The Ghost and the Goth

7Alona

I sat up, tossing my hair back from my face in a single movement, and found Killian beneath me. In the tangle — all his stupid fault, by the way — I’d ended up sprawled across his chest, which was actually broader than it looked. Navy blue is a slimming color, I guess.

His hands, also bigger than I’d thought, rested lightly on my legs, and I felt the heat of his skin and the soft fabric of his T-shirt rubbing against the inside of my knees when he breathed.

Three days isn’t that long to go without human contact, unless everyone you touch turns your insides into a cold, shaky mess. Then it feels like forever … and touching Will Killian actually felt pretty good.

He stared up at me, and I noticed that his creepy pale blue eyes had a darker ring of blue around them, like the edge of some mountain lake that’s not quite frozen yet. He licked his lips nervously, revealing white and even teeth that I’d never really seen before because — hello? — he wasn’t much into the smiling thing. Yeah, I have a thing for good teeth, so what? It’s not like a foot fetish or something nasty like that. Just because I happen to like the work of a good orthodontist doesn’t mean I have to like the person who has the teeth or anything—

“Um, Alona?” he asked tentatively.

I snapped back into myself and the moment. What was I doing? This was Will Killian, for God’s sake. I slapped at his shoulders. “Get off me.”

He yelped. “You’re on me!”

“You planned this.” I tried to push myself off him, but his body pinned my left foot to the bed beneath us.

“Oh, yeah, I set it all up, starting with you throwing books at me—”

I stopped struggling for a second to glare at him. “I wouldn’t have thrown books at you if you hadn’t—”

His whole body suddenly tensed under mine. “Do you hear that?” His eyes going wide, he sat up. His movement freed my foot but sent the rest of me sliding toward the floor. He caught my arms just below the shoulders and pulled me upright, so now I really was sitting in his lap.

“Killian,” I warned.

“Shut up. I’m trying to listen.”

The urgency in his voice seemed genuine, so I clamped my mouth shut. If that black shadowy thing was back …

But all I heard was a car outside. It sounded like it might be turning into a driveway nearby. Nothing supernatural about that, but Killian sure seemed freaked by it.

He lifted me off his lap and set me to one side — fine, so he was stronger than he looked — before pulling himself the rest of the way onto the bed and standing on it to peer out the window, high in the wall behind his headboard. He craned his head hard to the left, looking toward the driveway. “Shit.” He lowered himself down carefully, first to the bed and then the floor.

“What’s going on?” I demanded. “My ten minutes aren’t up yet.” He wasn’t seriously going to walk away from me, was he? “I only got to ask one question, which you didn’t even really answer. You were just guessing.”

He ignored me, bending over to scoop up the clothes I’d tossed at him and jam them back into his bag.

I stood up on his bed, wobbling a little, and made my way to the window to see for myself. A car, total blah-brown sedan of some type, pulled to a stop in Killian’s driveway. As I watched, the two front doors popped open. A tiny woman with Killan’s same dark hair climbed out on the passenger side. Her eyes were visibly red, even from this distance, and she was twisting something white, a handkerchief or a wad of Kleenex maybe, in her little hands. A short, thick man with a full beard and one of those jackets with the leather patches on the arms came around from the driver’s side to put his arm around her.

“Your mom and your stepdad,” I guessed. “What’s the big deal?” Other than his stepdad’s excruciatingly bad fashion choices. He was wearing those old man dress shoes with the thick rubber soles. I didn’t know anyone actually wore those — I thought they were just the shoe equivalent of the bogeyman. Ugly, horrendous, reported in legend but never clearly seen in real life.

“My mom never remarried.” He zipped his bag shut and threw it over his shoulder.

“Okay, so …” I hopped down off the bed and followed him as he left the room.

“You have to go. Now.” Killian ignored me. He moved down the hall, past the kitchen to a door that I’d missed seeing the first time. Probably the front door to the house.

“We had a deal!”

