“You’re really good, and there are a few things they teach in classes that can take an artist years to figure out for themselves.” I ramble a bit about depth and charcoal technique, but he looks lost. “They can’t teach your use of color, though. It’s really amazing.”
“Thank you,” he says with a shrug, but his small smile reveals he’s pleased by the compliment. “I definitely want to take classes one day. We can’t really afford them right now. Chris’s therapy is the priority, and my dad only has the mall job….” He trails off.
“Oh yeah, of course. My parents are broke too. I mean…” I take a deep breath and start over. “I thought we could figure out what to do next,” I tell him.
“About my art?” He smiles.
“No. Dummy.” I can’t help but smile back. “About Emily…and the rest.”
He drops his teasing tone. “What can we do?”
“I think I know who killed them.”
“Who?” he asks, his breath hot on my cheek.
I swallow. “Mr. Grant.”
“You think Mr. Grant’s the murderer?” Coop asks, unbelieving. He turns from me. “I mean, he’s a grumpy old man, but I doubt he had anything to do with…you know…” He motions out his window, toward my house.
“Why not?” I ask.
“The cops would have investigated the neighbors….God, do you suspect my parents as well? Do you suspect me?”
“No! Of course not. You were only, what, ten years old?” The same age Chris is now. I can’t imagine a little kid being able to hurt so many people. “Do you remember anything from that summer?” I should have asked him sooner.
He shakes his head, plops down into his desk chair. “Not really. I remember watching the cops swarm everyone’s yards….But my dad was really worried about me knowing too much. I think my parents tried to shelter me. Then, after Emily…it became a topic we weren’t allowed to speak about. Ever.”
“Is that why you never looked through your father’s files?”
He nods. “I tried once. That was the only time my dad ever hit me. He wasn’t even sorry about it afterward. He told me that if I ever went through his police stuff again, I’d get worse than a black eye.”
“Shit.”
He shrugs. “Besides, I would have told you if I knew anything.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “We don’t need those files. I’m sure it’s Mr. Grant. They need us to bring him to justice so they can move on, like your grandma did.”
“And what makes you so certain it’s him?”
“One of the girls contacted me, and…”
He sits up straighter. “I thought they didn’t speak with you.”
“They don’t.” I explain about Sera and the Ouija board. About the marker revealing Mr. Grant’s name.
“Maybe Sera was pushing the marker. Making it spell out things.”
“Why would she do that?”
“I don’t know. To get attention. She loves this ghost shit. Maybe she wanted to impress you.”
“Why would she spell out Mr. Grant’s name?” I ask.
He shrugs again.
“Of all things, this is what you don’t want to believe.” I don’t think it’s the right time to tell him about my vision from last night. I do tell him about the basement door. How easy it would have been for Mr. Grant to sneak in. “But why would it be filled in?”
“The Pratts were one of the few families that could take a hit and afford to move. The couple that bought it after them were probably going to renovate, but they were only there for a year before they sold it.”
“Mrs. Franz told me it was sold a couple of times. Anyway, I think Mr. Grant is a good place to start.”
“I’m not saying it’s not Mr. Grant. I could see it. He hates me, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty clear. Why?”
“He always catches me…creeping around, as you put it. I’m not doing anything wrong, but when he spots me, it feels like I am.”
“Um…like you climbing in my window in the middle of the night?”
He reddens. “Yeah, that was dumb. But I’ve never done anything like that before.”
“Well, maybe you can go talk to him. Apologize for hanging around. And I can break into his house and look through his stuff.”
“That is a horrible plan.”
“Why?” I ask defensively. “I could sneak in.”
“It’s not about you getting in, it’s about…” He pauses, and I can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “If you’re right, and Mr. Grant killed four girls, do you think he’d just leave evidence lying around?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s been years. He could have gotten lazy. And killers like to take trophies, right?”
“Did Sera tell you that?”
“Maybe,” I admit. It’s one of the things I picked up from her Serial Killer Files rants.
“If you’re so convinced it’s him, aren’t you afraid of him?”
“Don’t serial killers have a type? I’m not tall and blond.” Coop looks unconvinced. “Okay, plan B. Maybe we can get Mr. Grant to come into my house. Into the basement. If we lure him down there, we can see what the ghosts do.”
“Do?” He leans back against his desk, which looks like it doubles as his art table. “That seems really risky. What if they freak out and kill him?”
“Well, he deserves it,” I say with more confidence than I feel. He does deserve to be punished, but do I really want him to die?
“Yeah, then you’ll have a dead body in your basement.”
“Oh, right.” Random dead bodies: bad. “And what if Mr. Grant decides to haunt my house?” A tremor runs through my body and I shake it off.
Coop offers a tentative smile. “The last thing you need is another ghost hanging around.”
I return his grin. I can’t help myself; it’s infectious. “He’d yell about the noise all the time and I could never have friends over.”
“Worst. Ghost. Ever.” His eyes dance and my face warms.
