What little light that streams in makes the whole situation more gruesome. Like God knows what is about to happen and he’s filling the sky with gray clouds just for cinematic effect.

“Evan,” I whisper. Just wake up so we can get this over with, goddamnit.

He doesn’t even stir.

“Evan,” I say louder this time.

Nothing.

I force myself to move toward him, clearly needing to shake him awake. Why couldn’t this be easy? I’m going to wake him up and he’s going to be mad about it and it’ll make this whole thing so much worse. I just have to keep telling myself that I need to say those five words, and this can all be over.

When I near the bed, ice rains over my skin from the sight of a rolled-up brown parchment sitting innocently on top of a sleeping Evan.

Has the Faceless Man been sending Evan letters too? No, I doubt it. Evan thought I was insane when I kept saying that he was leaving me notes. Why would Letum leave me a letter at Evan’s? I shudder involuntarily from calling him something other than ‘the Faceless Man’.

I will my hands to stop shaking as I reach for the letter and try to get my breathing under control. I wouldn’t be surprised if Evan woke up just from the sound of my thundering heartbeat.

I can barely unroll the letter with how violently my fingers are shaking. The weight of the ring suddenly feels like it may as well be a boulder. Why did I think a band would bring me comfort when the man who gave it to me sends my anxiety skyrocketing?

Squeezing my eyes shut for a moment, I reopen it to read his note. Then I read it again. And again. All while everything around me comes crashing down. I keep hoping the words will say something different. Keep hoping that it is just my mind playing tricks on me. Each time I reread it, bile creeps higher and higher up my throat.

I slowly reach to move the duvet, hoping what the letter says isn’t real. I look up from the letter and stagger back.

“No,” I gasp, bringing my hands to my lips to stop from throwing up. “No, no, no, no.”

Evan’s vacant eyes stare straight at the ceiling, his blue lips are parted ever so slightly, like he’s still taking his last breath.

I read the letter one more time.

The fates have not yet called upon his soul. I decided that he lost it the second he laid his eyes on you.

My heart splinters and shatters and twists. Every atom, every cell, every bit of tissue in me feels like it combusts. My body seizes. And I scream.

Chapter seven

Lilith

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

This is all my fault. Everything that’s happened. He’s dead. Evan’s dead.

I don’t hear Nate thundering through the hallway before the door flings open, slamming against the wall.

“What? What happened? Are you okay?” His frantic eyes are wide, searching the room for an intruder, but he won’t find one.

I shove the paper in my pocket before he sees it. “Evan,” I sob. I can’t get the words to come out of my mouth. If I don’t say it, it won’t be true. Any second now Evan is going to jump up and say that it was just a practical joke. He won’t, though. “He’s—” I choke on the words.

Nate gets what I’m trying to say and lunges straight for Evan’s body. He immediately pushes his finger against Evan’s throat to check for a pulse. He doesn’t need to check. I should tell him. Evan is dead. I know that he’s dead. Letum killed him.

I can’t do anything but watch. I’m stuck. I can’t move. Not even shed a tear. All I can do is stare with my breath caught in my throat, burning, aching. I want to scream again—it felt so good to scream.

“Fuck!” Nate yells. He yanks the blankets off and pushes his ear against Evan’s still chest. “I—I can’t— ” He shakes Evan’s body before moving his head to Evan’s lips. “I can’t hear anything. He’s not fucking breathing.”

He’s not breathing, and it’s my fault. I should have figured out how to get rid of Letum. I should have turned down his advances. I shouldn’t have engaged with him in that stupid dream. I should have left Evan earlier, so he’d still be alive. I should have. I should have. I should have!

“Fuck.” Nate pushes off the bed and paces, running his hands through his bronze locks and down his face. “Fuck. Fucking hell. How—How did this—What—” Nate can’t even finish his sentence. He’s acting and feeling enough for the both of us.

I’m waiting for my eyes to start stinging or to start gasping for breath. But all I can do is stare. Slowly, the black tendrils in my mind reach for me, pulling me back into the spot where there is no hurt, there is no pain, there is just darkness. In here, I can’t hear Nate yelling at me and cursing or screaming that we need to call an ambulance. I don’t even see him start CPR.

Evan was an asshole, but he didn’t deserve to die. Before the accident, he was perfect, the man of my dreams. Evan was the type of man you’d read about in books, where you’d go home to find the shirt you’ve been eying up in a bag on the bed. He used to say all of the right things, shower me with affection, he’d try to spend every waking moment touching me. Not sexually, just to remind each other that we are there for one another.

I had planned our wedding: A three-tiered buttercream cake with violet orchid designs. I would have a simple lace dress with shoestring straps and a short train. We would play Abba while I walked down the aisle, because Dancing Queen was playing at the bar the first time we met.

I’ll never have the wedding I wanted. Not because Evan’s dead now, but because I am. The only difference between the two of us is that I’m still breathing. The only thing that I have to look forward to in my day are letters from my stalker and the flowers he leaves me.

The accident ruined everything. I lost my only remaining family, the job of my dreams and my boyfriend, all in one night.

I told Evan that the Faceless Man was real, and he didn’t believe me. He called me crazy and it cost him his life. I cost him his life. Will anyone else blame me for his death? Will Letum declare to the heavens that Evan’s death was done in my name?

The worst part is, despite the accusations running through my head, I don’t truly feel guilty. I only know that I should be. I didn’t ask Letum to kill Evan. I can’t be at fault for a trigger being pulled when I didn’t even know there was a gun. The signs were there—the obsession, the cryptic messages. He never displayed any violence, his touch was tender and soft. Except in that dream, but that was a different situation.

The thing I feel most guilty about is the sense of relief that comes with Evan’s death. It hurts that he’s dead, but death feels familiar to me. Death itself is sure. It’s stable and consistent. You can rely on it happening.

I cried for help. Over and over I begged for help. I begged Evan for support, and he gave me nothing. But it turns out, the only person that helped me was the person I thought I needed saving from. Except, now I realize I needed saving from myself.

Three ominous knocks pull me from the recesses of my mind and it’s like coming up for air after being in the water too long. I’ve heard it before. The knocks. The last two times I was with Evan, we both heard it.

When the fog from my mind clears, Letum is standing in front of me in his pitch-black coat and the drawn hood. Nate is nowhere in sight. His voice sounds from somewhere in the background, stuttering into a phone.

Letum reaches out to me, running his fingers over the curve of my face. Warmth spreads from every spot he touches. The touch is possessive, yet tender. Like he wants to take me down to hell with him, but wants to hold my hand while doing it.

“My beautiful storm,” he whispers, continuously caressing my soft skin. The way he says it isn’t pitiful or possessive, rather it’s a mirror of what I feel: Relief.