He stopped so abruptly I almost ran into his back.

He turned to face me, bright spots of color in his otherwise pale face. He was sure worked up about something. “That guy out there?” He jabbed a finger toward the driveway. “That’s Dr. Miller, my psychiatrist. He wants to lock me up for seeing things that aren’t there. Get it?”

Not exactly. “But I am here.”

“Not to him, and you’d have a hell of a time proving it to anyone but me. So, if you want the rest of your ten minutes, you have to shut up and stay out of the way until I can get out of here.” Killian lined himself up next to the door. With great care, he pulled the dead bolt back, making a face when it made a loud grinding noise against the housing. Evidently, they didn’t use this door very much.

The raw panic in his voice took away some of the insult of his words, but it also gave me an idea. I sidled closer. “Promise me you’ll help me.”

“What?” He looked up at me, his hand frozen in a claw on the doorknob. Behind us, through the kitchen, I could hear the sound of voices. They were talking outside on the driveway. Clearly, Killian was counting on them coming through the back door while he went out the front. It could work, but the right timing would be crucial.

“If I can’t go back to what I was”—and trust me, after what I’d seen in the coroner’s office, nobody was getting back in that body—“then I want to move on. Angels, harps, clouds, tossing down lightning bolts on Misty’s head, Krispy Kremes three times a day without getting fat — I want it all. Staying around here is just …depressing.” I tilted my head to one side and lowered my eyelashes to give him the look that once made Chris drive all the way to Peoria to buy me a peppermint mocha latte when the ONE Starbucks in town ran out of the peppermint syrup. “I’ll stay quiet and out of your way. Just make the white light come for me.”

He shook his head with a tight smile. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” I demanded.

“It’s not up to me.”

I rested my hands on my hips. “Well, who is it up to?”

He didn’t answer, just cocked his head to the side with a frown, listening to something, and held his hand up for me to be quiet.

Oh, yeah, right.

“I’m serious, Killian,” I continued. “I can’t stay here, not like this. I need help. You’re not my first choice, of course, but I need—”

He let his breath out in a frustrated hiss. “All right, all right. I’ll help you,” he said in a harsh whisper. “Just shut up already. Please.”

It was the “please” that got me. He sounded angry, but scared, too. It wasn’t any fun to mess with him when he was like that — no matter what you may have heard, I’m not into torturing people. Besides, I’d gotten what I wanted.

So, I shut up … for now.

Through the kitchen, I heard the rapid tap-tap of footsteps and the jingle of keys. Someone was coming up the sidewalk to the back door.

Killian waited a second longer than I would have — but hey, it was his great escape — and then he twisted the doorknob and pulled the door open just as his mother stuck her key in the back door lock.

It would have been perfect. They would have had no idea of how long he was gone, probably wouldn’t even have bothered to search outside the house.

Except … when Killian pulled open that front door, Dr. Miller stood behind it, his hand up and poised to knock. I couldn’t have said which one of them was more shocked.

Boogeyman rubber shoes, supernatural in their silence, strike again.

They got him back to his room and in bed, quick as a flash. It only took me a couple seconds in their company to see that while Killian’s shrink might have been the one with the power to send him away, it was his mother who ran the show. Not by pleading or whining, not like my mother. She was broken, by the loss of her husband and the pending loss of her son, and clearly struggling to keep it together. A request from her left Killian scrambling to obey, his face naked with guilt. He’d dropped his bag at the door and followed her without question. If she’d handed him a straitjacket, he’d have buckled himself in with a smile.

Fabulous. This was going to go well. I know all the talk-show hosts blab on and on about having involved and caring parents, but I still think there’s something to be said for uninvolved and apathetic parents. It’s a lot easier.

I parked myself on Killian’s desk chair again to watch the show. I had a vested interest here.

“Where were you headed, Will?” Dr. Miller paced at the foot of the bed while Killian’s mother hovered near the door, probably not wanting to crowd the great doctor. Whatever. I hated therapists. Useless lot, all of them. Always asking you to talk about your feelings. What good does that do anyone? Just makes you think and feel more about the things you can’t change.

