Not Quite Alive

by Lyla Payne

“Well, I suppose you can come on in. I don’t have enough dinner for two people, though.”

  “Dinner” appears to be a half-gone bag of Cheetos and a box of Ho-Hos, though there is the smell of some sort of meat in the air, so maybe I’ve missed the main course.

  “It’s okay. We have leftovers at home.” I take a seat on the couch, shoving a pile of clothes out of the way but taking care not to dump them on the floor in the process. The outer office, which is Mel’s domain, is spotless. “I’ll be quick.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it,” she grumbles, wiping her orange-stained fingers on her thighs. They leave streaks on her black leggings. “But seriously, you keep my life interesting, Graciela. So what’s up?”

  Daria already looks more curious than annoyed at my showing up unannounced, which is typically how I roll when it comes to her. I’m not sure why I never call first—maybe because it annoys her, or maybe I’m afraid she’d just dodge me if I gave her warning. The woman remains a mystery to me even after the couple of months we’ve known each other, and every instinct I have promises that she likes it that way.

  For all of the dangerous situations we’ve gotten into together—okay, fine, that I’ve dragged her into—I don’t know anything about her life except that she sees ghosts.

  “Have you ever met a ghost who didn’t know she was dead?”

  “Sure. Usually the ones who died recently haven’t quite figured it out yet, but some are more stubborn than others.” She unwraps a Ho-Ho. I didn’t know they still made those things. “Why? New friend?”

  “They gave me a whole month off. If you don’t count Henry.”

  “What makes you think she’s unaware of her new status?” Her willingness to continue the discussion is rare and not at all unwelcome.

  My mind jumps at the chance to discuss ghosties with someone else who sees them the way that I do. Even though Beau and Mel, and all of the others, believe me when I tell them what I see, they can’t know exactly how it feels. Millie does, at least a little, because she saw Anne Bonny, but Daria’s different.

  She knows what it’s like when this is your life.

  So does Travis, a voice whispers from the back of my mind. Don’t you want to know what his experiences have been like? Maybe he can help.

  I frown at the voice, but promise myself I’ll revisit the idea later. It might be prudent to talk to Travis about his—our—gifts and how they manifest for him. If his abilities are like Frank’s, but he’s more cooperative…well, that could come in handy.

  “She keeps asking me for help, but not…it doesn’t feel like when the others have had something they want me to do for them. She looks nervous, as if she’s expecting to be caught talking to me any minute.”

  Daria pops more Cheetos in her mouth, wipes her fingers again. It looks like she’s about to say something when her phone dings. She picks it up, her lips pull down into a frown as she types in a response, and I wait to be booted from her trailer, which is bound to happen.

  When she looks up, her eyes hold a more familiar impatience. “Yeah, sounds like she thinks she’s still wherever she was when something got her.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I mutter, wondering again how I’m going to find her body, or even help find her body, if she’s been killed overseas. I don’t even have a good passport.

  “Anything else?” Daria stands up, crumpling her snack bag and tossing it into the trash before raising an expectant eyebrow my direction.

  “No. You have a hot case you’ve got to go out on?” I hold my breath, wishing I hadn’t said anything about her work because now I’ve opened the door for her to give me yet another sales pitch on going partners.

  Except she doesn’t. She’s got Mel now, I guess. My friend appears to be more than enough help for the medium.

  “Yeah, and I’d better get moving.”

  Now I’m the one who frowns. This is way earlier than Daria usually works, and she’s being cagey about who texted her and why. I make a mental note to quiz Mel on their current cases, but wonder whether her loyalty will lie with me or her new boss after what happened with her last employer.

  Her loyalty to me pretty much got her fired, and arrested, so maybe I shouldn’t push it.

  “Okay, well, let me know if you need anything. I feel like I’m always coming to you for free help, but you rarely ask for anything in return.”

  She peers at me, her eyes sharp like talons as they attempt to rip through my exterior and read my mind. “Does that bother you?”

  Her scrutiny digs discomfort under my skin and I swallow, making a concerted effort not to take a step back or break eye contact. “What?”

  “Owing people favors.”

  I shrug. “I guess it bothers most people, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe around here.” She finally stops watching me like a hawk and turns in a circle, scanning the room for something—her purse, it turns out, when she locates it on the dusty wingback chair in the corner. “Don’t worry about it, Graciela. Your friend Mel is helping me out more than I figured, so we’ll just say she’s taking up your slack. For now.”

  It’s hard to put my finger on why, but that for now stays with me all the way back to Heron Creek, and I’m left with the sinking feeling that I’m not going to like it when that particular chicken comes home to roost.

  Chapter Seven

  I know that I can’t put off talking to Beau about what’s going on any longer even before Lucy shows up in my bedroom again that night. He has a right to hear it from me, and the longer I go without telling him, the more it will feel like ripping the bandage off a festering wound.

  There’s no way to do it in person, though, which really sucks. I won’t be able to see his face, gauge his reaction, or hold his hand if the news makes him sad—which it will, there’s no doubt in my mind.

