"Just like you said—you wanted to meet one-on-one, so here we are," Malachai said. He held out his hand; for a moment I hesitated, unsure whether to shake it, but I did it anyway without overthinking.
It was the day before Halloween, and decorations of corpses, skeletons, pumpkins, and witches hung on every house.
"I wanted to talk to you…" I said.
"…"
"About… a certain night. James was at my place," I blurted. I'm an idiot—he probably already knows. They all keep each other updated like maniacs.
Fog curled around us, brushing against my ankles and making me shiver. I hated that feeling.
"And what did you two do?" the corner of his mouth twitched upward. The memory of that night slammed into me like a lightning strike. My jaw clenched.
"You know very well."
He stretched lazily, leaning his back against a wall painted with graffiti of two samurai locked in battle. Beside them stood a young woman holding a blue pocketknife engraved with a small x. It looked like she was crying, and her falling tears grew larger and larger the closer they got to the ground. I've never seen anything like that, I thought grimly. In Willow Hollow, you could count graffiti on one hand—finding pieces like this was rare. I didn't know a single person who painted them. When I was thirteen, I even thought about doing it myself. Staring at the same blank walls, painted the same color over and over, made me sad.
"Maybe," Malachai smiled fully. I narrowed my eyes. "And that's why you wanted to meet up?"
"No…" I started. "James… was he at your place that night?"
Malachai's eyes widened. He didn't understand what I meant, and for some reason that gave me a twinge of guilt. Maybe I shouldn't have met with him.
"At my place? When?"
"You know… when I was at your place and we did… something."
"You mean sex?" His eyebrows shot up. "I don't recall him being there. Unless you mean when he broke in and played the creep."
"Oh."
"Did he tell you anything?" he asked, pushing off the wall and stepping closer. I lowered my head. "Hey, look at me." He lifted my chin with his hand. "You can trust me. I'm not like James. Remember, I love you."
I couldn't bring myself to believe it. The truth was, for a brief moment, I had started to feel something more for Malachai—imagining a future together—but it had all drowned in the depths. I had no feelings for this man now.
"I understand," I said after a pause.
"I noticed you haven't been replying to me lately. Did something happen?"
"I don't think so."
What's with all of them and these messages? I keep hearing the same line: 'You haven't replied to me lately, why?' 'Why don't you answer me?' 'You didn't reply and I was worried.' Just thinking about it gives me goosebumps, like they're in on some bigger scheme.
"Just busy, I guess."
I wondered if I should tell him about moving out of Willow Hollow—about starting a better life, one that could save me, give me a fresh start—but I bit my tongue at the last moment. It wasn't time yet.
"I've got a photo shoot the day after tomorrow. They say I've got potential," I changed the subject.
He dropped his hand from my chin.
"Really?"
"Yeah."
He stared straight into my eyes.
It was getting colder. I felt like it was time to head home and stay there until the shoot. This town had a strange tradition:
two years in a row, the day after Halloween was still a full workday—everything was open, business as usual. Outsiders were always shocked by it. I was too, at first, but then I decided I liked it. It was original, and this year was another "working day."
"Want me to give you a ride?" Malachai asked, his voice laced with concern.
"Uh… I don't know."
It didn't seem like a good idea. I suspected how that could end, and it wouldn't end well for me.
"Yeah, probably not necessary," I said after a moment. Malachai nodded, but I could see he didn't fully get it.
"You sure?"
"One hundred percent." A cold wind rushed across the back of my neck, sharp and quick. I yawned, the freezing air filling my mouth.
"Well then…" He turned his head to the side, and I heard something crack inside him. A chill shot through me—I was afraid something was about to happen and I'd have to run.
"You're shaking, I can see it," he brushed a lock of hair from my forehead. He took my hand. "Your hand's freezing."
I quickly pulled away. "I'll walk," I said.
The tenderness in Malachai's expression twisted into something darker, something incomprehensible.
"Are you okay?" I asked, dread tightening my throat.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, his face hardening. He straightened in an instant.
"And you?"
I glanced around, checking if anyone was coming toward us or if someone might jump out from behind a corner.
"What's going on? You look terrified." His fists clenched.
"No," I tried to sound firm, but I wasn't sure he bought it.
"No?"
"No," I repeated. Why was I still standing here? I wanted to run, to lift my leg and bolt, but I froze. My body wouldn't move, as if I'd been glued to the ground.
The fog still hovered, unsettling me. No cars passed, no one walked by—we were completely alone.
"Be careful, Mike," he said gently. "You never know what could happen at this hour."
He turned and walked to his car. I didn't take my eyes off him, not for a second.
He got in, started the engine, and drove away, leaving me alone.