“Just somewhere to think.”

“Do you want to talk about what happened at school today?” Miller took his hands from his pockets to cross one arm over his waist and rest the elbow of his other arm on it. Seconds later, his chin settled into the cup of his hand. The guy stepped away from his desk for a few hours and he couldn’t support his own head. A chin-rubber. Great. I rolled my eyes.

Killian shrugged, a little too defensively. “Nothing to talk about.”

Miller frowned. “Principal Brewster wanted to expel you. I’d say that’s something.”

“You talked to him?” he asked.

The doctor paused for the first time, hesitation flashed across his face. “I was with your mother at the diner when she got the call,” he said finally.

Killian flashed a look at his mother.

Oh … something going on between his mom and the shrink? How revolting.

“William, I’m worried about you.” His mother took a step inside the room, her thin, pale hands wringing one another. “Things have been getting worse and—”

“Mom, I’m fine.” Killian threaded his hands through his hair. I saw the wince when he touched the knot on the side of his head, but he hid it pretty well. “Brewster was just being a jackass again. He took Marcie and—”

“That’s the only reason you’re not expelled. That, and your mother’s efforts with Principal Brewster on your behalf.” Miller didn’t sound so happy about that.

Killian stiffened, no doubt imagining the pleading conversation that had gone on. Brewster was a hard-ass, that was for sure, but he enjoyed having power over the powerless. The smartest thing to do was just to respect him to his face and keep on his good side from the beginning. Clearly, Killian had blown that.

“It’s all right,” his mother said gently. “It wasn’t as bad as all that.” She gave him a weary smile.

I could see, though, that it wasn’t all right, at least not with Killian.

“We’ve talked about this, Will.” Miller blundered on in his calm I’m-the-therapist-so-I-know-best voice. Every word out of his mouth made me hate him more. He and Dr. Andrews must have gone to the same shrink school. “Your music is meant to aid you, but if you’re relying on it too much—”

“I’m not,” Killian protested. I could have told him it didn’t matter. Miller had already made up his mind.

The good doctor strolled closer. He lowered a hand to hitch his pants up, obviously intending to sit on the foot of the bed. Then he noticed the tilt of the bed, the left side three or four inches lower than the right. Oops. The bed had broken our fall, and we’d broken it.

Miller straightened up with a frown. “What happened here?”

“Nothing,” Killian said again.

“He’s not buying it,” I said. “Make something up.”

He gave the tiniest shake of his head.

“Julia, the boy’s bed is broken,” Miller pronounced.

“What?” His mother hurried closer, her tiny feet moving soundlessly on the carpeting. Clearly, Killian had gotten his size and height from his father. “What happened here, William?” She sounded aghast, staring down at the bed. If the awful couch in the living room was any indication, he was probably going to end up sleeping on his tilt-a-bed for years to come.

“Was it the spirits again?” Miller asked. “Did they attack you?”

He was good. You could almost miss the eagerness behind the thick layers of fake concern.

“No, no. Nothing like that.” He shook his head vigorously in response to Miller’s question.

“Then what?” Miller prompted.

Killian shifted uncomfortably in his bed. “It was a girl, okay?” He looked to his mother with pleading eyes.

“She attacked you?” Miller sounded astounded, and far too excited.

Killian only hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then he stretched his arms out again, tucking his hands behind his head with a cocky and lazy smile and looking for all the world like a guy who’d just gotten some. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“In your dreams,” I protested.

Miller’s face fell. “You mean an actual girl.”

“How many other kinds of girls are there, Doc?” Killian asked, still smiling. Oh, yeah, I was so going to hit him when the stupid doctor got out of here.

