"You're faking sleep again."
He wanted to believe her. He always wanted to believe her. the coffin of andy and leyley
That night, they didn't sleep apart. They never did anymore. She pressed her back against his chest, and he wrapped an arm around her waist, and they lay in the dark listening to the building settle—or maybe it was the demon, shifting its weight in the ducts, patient as a spider. "You're faking sleep again
"You're staring again," Leyley mumbled, not opening her eyes. They never did anymore
Andy didn't move. "We can't stay here."
She smiled, slow and sharp. "Prove it."
The door to the apartment was still chained. The landlord's body had been gone for three days—they'd shoved it down the garbage chute in pieces, working in silent tandem like a two-headed animal. No one had come looking. No one ever did.