"It really takes a lot -especially in our line of work- for me to feel alive, but you do that for me, Vivienne."
When psychically gifted Vivienne Salvatore is forced to flee to London from her home up north, she stumbles upon a "prestigious" agency...
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE ~ hold my hand ~ anthony lockwood
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"What was she even doing out there?" George asks.
"I'm right here, y'know?" Vivienne mumbles so quietly that I barely hear it myself.
"She was ghost-locked, you idiot!" Lucy shouts. "Are you too thick to see that?"
"Well, what was she even doing close enough to be ghost-locked?" George continues. "There's no reason for her to be going anywhere near the front door this time at night."
Vivienne scoffs. I peek down at her —curled up at my side, wrapped in every blanket and towel I could find— and see her roll her eyes.
"The lights went out, the door swung open," Lucy groans. "She just told us this!"
"Ah, yes," George mocks. "The electricity going out somehow triggered the door to open. Classic."
"I wasn't saying that they were connected, you dimwit," Vivienne snarls, though her shaking voice makes it pack much less of a punch than usual. "It's called an order of events."
"Whatever," George rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. "So the door just burst open? Did anyone else actually hear that?"
"Yes," Lucy and I say in unison.
George scoffs.
"Delusional," George says. "The lot of you."
"Respectfully, mate," I say, "you could sleep through a bloody hurricane."
"Don't change the subject," George squints, pointing across at me. "Vivienne is getting way too close to this case, and you two don't seem to realise how dangerous that can be. Not just for her, but all of us. Don't you remember Robin?"
Vivienne drops her head into her knees, sighing to myself.
"She wasn't even wearing her gloves," George laughs humourlessly. "She always wears her gloves. Only, now, she took them off to communicate with the spirit. Isn't that right?"
George glares across at her with a smirk as if he'd cracked some great mystery. Vivienne glares up at him through her eyelids, then comically looks down at her towel and frozen, wet hair.
"Take a fucking guess," she spits. "I recognise that you're unfamiliar with the subject, but people tend to take gloves off prior to a shower."
"Incredible excuse," George mocks. "This is Annabel Ward all over again! First, you were empathising with the murderous bunny boiler, and now you're out in the snow making friends with the wreth in a grand game of 'who can get frostbite first'!"