His mother frowned, confused. She stared at the bed, probably trying to remember if it’d been broken the last time she’d been up here. “When did this happen? I don’t like the idea of girls visiting your room—”

“Now, Julia, peer interaction is good. Let’s just try to keep it to the living room, okay, Will?” Miller reached down and patted Killian’s leg in what he thought, gag, would be a fatherly gesture. Then he paused dramatically, and I flinched in advance. Four years of therapy with Dr. Andrews, king of the chin-rubbers, had taught me what to expect next. Show some tiny little spark of happiness, something that might lead you away from your regular weekly appointments, and watch out.

“What do you think Lily would make of this?” Miller asked casually.

Killian’s smile disappeared like the doctor had reached over and ripped it off.

“Who’s Lily?” I asked.

“She would want me to be happy. We were friends once,” Killian said defensively.

“No.” I stood up, alarmed. “Calm down. You’re giving him an opening.” Hadn’t Killian been paying attention at all in therapy? Guys like Miller lived for this stuff.

“You’re right. That’s good. She wouldn’t want you to feel guilty. She would want you to live your life happily. It wasn’t your fault that you didn’t answer the phone.” Miller’s words and tone managed to convey opposite things. It was a shrink thing. No idea how they did it, but it was their secret weapon.

“She knew I didn’t always answer my phone. I can’t hear it if I’ve got my headphones on. She could have called Joonie, her parents, anyone for help.” The unspoken phrase that hung in the air was But she called me.

I watched Killian pull back into himself, tucking his arms beneath the covers. Great. At this rate, he was going to be too depressed to get out of bed, let alone help me. I didn’t know who this Lily chick was, but she was screwing everything up.

“Come on.” I moved to stand on the other side of Killian’s bed with an exasperated sigh.

His mother frowned. “Did you hear that?” she asked the doctor. “It sounded like footsteps.”

Killian shot me a warning look. Oops.

Dr. Miller gave her an overly patient look. “No, Julia.”

I took advantage of their distraction. “Miller is messing with your head,” I whispered to Killian, just in case, though it didn’t seem like anyone else could hear my voice, or they’d have been freaking out a long time ago. “He wants you to feel bad because when you feel bad, he gets paid.” I thought about it for a second, and then added, “Indirectly. But you get the idea. Snap out of it.”

“No, he’s right. Lily deserved better than what she got. She deserved better friends.”

I sucked in a breath, watching Dr. Miller’s face change as he recognized that Killian was not speaking to him. Was that greed that flashed so lightning quick?

“Smooth move, Killian,” I snapped. “He’s on to you.”

Killian stiffened, and without a glance in my direction, he pushed himself upright again in bed. “I’m sorry. I meant, you’re right, Dr. Miller.”

“William, what happened to that girl … that was not your fault.” His mother’s voice held only the faintest quaver.

Ooooh. Now in spite of everything, I was intrigued. “Why? What happened to her? Did you get her pregnant? Shove her down a flight of stairs? Help her evil twin abduct her and take her to Mexico for some kind of face-altering plastic surgery?” Hmmm. My addiction to daytime television — thank you, TiVo, gift to people with lives everywhere — might have been showing through a bit there.

Everyone, including Killian, ignored me. Surprise, surprise.

“I know,” Killian said, but the words rang hollow. He didn’t believe it, and he didn’t expect them to, either.

“You should get some rest,” Dr. Miller said in that same patronizingly gentle voice. “A night at Ivythorne—”

“No,” Killian and his mother said simultaneously.

Miller frowned. “Julia, I strongly encourage you to—”

Killian’s mother hesitated for a long moment.

“Mom,” Killian whispered, and I could see the fear in his face. She was all that stood between him and a life in lockdown.

Then she straightened her shoulders and met Dr. Miller’s gaze straight on, and I saw the woman she must have been before all this tragedy rained down on her life. In that second, I envied Killian a little. My mother would have been fighting me for the opportunity to go to Ivythorne, probably hoping it would finally gain her some attention from my dad.