Keep it together, I tell myself. I don’t have time for distractions. “If only he could wear a T-shirt that says I’M A HORRIBLE PERSON.”
“Yeah, with a full confession written on the back. That would have made my dad’s job a lot easier.”
“Why is everyone in this town psycho?” I ask. Coop winces. “Not you, of course.”
“Thanks.”
Coop crosses the room and sits next to me on the bed. His weight makes me lean toward him. Our arms touch and I shiver again, this time with a feeling I can’t quite name. I rest my head on his shoulder, and after a moment, he places his head on top of mine, lightly. Suddenly, I’m very warm, and it has nothing to do with the sunlight streaming through the windows. But I also feel light. Like I might float away.
“Want to hear something weird?” I ask.
“I think nothing could be weird to me now.”
“It’s just…sometimes I feel like I’m disappearing.”
Coop lifts his head. “Disappearing?”
“Or like I’m not really here to begin with.” His look of concern actually makes me feel better.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t dump this on you, on top of all the other stuff.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m here for you, Haley,” he tells me. “Whenever you need me. We’ll figure this all out together.”
“Thank you. I’m glad you’re here.” He leans in and I raise my head, anticipating a kiss.
A knock at the door interrupts us, and I jump back and laugh.
Chris’s voice calls through the door. “Coop? Who are you talking to?”
“Nobody.”
I look at him questioningly. “He’ll want to know why you’re here,” Coop whispers. “And like I said, I don’t want h
im involved in all this ghost stuff.”
“We can just say we’re talking about art,” I whisper back.
Coop’s door opens and he shoots off the bed, rushing to it. He slams it in Chris’s face.
“Owww!” Chris cries. “That hurt my hand!”
“Coop, what the hell?” I ask. “Like that’s not super suspicious.”
“I just…” He looks caught. He takes a deep breath and opens the door.
“What are you doing?” Chris asks, walking in, shaking his injured hand.
“Nothing. What do you want?”
“Hey, Chris,” I say. He doesn’t even look at me. Coop closes his eyes and sighs.
“What’s with the silent treatment?” I ask.
“Do you want to play Call of Duty?” Chris asks Coop, rubbing his hand. He gives his brother puppy-dog eyes.
“Maybe in a minute. Go play a round and I’ll be right in. Sorry about your hand. Hey, if you eat ice cream for breakfast, I won’t tell Mom.”
“Okay. Cool.” Chris leaves, beaming.
“What was that about?” I ask, a sinking feeling in my stomach. “Chris acted like I didn’t even exist.”
“Kid’s a weirdo. What can I say?” He laughs, but it sounds forced.
“No…” I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I know that something is wrong. The air in the room turns ice cold, and Coop’s head swivels to me, his eyes scared.
“Coop?”
“Yes, Haley.” His warm breath fogs in the suddenly freezing air.
It’s hard for me to say what I’m thinking. To even think it to begin with, but I manage to find the words. “Why did Chris act like I wasn’t here?” I ask, unable to fight the fear creeping up my spine, or the numbness in my chest.
His eyes avoid mine.
I stand and walk to the window, hugging my arms to my chest. “What’s going on?” I ask, looking at the glass. Despite the sun and heat, ice crystals have formed on the pane.
“Nothing…”
I whirl on him. “Tell me the truth.”
“I don’t think you really want to know, or you’d already know.”
“What does that mean? What the hell is going on?”
He sighs, gives me a good hard look before he speaks again. “You say you feel like you’re disappearing.”
“Yeah, I’m a big fat loser. So what?”
“You’re not a loser. You’re just…I don’t…” He pauses, then looks at me, determined. “When was the last time you spoke with your friends in Chicago?”
“Raina and I had a fight, kind of. I was going to call her in a few days. And I usually just text with Darren and Mike.”
“So what are they up to, if you’ve been texting with them?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Where’s your phone?”
I pat my back pocket, where I usually keep it. “I must have left it at home.”
“Really? Because I don’t go ten minutes without checking mine. When’s the last time you used it?”
I grimace, thinking. When was the last time I used it?
“How did you get here today, Haley?”
“I’m sick of this shit. You’re not making any sense.” I move to go past him, out the door, but he blocks my path.
“Just think about it.”
“Fine. I was in the side yard, where I found a secret buried basement door; then I ran away from Mr. Grant, through the trees….” I stop. It was getting dark out then, but now it’s morning. It didn’t take me all night to walk across the yard.
“Haley.” His face is pained. “How did you really get here?”
“I don’t know.” I try desperately to think. “It’s like I’m in a dream,” I admit, “and I just woke up outside your house.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not a dream.”
“No.” It can’t be. I go to him and clutch at his shirt. “I need you to tell me,” I say. “I don’t think I can face it otherwise.”
“Haley…” He closes his eyes tight, as if that will make my questions go away.
