They won’t be long, I tell myself. Everything is fine. The room is safe. I’m safe. I did it properly before. The front door is shut. Everything is fine. Everything warped will snap back to normal.
Why is he here? Does he have an addiction that he wants help with? Is he depressed?
Every so often, a small sound makes me jump, even though it seems to come from a long way away. A cupboard door banging? Maybe. I can hear a vague murmur, too far away to make out words. I strain to listen, but all I hear is the pulse roaring in my ears, my heartbeat banging against my ribs, air whistling through my nostrils.
I wish Scarlett was here, but she’s in London, celebrating Christmas and the New Year with her family. She stuffs my head with trashy stories and problem pages from bitchy fashion mags. She’d be useful right now. She’d make me laugh with her anecdotes, she’d fill my head with her talk-show wisdom, and make me forget.
The other girls, Lilac and Annabeth, don’t like Scarlett much. I’m not sure if Daisy feels the same. She’s quiet, looks up to Lilac as thinspiration. Daisy’s nine-year-old son stays here with us when she’s signed in.
But Scarlett is the best friend I’ve ever had. The estate has been deathly quiet without her. A haunted house. And now my ghost has returned to haunt me.
Kill me all over again.
I check my watch. Nearly a quarter to nine. What are they doing up there? I make the mistake of glancing at the bedroom window, and then I have to check it. And that triggers my OCD, so I have to start again at the door.
I’m on my second round, standing on the lid of the toilet, feeling my way with my fingertips around the edge of the frosted window, when I hear the door shutting upstairs and the sound of footsteps on the stairs outside.
‘ . . . Plenty of space in the courtyard. And Devil’s Thirst, the lake you saw, is in walking distance.’
‘Yeah, good. Just bought a new Aston Martin.’
I finish off the check, and then do the room door. Not too bad. I wait for it, the whispers, the ones that tell me to go round and start again, but it’s okay. I’ve done it right, and only two times.
The estate is silent. I shoulder my seahorse bag, then leave my room and go down the creaky stairs.
I stop midway.
My foot covered in a white ballet shoe hovers over the step below and my hand is glued to the banister. I look like a doll stretched into a weird position.
Shepherd is standing in the large gunmetal-grey foyer. His huge body blocks the communal door. Blocks the light.
‘Hey Amylocks.’
Hey Amylocks? After everything he did to me, after all these years of being a ghost, and all he has to say is Hey Amylocks?
My eyes narrow suspiciously as I take in the man I haven’t seen for years. At least, an outside observer would view it as suspicion, but Shepherd might know. Might. If he can even remember.
I inhale a shallow breath. I hate him and his plump bottom lip. I hate his stubble and his cheekbones that could cut a girl’s heart. Most of all, I hate that he smells absolutely incredible. Beads of him evaporate into the air and I’m in a cloud of Shepherd. I quash the little skip in my heartbeat.
He was pretty when we were teenagers, but now he’s something else. Something darkly beautiful.
‘Wh-What . . . What are you doing here?’ I say. ‘Please don’t tell me you’re planning to stay here as a patient?’
I don’t look at him directly. He’s like the sun. He could turn me blind, him and those eyes of darkness.
‘I’m not a patient.’
The relief is small, but instant. ‘Just a bad coincidence then,’ I say. I want this moment to be over with, so I can die later.
‘No, you’ve got it wrong. I’m not a patient, Amy. I’m the new owner. I’m buying the whole estate.’
My mind swirls and I feel like I’m going to faint.
Why would he want to buy this place? The building is an old dark-stoned Victorian house. Bleak. Haunting. Imposing. Just like him. The brick, which would’ve once been a bright shade of coral red, is now gothic black.
It’s dusty, creaky, and too large to heat properly. There are so many empty, haunted rooms, unlived in. I’ve always wondered how the owner can keep the place going with only five of us paying for therapy.
Swan Lake is on the edge of Greystone town, a vacant place. It’s utilitarian and grey. Cold and harshly lit. Why would he want to buy a private estate for the mentally broken?
‘They can’t sell this place,’ I say.
‘From the looks of things, the owner didn’t do a good job of taking care of this building. He’s selling it to the highest-paying property developer. Guy wants rid of it — fast.’ He smirks. ‘I wouldn’t buy it.’
‘So why are you then?’
‘I’ve got my reasons for buying Swan Lake.’
‘Do you even have a clue about what this place is? You’re not a shrink.’
‘What would you know about what I am? I like this place. Feels like home already.’
Despite the panic I manage to say, ‘You’re moving in?’
‘Yeah, I am.’
‘No . . . No you can’t do this.’
‘I can do what I want, Amy. You think you can stop me?’
Arrogant. Egotistical . . . gorgeous.
He makes me feel like I’m standing on quicksand.
‘Didn’t think so. Got important business I need to take care of now, but we’ll catch up later. Amylocks.’
He walks outside, closes the
