We climb out in the dark. From here, we could go any direction. Down to the water’s edge by Fort Point or through the winding streets of the Presidio. But we don’t do that. We walk back the way we came, toward the bridge. There’s a narrow sidewalk that runs alongside the northbound lane, a blood-red railing to hold you in, no more than waist-high.

I inspect the traffic whizzing by, the Cadillacs and the Chevy Camaros and the Pontiac Bonnevilles. How much damage could an ordinary sedan do to his body? What about a semi, all those wheels, all that weight? It would be so quick, a hand on his shoulder, a firm shove, and there he’d be, splayed out on the white lines, his bones meeting asphalt and Goodyear tread. I bet he’s thinking the same thing about me. A hundred different ways the grill of a truck could slice up my body like prosciutto.

Then I shake my head and wish it hadn’t turned out like this.

“Why don’t you do the decent thing and hate me?”

He tilts his head, studying me. “But why would I do that?”

“Because I murdered you, and I’m going to do it again.”

“That’s just it, though,” he says, huddling closer to me. “Van Helsing could barely contain me for a day. You did it for seventy years.”

“You didn’t give me much choice.”

We’re together now, shoulder to shoulder, his scent so achingly familiar. Like earth and cobwebs and red roses plucked fresh in the spring. I like it more than I should. I like everything about him. That’s how I got into this mess in the first place. I was a girl who liked a boy. There was nothing wrong with that, of course, but when a woman gets murdered, we never talk about why it wasn’t her fault. We only talk about why it was.

Dracula stops in the middle of the bridge, his eyes on the sky, the key to the Buick glinting in his front pocket. “There’s no reason to go back, Lucy. Bee and Jane have each other now.” He pauses, already chewing over his next words. “You’re like an annoying little sister. Always in their way.”

My heart twists in my chest, and I know he’s right, but I won’t answer him, I won’t give him the satisfaction. That just means he keeps prodding, keeps scrutinizing me, his gaze sharp as an ice pick.

“I suppose you could always run off with that tin soldier of yours.”

“Leave him out of this,” I say.