  Lucy’s restless ghost paces by the window, looking dirtier and more like a caged animal than even on her previous two visits. Her anxiety is getting under my skin.

  “Okay, lady, stop pacing. You’re making me even more nervous and that’s about the last thing I need.”

  She seems surprised to hear my voice, even though I’ve talked to her before now. It’s as if she’s so lost in her own head—her own fear, or oblivion—that she’s forgotten she’s in my room in Heron Creek.

  Her light eyes take on an apologetic sheen, but it’s only a moment before fear crowds it away. I take a deep breath now that she’s stopped rubbing a groove in the carpet and pick up my phone. I texted Beau earlier to ask when he thought he’d be available for a chat and he promised that we could have all the time we needed after the session today.

  Okay. You can do this, Gracie. You have to do this.

  My finger shakes as I press Beau’s name in my favorites’ list, then raise the phone to my ear. Lucy is watching me now, her eyes wide and her expression devastated in a completely new way. She must know who I’m calling, and the shattered look on her face leaves no doubt in my mind that Lucy Winters is still in love with my boyfriend. That she regrets how she treated him, how things ended, and now she’ll never have the chance to set it right.

  I should tell her that he feels the same way, at least about a lot of it, but I don’t. Maybe because Beau answers. Maybe because, no matter how stupid it is, I’m sort of jealous of a dead girl.

  “Gracie Anne!” Beau’s voice booms through the line.

  My heart squeezes at the happiness in his voice. At the knowledge that I’m about to smash it to bits. Even so, my lips can’t help but respond with a smile to the sound of his voice. “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself. How was your day?”

  “Oh, you know. Average day in the life of one Graciela Harper. How about yours?”“I don’t know, sweetheart.” Those four words are threaded with exhaustion. “This job…it’s definitely enough to take a toll on a man’s idealism.”

  The confession doesn’t surprise me. I’m not the most involved
American, but I watch the news. Occasionally. Every other story is about how our representatives waste money rather than spend it appropriately, and how they’re more interested in catering to special interest groups than the everyday schmuck trying to make ends meet after his double shift at McDonald’s.

  Beau’s got a huge heart and he’s proven his willingness to get his hands dirty to make things work, but the truth of the matter is that Heron Creek is a small town with only a few thousand people to make happy and fewer real issues. It’s got to be discouraging to see firsthand how hard it is to make any real difference when negotiating with hundreds of other politicians.

  I’m not sure what the right thing to say is, though.

  “I’m sure it’s a culture shock,” I venture. “But if anyone can turn this whole mess around it’s Beauregard Drayton. No doubt in my mind.”

  He chuckles, but with all of the nerves in my belly, the sound of his laughter doesn’t have its typical soothing effect. “You’re too good to me, Gracie Anne. But tonight, I’ll take it.”

  There’s a pause on the line—my turn to talk, but I don’t want to. My gaze meets Lucy’s and she cocks her head, one eyebrow raised in a silent question. Or a challenge.

  “Beau, there’s something I need to tell you and I’m really not looking forward to it, so I’m just going to get it out, okay?”

  He pauses for a beat, then another. “I’m not sure I like the sound of this, but all right…”

  Deep breath number one million and seven. “I’ve seen Lucy’s ghost. She’s been to see me, I mean.”

  The silence goes on for longer this time. I stare at Lucy’s spirit and she watches me back, and oddly, both of us seem to be holding our breath. Ghosts don’t breathe, I don’t think—it’s never occurred to me to look until this moment, but her slightly shimmery form won’t stay still long enough for me to verify the assumption.

  “Beau?” I venture after almost a full minute of silence, thinking perhaps we got cut off even though my phone promises we’re still connected. At least technologically.

  “I’m here.” His tone is strangled, as if hearing the news has looped dread so tight around him that it’s hard to make out words. “I just…I don’t understand.”

  “She’s showed up three or four times. She’s here now, staring at me and pacing.” Lucy has, in fact, started pacing again. The way she’s glancing over her shoulder at imaginary assailants makes me think she won’t stick around much longer tonight, and to be honest, I’m ready for her to go.

  If I could choose my audience for this conversation with my boyfriend, she’d never make the list.

  “How do you know it’s her? I mean…you’ve never met her.”

  “It’s her, Beau.” I make sure my voice is confident. It strikes me as funny, the way both he and Brick made the same protest. Not funny haha, of course. I know I need to shoot him down, just like I did his brother—it’s the only way they can heal—but it hurts all the same. “I’ve seen pictures of her, and she’s dressed exactly like a missionary would be dressed, and…it’s just her. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to have to give you the bad news.”

  “You don’t know that she’s dead, Gracie. You can’t know that.”

  His hard tone, his refusal to believe me for the first time since this whole ghost-seeing thing started, stuns me like a slap to the face. The recovery takes so long that I miss my chance to reply, to defend myself, because Beau keeps talking.