“I’m sure you would agree that this is an isolated incident triggered by Principal Brewster bullying my son,” Killian’s mom said. “He’s a full-grown man who should know better than to torture a troubled boy.”

Miller shook his head. “I know that you would like to believe …”

“Max, I said no.”

“Good for you. Finally, somebody in this family with a little spine,” I said.

“All right.” Miller held his hands up, surrendering less than graciously. “It’s your decision, of course. I brought something else to help, just in case.” He reached into his suit coat pocket to produce a capped syringe. “It’s a mild sedative,” Miller went on. “Just so you can get a good night’s sleep tonight.”

“And halfway into the next century,” I protested. “Tell him no. You promised to help me.”

Killian ignored me and looked to his mother. “I don’t need it.”

Her mouth curved in distaste when she looked at the syringe, but she nodded at him. “You need the rest.”

“A sedative on top of a head injury?” I said. Any first-year watcher of House could tell you that was a mistake. “You people are crazy.” Granted, his mother didn’t know about the bump to his head, but still …

Killian offered up his arm reluctantly.

I lunged to yank his arm down, but the bed was in the way, and Miller, after years of doping up patients, moved faster than I did. The needle was in Killian’s arm before I could reach him.

I straightened up. “You’re such a coward. I take back all the nice things I thought about your chest.”

“You’re right,” Killian said. Then he looked up at me with a frown. “What?”

“I said, I want you to get some sleep,” Miller repeated, a little louder. He removed the syringe from Killian’s arm, recapped it, and dropped it in his pocket.

Killian’s glazed eyes found mine. “What nice things did you think?” he asked, already sounding muzzy.

“Oh, forget it,” I snapped.

Miller backed away, clucking his tongue. He nodded at Killian’s mom, and the two of them stepped out into the hallway. I followed, narrowly escaping before Mrs. Killian closed the door.

“Now, Julia, I don’t want to alarm you, but with your family history …”

She flinched.

He took her by the shoulders, enfolding her in a much-closer-than-professional embrace.

“A skeevy chin-rubber. Even better.” I wrinkled my nose, imagining the dusty smell of his tweed jacket and the lingering odor of pipe smoke.

“It may be nothing at all, but any sudden change in behavior is something we should keep an eye on.” He hesitated dramatically, setting her away from him but still keeping his surprisingly fat and stubby fingers on her shoulders. “With this latest incident, we should consider hospitalization again—”

“He’s doing better,” she said firmly, as if she could make it true by the force of her words.

Oh, God, I couldn’t even stand to watch this. The chin-rubber would have Killian in restraints within a week, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

“I know, I know, and you may be right, this could be an isolated event, but the last eight or nine months … I care, Julia. So I’m worried.” He hugged her again, his bulkier body nearly swallowing her smaller one whole.

“Skeevy bastards, that’s what they all are. Wake up, Julia,” I shouted right at her.

Disgusted, I pressed against the wall to scoot past them. Seriously, what was I supposed to do now? My one and only brilliant idea was currently gorked out of his brain and probably drooling on his pillow. And the information he’d given me? Not so much of a help.

I stomped soundlessly down the hall through the kitchen and into the living room to flop onto the plaid couch. As eye-piercingly ugly as it was, it felt pretty comfortable. Maybe that’s why they’d ignored all good sense and kept it around.

I needed a plan. Killian was out of the game, probably indefinitely. Bargain or no bargain, he wasn’t going to risk helping me, not with his freedom on the line. I almost couldn’t blame him. Unfortunately, the other dead people I’d met didn’t seem to have any clue about how to get out of here or else they’d have already done it, so I was on my own. No biggie — I’d been going it alone pretty much since I was thirteen. Though, paying the bills and keeping my mother sober enough to attend parent-teacher conferences once a semester didn’t quite equal determining the fate of my eternal soul, but whatever. I could do it. I always got what I wanted, one way or another, right? You just had to keep pushing until someone or something gives in. She who quits last, wins. I used to have a cheerleading camp T-shirt that said that.