“Tell me the truth,” I demand. He opens his eyes and looks at me, his lips set in a determined line.
“Haley, you’re dead.”
I CLOSE MY eyes for an eternity. Or maybe it’s for a microsecond.
When I open them again, Coop is sitting at his desk. He looks at me, his face bright with relief. He jumps up. “Haley, I’m so glad you’re here….”
“How long has it been?” I ask. “How long since I…died?” The word catches in my throat.
He swallows, looks at the floor. “It’s been about a year.”
“A year?” No. I would have known. “But…When? How?”
“I’d see you sometimes, in your window, staring out,” Coop tells me. “But you only recently came down to talk. I couldn’t believe it. You were so real.”
“So you’ve known this whole time?”
“Yes.”
I shake my head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted to, really, but you thought you were alive. You seemed alive.”
His face falls. He’s so miserable. I stand and go to him. “But I’m talking to you.” I reach out a hand and run my fingers across his face. “I can touch you.”
He shivers at the contact. “I don’t know how you can do that. You’re different than the others. I tried to talk to them when I was younger—to Emily especially. But they just ignored me.”
“Did they look…Were they mangled?”
“No. When you see them are they…messed up?”
I nod. “Yeah. Sometimes.”
He takes a step back, stricken.
“Do they come here?” I ask.
“No. I don’t think they ever leave your house.”
“That’s why you were surprised when I could come to your room.” I think of all the times Coop has seemed shocked by something I’ve said or done. “Can they move things, pick them up?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve never seen them do anything but drift around, look out the windows.”
Things click into place. “When Mr. Grant was yelling at us, he didn’t even see me. He was just yelling at you.”
He grimaces. “I’ve been in your yard more and more, trying to get a glimpse of you. He thinks I’m…I don’t know what he thinks,” he tells me, studying me.
I take a step back. I notice suddenly that he’s wearing different clothes—jeans and a gray T-shirt.
“Did I go somewhere for a while?” I ask. “Just then, when you told me I was…dead?”
He nods. “I kept hoping you’d come back. I was scared you were gone for good this time.”
“I’ve done it before, just vanished?”
“Yes. I don’t know where you go….Do you?”
“No….It doesn’t feel like I’ve gone anywhere. It feels like the same day to me, the same conversation. How long was I gone?”
“Two weeks.”
“Two weeks? I just disappeared for two weeks?”
“You’ve been gone longer,” he tells me. “Sometimes I don’t see you for a while. Then you just appear and seem to think it’s the next day.”
“If I’m a ghost, why can’t I walk through walls? Why do I have to take the stairs? I can feel the ground.” I stomp my foot to prove a point.
Coop nods. “I think you feel the ground because that’s what you know you should feel. You make up the rules.”
“What about my room? It’s exactly the same.”
“Like I said, you think it should be that way, so it is…but also, I think your family kept it the way it was.”
I think of all the times I felt someone was ignoring what I said, and how cold Josh and Sera were to me. I made myself believe I was part of those co
nversations. When was the last time my dad even spoke to me? And Shannon, coming into my room and talking to me. Talking out loud to her dead sister.
“I’m so sorry, Haley.”
“I have to go,” I say suddenly.
“Okay. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”
I can’t be dead.
I feel Coop’s eyes follow me as I walk through the trees, realizing I don’t know how I left his room.
I can’t be dead.
Fear jolts through me at the thought. It’s impossible.
I can’t be dead.
I fold in on myself.
SLOWLY, I COME back to myself.
My whole being is awash in sadness and regret. I wander, aimlessly at first, adrift.
I never should have left Chicago. I should have asked to spend the summer with Raina; I could have guilted my parents into agreeing. I should have just run away. Raina would have helped me.
When I think of Raina, my mind goes blank for a while; then, suddenly, she’s in front of me. We’re in the familiar mess of her room. She’s sitting on her bed with someone. No, not just someone: Gina. I moved before she and Raina got together, but they were always friendly.
I start, go to her.
But she doesn’t see me. Of course she doesn’t.
Gina’s arms are wrapped around her, and her eyes are puffy from crying.
“The last time we talked,” she is saying, “we had a fight.”
“It’s not your fault,” Gina assures her, resting her head on Raina’s. Raina has done something to her hair, woven silver strands through her black braids. It looks amazing.
“I kept blowing her off,” Raina says. “I was kind of mad that she moved. But it wasn’t her fault.”
Now I start to cry. How could Raina blame herself?
“You can’t help the way you felt,” Gina soothes her.
“I was such a bitch.”
“No,” I tell her. “Raina, you were a great friend.”
“God, it’s been a year. I thought I was coping, but then Shannon sent me that package with a bunch of Haley’s drawings. I’ve been asking her for some. I thought they would make me feel better.”
Gina kisses the top of Raina’s head, and Raina sobs softly in her arms. Eventually they both fall asleep, emotionally exhausted. Raina looks miserable, tear-streaked and sniffling.
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