Love is Hell. Melissa Marr

eyes narrow, spotting the knife in my hand. “What are you doing?”

      “I dropped my necklace,” I say, finally.

      She nods, but I can tell she doesn’t quite believe me. Still, she leaves me alone, commenting on the chill in the room and on how she needs to check the thermostat downstairs.

      It takes some maneuvering, but I’m able to work the necklace out from the rungs using the butter knife.

      It’s a sterling-silver chain with a heart-shaped pendant. I glide my fingers down the length, noticing how the clasp is still fastened but the links have been broken. The initials JAS are engraved across the pendant’s surface in pretty cursive writing.

      My heart speeds up, conjuring up all those online articles. Mrs. Slather’s first name is Jocelyn.

      This must belong to her.

       Eight

      SATURDAY NIGHT, CRAIG AND Raina take me on a tour of the town, which consists of driving by the ice cream/pizza place on Main Street, the barbershop where Craig gets his hair cut, and a corner grocery that sells everything from garden rakes to garden vegetables. Our last stop is a coffee shop, which, according to Raina, is the least lamest place in town.

      Ever-exhausted, I order a double espresso with an extra shot.

      “Are you kidding?” Raina squawks. “The sign on the door says Stanley’s, not Starbucks. It’s one coffee bean fits all here.”

      We each end up with a cup of regular, and then Raina leads us to a booth in the corner.

      “So, what’s up with the need for speed?” she asks.

      “Excuse me?”

      “A double espresso with an extra shot?” She raises her stud-pierced eyebrow in curiosity. “I thought the problem was that you couldn’t sleep. With rocket fuel like that, I’d be doing jumping jacks around my bedroom all night.”

      “Now there’s a sobering sight,” Craig says.

      I take a sip of my less-than-palatable cup of java, knowing full well that I do want to sleep, but a part of me is still afraid of what I’ll see, of what it’ll mean. And, yet, ever since my dream on the bus the other day, since I’ve been doing all this research and learning about Travis, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll see him again.

      If he’ll clasp my hand.

      And make my heart race.

      “Is it getting easier, at least?” Craig asks. “To sleep in the new place, I mean.”

      I shrug, thinking about the necklace I found. I’ve hidden it inside an old tennis sneaker at the back of my closet, right beside my roller skates—the ones I didn’t let Emma borrow.

      Even though they’re at least three sizes too small now, I’ve been keeping the skates ever since that day, unable to let go of what happened.

      “I was talking to my folks about your house,” Craig continues. “Talk about townies .nbsp;.nbsp; my parents have both lived here since birth. But the whole murder story .nbsp;.nbsp; it’s actually a lot sadder than I thought.”

      “Sadder than a bloody bathtub?” Raina asks.

      Craig nods. “Turns out Travis was actually trying to spare his mother a serious beating that day. Apparently, he came home and saw his mom’s boyfriend going at her with his fist. Travis tried to distract the guy by using himself as beating bait. When his mother went to call 911, she couldn’t get the words out. She was too scared of what the boyfriend would do to her, I guess. She ended up hiding away in the downstairs closet because she couldn’t stand hearing the crap getting kicked out of her son.”

      “Sounds like a nice lady,” Raina says.

      Craig shrugs. “I guess she pretty much lost it after that. She blamed herself. At least that’s what people say.”

      “Where is she now?” I ask.

      “She’s a townie, too,” he says. “She lives in one of the condos behind the lake. At least that’s what my parents tell me.”

      “Better watch out.” Raina smirks. “You’re starting to sound like a townie yourself.”

      “Better to sound like one than to look like one,” he says, gesturing to her sweatshirt. There’s a giant shark, the school’s mascot, swimming above the words “Addison High Bites.”

      “I dream about him,” I blurt out, putting an end to their banter.

      “You dream about who?” Raina asks.

      “Travis Slather.”

      “Um, what are you talking about?” Craig asks.

      I take a giant breath and tell them everything: how it started with just his voice; how I’d wake up with unexplained bruises; and then how he appeared to me recently, asking for my help.

      “I told you that place was crazy-haunted,” Raina says.

      “But maybe you’re dreaming about him because of everything you’ve heard,” Craig says. “I mean, I’d probably be having nightmares, too.”

      “No way,” I say. “I started dreaming about him before I even knew about the murder, before I knew the house was supposedly haunted.”

      “So, how are you supposed to help him?” he asks.

      “I don’t know.” I shake my head.

      “Well, is he hot at least?” Raina sighs. “Because I heard the boy was hot.”

      “Here we go.” Craig rolls his eyes.

      But I can’t help smiling at her remark. I try my best to stop it, but the grin inches up my face and warms my cheeks.

      Because the boy is hot.

      Because a part of me can’t wait to see him again.

       Nine

      IN MY ROOM, I change into my pajamas—an oversized Bruins T-shirt coupled with a pair of flannel shorts—and guzzle down a full glass of sleep-inducing warm milk. Before I get into bed, I open my window, allowing the cool, fresh breeze to filter into the room.

      The sky looks amazing tonight with its swollen moon and sprinkling of stars. I edge the curtains open wider, trying my best to relax my mind by thinking about simple things, like tomorrow’s hockey game and cinnamon toast for breakfast, but my pulse races and my head feels all dizzy.

      Because all I can think about is Travis.

      I take a deep breath and then exhale for five full seconds, trying to thwack myself out of it, but when I turn around, he’s sitting there on the corner of my bed.

      “Hello, Brenda,” Travis says. “You’ve been waiting for me, haven’t you?”

      I nod. My face flashes hot.

      “Good, because I’ve been waiting for you, too.” He stands and extends his hand to me.

      I take it and we both just sort of stand there, staring at each other. “I want to help you,” I say, noting the warmth of his palm.

      “Are you sure?”

      I nod again and glance up at his forehead where the gash used to be.

      “It’s still there,” he says, rubbing the spot. “But it isn’t exactly pretty, so I’ve sort of hidden it away—one of the perks of being a ghost.” He smiles,