First things first. I needed a pen and some paper. Things always look more manageable when they’re written out. I didn’t win homecoming queen three times without a little effort and planning, you know. Kicking my legs out, I let the momentum pull me off the couch and to my feet. In the process, one of my ankles passed through a beat-up brown leather briefcase leaning partially against the side of the sofa.

Miller’s. It had to be. It hadn’t been in here when I’d first come in … well, fallen in. The main zipper pocket strained around a massive number of manila file folders and black-and-white composition notebooks, all jammed in unevenly and at odd angles. The nylon carrying strap had broken off on both sides, and the remaining bits of strap had sprouted tufts of brown fuzz. The briefcase looked like some kind of strange creature caught in midchew.

I grinned. Perfect. No good chin-rubber would ever be caught without a notebook and a multitude of pens. With just a bit of concentration …

Bending down, I focused on the briefcase, imagining the worn leather under my fingertips and the cool metal of the zipper teeth.

The briefcase creature flopped on its side and promptly barfed up its contents. Pens, the thick expensive kind, rolled free, along with a multitude of files. I grabbed for the least battered-looking composition notebook … and my hand passed through it.

“Dammit.”

I tried again with the same results. This time, concentrating on making the notebook solid, I reached for it and my hand touched the corner of it, but only for a split second.

“Oh, forget it.” If it was this hard to pick up a notebook without Killian right next to me with his personal voodoo or whatever, how would I manage to hold a pen, let alone write? “This sucks,” I said aloud to no one in particular.

All right, so no pen and paper. I could still work strategy in my head. I sat down on the floor, crossing my legs. Killian said this was about unfinished business, issues I needed to resolve. Actually, he’d said I didn’t have any issues. Showed what he knew.

But how was anyone in my condition supposed to resolve anything? No one could see or hear me, other than Killian, and I didn’t seem to have gained any sort of afterlife-related super powers, like haunting people’s dreams or whatever. I did have the whole passing-through-solid-objects thing working for me, but that seemed decidedly less than useful at the moment.

I drew my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around my legs, blinking back the sudden and unwelcome sting of tears. It seemed kind of an unfair test. Sure, you can move on to heaven if you can do the impossible. Otherwise, you’re stuck here … forever. Alone.

No. I shook my head and straightened up. I wouldn’t let this beat me. There had to be a way to win. I always won.

Thinking, I chewed on the side of my thumbnail for a second before catching myself. Dead or not, ragged and spit-covered nails are unacceptable.

If Killian hadn’t been unconscious, I could have given him messages to deliver for me. I imagined him walking up to Chris and passing along the fact that his dead girlfriend was not so happy with him these days. Yeah, Killian would really need a stay in the hospital after that.

Staring down at Miller’s tipped-over bag and the mess of files, folders, and papers on the floor in front of me, I got an idea. Maybe I was thinking too literally. Communication from the great beyond, even if it was actually not-so-great and not-so-beyond, should be subtle.

Concentrating on the topmost file, I gave it a shove, and it slid down the mountain of paperwork before settling on the carpeting. From there, moving it across the carpet and into position with little jabs was actually pretty easy. I figured I’d need about five or six more files to make my point.

Fortunately, Miller was the long-winded type — no surprise there. They’d started down the hall toward the kitchen a while ago, but he’d stopped there to schmooze further, and I could hear bits and pieces of their conversation as I worked.

“… Encourage you to reconsider, Julia.”

“I appreciate that, Max, I do. But he’s my son and …”

“What if he’d been driving during this last attack? Have you considered that?”

Julia’s response was a low and seemingly angry murmur that I couldn’t hear. Good for her. Therapists aren’t the be-all and end-all of knowledge. Sometimes they’re just another way to lose money.

Out of breath from the effort required, I shoved the last composition book into place — I’d mixed it up a little between notebooks and folders for effect — and stepped back to admire my work. Very nice, but maybe a little more was needed? A little artistry perhaps?

