and the hopeful suspicion that her nightmares might be less venomous if he keeps holding her, just like this.

Mallory’s eyes drift closed again—but not before catching the red digits on his clock.

Frozen and unblinking at 3:33.

The campus chapel is bathed in dusty light when Mallory enters the following morning.

It’s a Saturday, so she expects to find it empty. She has an hour until she has to be at the theater for a run of the first and second acts, which is more than enough time to dig through any records that might be in the sacristy.

Funeral records. Like Lily’s.

The chapel is located on the far eastern edge of campus and is one of the university’s oldest buildings, having been around since Shore was a sanitarium. With a white-painted wooden exterior, it often blends with the Rhode Island sky, spire and cross disappearing into the clouds. The chapel is etched with history, walls brimming with the echoes of everyone who ever visited.

Mallory’s neck prickles with unease as she walks down the empty aisle. It’s how she always felt sitting in church with Arden and her parents, silently battling the painful knowledge that she didn’t belong there. Last Christmas, Arden invited her to midnight mass in Boston, and Mallory spent the entire service wondering if the priest could tell she was linked to something blasphemous. If the entire congregation could sense she was reciting prayers without an ounce of feeling. She learned long ago that there was no higher power looking out for her, no guardian angel to swoop in and protect her from pain. To her, praying will always be an empty act.

Her bag vibrates, disrupting her thoughts. Mallory checks her phone, seeing a text from Arden.Do u want 2 get coffee b4 rehearsal n talk? Truce?

Her fingers fly across the buttons in relief.Y! Cafe in 30?

Arden’s response is immediate.It’s a date.

Mallory tucks her phone away, a new plan forming. She’ll apologize to Arden for being distant, conjure a small truth about her feelings for Ezra. She’ll tell Arden the parts she can comfortably say. Keep the others locked up. Mallory continues toward the sacristy, clinging to a rare drop of hope. Maybe she hasn’t broken them after all.

A shuffling sound halts her. She rapidly scans the chapel, but the building is empty. It’s just her and the wooden confessional box up ahead, altar candles burning, and yet the noise continues.

If she didn’t know any better, she’d swear the footfalls were coming from underneath her. She’s only been in the chapel once, for Shore’s welcome ceremony, but she’s almost certain it’s one level. No basement.

Shaking her head, Mallory hurries up the altar steps, eyeing the reddened stained glass above. She’s seen the window dozens of times from the outside, knows it contains a mosaic of the Tree of Life, but this time, she notices something new: a small raven in the bottom left corner. The fifth one she’s noticed on campus so far.

Inside the sacristy, Mallory flicks on the light, illuminating the windowless room in a yolk glow. She’s greeted by a wooden cabinet with skinny drawers and an antique armoire on the opposite wall. The long, narrow counter contains a double sink, one side covered with a brass lid brandishing a cross. For holy water, she assumes.

Moving quickly, she flings open cabinets and drawers, clocking silky choir robes and silver chalices, altar candles and matchbooks. But no file folders, no ledgers. Nothing that looks like it holds the history she needs.

Blowing her bangs in frustration, Mallory looks toward the armoire, wooden doors etched with ivy and flowers. She can’t put her finger on it, but something about the wardrobe feels out of place. Like it doesn’t belong.

Crossing the room, she opens the armoire. Her shoulders slump in defeat to find more robes.

But then, her skin tingles as she realizes. These aren’t church robes.

They’re black. And made of velvet. Just like the ones in her dream.

“I didn’t know there was a service this morning.”

Mallory slams the armoire shut and whirls.

A handsome older man stands in the doorway. He’s tall, dressed in a dark suit and coat that flows behind him like a cape. An old-fashioned fedora sits atop his nearly black hair, casting a shadow over his pale skin. His hands, encased in leather gloves, clasp a long cane, the end of which is adorned with a glittering onyx stone.

Mallory swallows. “There’s not. I’m just…waiting for some friends.”

The man studies her in the dim light. “An interesting meeting spot.”

“We have a class project,” she lies. “I needed to research something.”

He peers at her. The brim of his hat darkens his stare.