“Nothing,” he says quickly. “I’m just… I need a Q-tip. I can’t find them.”
I grab my phone and step into the bathroom, lighting the floor with the flashlight. The Q-tips are everywhere.
“God, I can’t find the Q-tips.”
“They’re right there,” I say, pointing.
He starts yanking drawers open again, slamming them shut.
“No. I need them. Fuck! I just need them, okay?”
“Jensen…” My voice shakes, and my pulse picks up. “You’re scaring me.”
He doesn’t hear me.
“Will you please just go back to bed?” I whisper. “Please.” I close my eyes. “Please?”
He freezes. Then turns like nothing happened. “Fine.” He walks back to the bed and lies down.
I settle in next to him—sort of. My body’s tense, and my heart is pounding.
Two minutes later he’s up again. “I need a damn Q-tip!”
He’s back in the bathroom. Drawers open. Cupboards slam. Again and again.
“They’re right there!” I call out.
“Where?” he snaps.
“On the floor. You spilled them.”
“No. That’s not what I need.”
More cupboards. More frantic searching.
He’s not looking for Q-tips anymore?
I don’t know what he’s doing. But I do know that in all our years together—even when he’s been high—I’ve never been scared of Jensen.
Until now.
And I’m fucking terrified.
My brain spins with headlines—stories of wives killed by their husbands, only to find out later they were high. A psychotic break. A relapse gone from bad to worse.
I know these are crazy thoughts. Jensen loves me. He’d never hurt me. But this stranger pacing through our bathroom, whispering and slamming drawers, and talking to ghosts?
That’s not Jensen.
This man could literally kill me, and not remember a second of it.
A fear so deep wraps around my throat, cutting off air. I’m on my feet before I even register moving. I flick the light switch on.
“Jensen, stop!”
He turns to face me. His eyes are sunken, the skin around them dark and hollow. And that shadow—the one that scared the hell out of me once before—it’s back. It’s here.
An evil presence you can actually see.
