I pull one of my legs out from under the down comforter and readjust the pillow under my head. The sun sets through my taped-up window. I grab the water on my bedside table and take another Advil just in case my head decides to pound again. On the whole, though, my head is not my problem. My overwhelming sense of embarrassment is.
Vivian pops her head inside my bedroom door. “Jaxon and his mother dropped by. I told them you were resting.” I never asked her if she yelled at Mrs. Meriwether about those pastries, but I’m not sure I want to know.
“Oh, okay.” I attempt a smile. “You know, Mrs. Meriwether is actually a nice person. You might like her.”
Vivian wrinkles her nose. “I’m going out to pick up some food. What would you like?”
“Grilled cheese and tomato soup.”
She nods. “I’ll be back soon.”
I close my eyes as she leaves. Between this and that weird locked door in Salem Library, it’s like I went out of my way to make Lizzie look powerful. I’m sure the rumors are flying by now.
A smooth, cold hand covers my mouth and pushes down on my lips. My eyes snap open. The guy with the dark hair sits on my bed, his black waves falling onto his cheeks as he leans over me. His fingers increase their pressure as I struggle. I scream, but only a muffled moan escapes his fingers.
“Stop,” he says flatly, as though nothing out of the ordinary is happening.
I pull at his hand, but he’s too strong. He looks at me with such intensity that goose bumps sprint along my skin.
“I am not going to hurt you.”
That’s what every psycho says right before he eats you! I swipe at him with my right hand, but he catches it midair. I reach toward his face with my left hand. He blocks with his elbow. I’m trapped!
“I said I am not going to hurt you.” He has a slight British accent, and the formality of it seems out of place. “I will release your mouth if you do not scream. But if you continue to fight, I will continue to hold you down.”
I lock eyes with him and stop pushing. Anything is better than being held down. I nod. Please let Vivian still be here. She would definitely kick the crap out of this guy for me. She once tripped a businessman crossing the street just for looking at me inappropriately. The dark-haired guy assesses me for a few seconds and then pulls his hand off my mouth.
I push myself up and back so fast that I slam into my headboard. Even so, there is only one foot of space between us. I absolutely do regret saying those things to Lizzie. I had no idea she would go so far as to send this guy to my house. I consider screaming, but from this close distance, he could do some real damage before anyone would hear. I look at my door.
“It is locked,” he says.
I turn to the window. The sun hangs low in the sky, and there isn’t much light left.
He follows my gaze. “She is gone.”
My heart sinks. I didn’t hear her engine start.
He examines the bandage on my forehead. “You are injured.”
“Yes.” The word sticks in my mouth.
He frowns.
“What do you want?” My voice has become a whisper, which only makes me angry. I should be punching him and fighting instead of whispering questions at him.
“I want you to know that I regret what happened today.”
Wait, what? I search his face for some hidden meaning and find none.
“But you had no right to open those letters.” There’s a calmness about him that’s unnerving.
I can’t be hearing this correctly. “The letters in my armoire?”
“It is rude to read someone else’s private correspondence.”
“Rude?” My brain fights through the fog of fear. “Rude!” I say a little louder. “You broke into my room. You have no right to talk about rude.” I shut my mouth tightly, aware of his proximity and my hair-trigger temper. His dark gray eyes don’t react.
“I can see your manners do not improve upon closer inspection.”
“Are you insulting me?”
“And you are not very clever.”
It takes everything in my power not to push him off my bed. “Listen, creep, I do not have to defend myself to you. You have to defend yourself to me! Now you better explain why you broke in.”
“I have already explained.”
“If you wanted those letters, why didn’t you knock on the door and ask for them?”
“Because you were reading them.”
“Tough! They were in my room.” I fail to match his calm. “And what? You followed me, watched me through windows?”
“I have been watching you since you arrived in Salem.”
This is worse than I thought. He’s crazy. I look at the door again and bite my lip.
“I told you it was locked.”
“Just tell me what you want and go away.”
He sighs. “I used to live in this house. And I do not trust you.”
His explanation doesn’t make me feel better. “So you stalked me? You’re a lunatic!” Is this where Lizzie’s getting her information?
His gray eyes narrow. “Then you should leave Salem before I do something crazy.”
For a second I wonder if I’ve pushed him too far. “Get out of my room.”
“No.”
“Then I hope you like jail,” I say with force. He almost laughs. I almost punch him. “That book in my library—that was you, wasn’t it?”
He nods.
“Why? Because I’m a Mather?”
“That is one piece of it, yes.”
“What’s the rest?”
“You seem to enjoy repetition in conversation. Once again, I did not want you reading those letters.”
He’s the most infuriating person I’ve ever talked to. “So they’re yours?”
“More than yours.”
“Those letters are really old. They can’t be yours.” I’m positive they belong to the Abigail in the painting downstairs.
He pauses. “They belonged to my sister.” There is a slight waver in his voice.
“Then, your sister shouldn’t have left them here!”
“She is dead.” He sounds so sad that for a moment, I not only feel bad about yelling at him, I want to reach out and comfort him.
I shake it off. “Well, they were in my armoire.”
“They do not belong to you. And neither does the armoire, for that matter,” he says with finality.
“This is my grandmother’s house. Everything in it belongs to my family.”
“Not necessarily.”
Is there some situation where my grandmother could have his sister’s furniture? “Why would anyone leave their furniture in someone else’s house?”
“Because they could not help it.”
“Why wouldn’t someone be able to help it?”
“Death is like that.”
I examine his face, with its proud expression. “Did your sister know my grandmother?”
“I should not think so.”
“When was she here?”
“For the last time, on the day she died in 1692.” There is no hint of sarcasm in his delivery.
I take a hard look at him. He wears all black like before, black dress pants, black dress shoes, and a thin black cashmere sweater. The clothes match his formal accent. His hair hangs in waves around his face, and he smells of freshly washed linen. I shake my head, annoyed at myself for even considering believing that he’s telling the truth.
“Seriously, what is this? Either you’re crazy or you’re messing with me. And besides, you touched me. You held my mouth down. You can’t be a ghost. This must be Lizzie’s idea of a sick joke.”
“I can see it was a mistake to come here.” He stands and walks toward my door.
I swing my legs out of bed and land on the soft white rug. “Don’t think…” Black spots form in my vision. I shouldn’t have gotten up so fast. I stumble.
“Samantha?”
I reach out for my bedpost, but he grabs my arm and steadies me. “Lie back down. You are ill.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” I scowl at him and his accent as he helps lower me into the bed. “I’m calling the police.”
“I would not suggest it.” He walks to my door but does not reach for the lock or the doorknob. He just keeps going and disappears right through the wood.