Kneeling down again, I pushed at another folder. Only this one, much heavier and thicker with more paper than the others, spilled its contents instead of sliding across the floor. The uppermost document looked like a letter and the rest were … chapters? Neatly typed pages with dialogue and headings …

I leaned closer for a better look. The letter on top was from Page Seven Books and addressed to Dr. Miller.

Dear Dr. Miller,

We are most intrigued by the partial of your book, The Dead Don’t Speak. We like the illicit romance between the psychiatrist and the afflicted boy’s mother as well as the mystery of whether the boy, young Billy, is truly haunted or just mentally ill. Did his father commit suicide or was he killed by the same spirits that now haunt his son? We also think you have an excellent platform, as a psychiatrist who has treated many of these kinds of cases.

Please send a complete manuscript at your earliest convenience.

Regards,

Roger Fillmore

Senior Acquisitions Editor

Oh, my God. Unbelievable. Miller was turning his life into a book. No wonder he was pushing so hard for Killian to be put away. He needed to write the end. Not to mention the freedom to openly mack on Killian’s mom. Ew!

I reached over to flick aside the letter and read the chapters beneath, but then I heard Miller’s voice getting closer.

“I’ll just collect my bag and be on my way now. I have other patients waiting,” Miller said stiffly. Evidently, Killian’s mom had put him in his place, at least for now.

With a little effort, I managed to push the publisher’s letter and the first chapter or so under the couch. Then I was out of time.

Miller stalked through the kitchen and into the living room, stopping dead when he saw his spilled bag. “What—?”

Then he turned and saw my display. Two manila folders represented eyes, and a third held the place of a nose. Then, five composition notebooks, with their black-and-white covers, formed a menacing — as menacing as one can be with paper products — scowl. All in all, it was a big giant frowny face made out of his stuff in the middle of the living room carpeting.

Miller’s face went white, and I laughed.

“J-J-Julia,” he sputtered.

“What is it?” She appeared in the living room doorway with a frown. Then she caught a glimpse of my work. Her mouth fell open, and her knees sagged, forcing her to cling to the wall.

I winced. This wasn’t supposed to be a strike against her.

“Did you do this?” Miller demanded.

“Idiot,” I said to him. “When did she have time? She went with you, remember?”

But Mrs. Killian wasn’t thinking that clearly. “It’s Danny,” she said, looking faint. “He always pulled tricks like this, moving things around. Once I found my kitchen timer in the freezer. He swore he didn’t do it, but …” She sank to her knees and started to cry.

“Don’t be silly,” he snapped. “Your husband is dead. He’s gone on to a better place. He’s not fiddling with notebooks and sending you messages. If you didn’t do it, then it’s that boy.” He glared in the direction of Killian’s room as though he could see through walls.

“Oh, yeah, because after you doped him up, he slipped past you in the hallway, did this, and then sneaked back in without you even noticing.” I rolled my eyes.

Julia lifted her chin and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “You gave him a sedative, Max.”

“This is ridiculous.” He snatched up his bag and began cramming the contents back inside. “Ghosts are part of people’s imagination, designed to comfort them in times of loss. Period. End of story.” But his hands shook when he bent down to scoop up the folders and notebooks from my frowny face.

“Oh, Max, don’t spoil the ending for us,” I taunted. “You’ve still got to write it.”

He rushed toward the kitchen, nearly knocking over Killian’s mom in the process. “What about our next appointment?” she asked between sobs.

“I’ll call you,” he said curtly.

Then the back door slammed, and Mrs. Killian’s shoulders slumped even further, shaking with her crying.

“You should listen to your son,” I told her. “He’s telling the truth.” The high of my first successful communication was wearing off a little in light of her weeping. Actually, I was feeling a little light-headed and woozy, sort of like this morning when …

I looked down and found I could see through my arms folded over my chest. In fact, I could see all the way through to the bookcase behind me.

Aw, crap.