  “Listen, Gracie, I’ve got to go. We’ll talk later, okay?”

  He hangs up. Like, he’s there talking one minute, gone the next, and I’ve got no chance to argue. No opportunity to be there for him, to try to make him feel better about the news or find out if he has any ideas where we go from here. Ask what he needs from me.

  I stare at the phone for a long time, waiting for him to call back or text, apologize for his shortness and promise that everything is fine.

  He doesn’t, and neither do I.

  It makes me wonder whether things between us are, in fact, fine at all.

  “Grace, stop checking your phone. You’ve picked it up about five hundred times today and it’s not doing anything but making you crazy.” Amelia puts a hand on her hip and gives me a look that says her patience with me has hit a wall. “He just found out a woman he cared about is dead, and he probably feels responsible. Give him some time.”

  I ignore her, mostly because this is the third time she’s given this speech since lunch and I could recite it verbatim.

  For her part, Millie doesn’t seem to expect an answer as she grabs her purse and checks her watch. “You coming, Grace?”

  “Yeah, give me a minute to sign off.”

  “I’ll take her home, Amelia,” says a baritone voice, as familiar as any in the world. William Gayle has just wandered through the library’s front door.

  Amelia puts both hands on her hips now, car keys jangling as they hang from her fingers. “You know, I’m not sure I’m ever going to get used to the sight of you in a police uniform. Although navy really might be your color.”

  Will blushes like a teenage boy. “Why, thank you, ma’am.”

  “Please. It can’t be that much of a stretch,” I comment. “He’s been policing us for a decade or more.”

  “That’s true,” my cousin muses, a happy smile on her face.

  Another reason I’m not planning to tell her about my visit from Clete unless it just can’t be avoided. She’s the happiest she’s been in months, and if there’s any way to avoid changing that, I’m going to do it.

  “Wait, why are you taking me home?” I ask, coming back around to the beginning of the conversation. “Did I forget plans? Again?”

  “Not this time. I just need to talk to you about something, that’s all.” He shoots a glance toward Amelia, which I interpret to mean he’s trying to play it cool in front of my cousin. If anyone understands the necessity of keeping pregnant women calm at the moment, it’s Will. “If you feel like it. No big deal.”

  “Oh, sure. That’s fine.” I walk over to stand beside my cousin and give her a little nudge with my elbow. “You okay going home alone?”

  “I’m not ten, Grace.” She purses her lips. “But bring me some food, yeah?”

  “Please, like I would ever enter Satan’s den without an offering.”

  Will snorts, but puts on a practiced look of contrition when Amelia glares at him. I feel a smile coming on for the first time since Beau hung up on me last night, and for the thousandth time since I returned to Heron Creek, I issue a thank you to the universe for giving me back my friends.

  “You’re ridiculous, but my feet are too swollen to stand here and argue.” Amelia heads for the door. “Grace, I’ll see you at home. Will, bring that wife and son of yours over after church on Sunday for a meal, would you?”

  “That sounds great,” he replies, and I can tell by the smile on his face that he means it. That he’s as thankful for us as we are for him.

  Once she’s gone, Will’s expression morphs into one that’s far more serious. It puts me on high alert, the same way Clete’s visit did the other day, and I can’t help but wonder whether the two things are connected. But how?

  “What’s up?” I ask around my dry tongue.

  “You want to go get a burger? We can talk about it at Pete’s and I’m starving.”

  I raise an eyebrow, taking in his uniform again. Amelia was right, no matter how much grief I gave her about her observation—Will does look damn fine in his police blues. “You’re off duty?”

  “Yep, just finished. Shall we?”

  “Sure.” My stomach hurts all the way out the door, and I pull my coat tighter around me on the quick, two-block stroll to Pistol Pete’s.

  Will keeps up a patter of small talk about Melanie and Grant, and how much happier Mel has been since she started working for Daria. It goes in one ear and out the other since I’ve heard it all from Mel and I’m too nervous to listen. />
  It’s cold outside but warm in Pete’s—he’s got the fireplace roaring and none of the haphazard Christmas decorations have been taken down yet. He’s got the best happy hour in town, so even though the place is a shithole, most of the torn booths, rickety tables, and wobbly chairs ringing the bar are full.

  Will nods toward a booth all the way in the back, near the narrow hallway that leads to the bathroom. Pete’s is gross enough without smelling toilet the entire visit, but we really don’t have other options. I’m too anxious to hear whatever it is he needs to say to wait for a better table to open up and, much to my discomfort, Will seems to feel the same way.

  We slide into the booth and order a couple of beers from the harried waitress, the same one who barely paid any attention to Jenna and Brian and me when we met here last month to talk about Henry Woodward. Chances are slim that we’ll get to order burgers in the next half hour. My stomach, at the moment, doesn’t much care.

  “Will, please just tell me what’s wrong.”

  He gives me a measured look, then thanks the waitress for our beers before asking for two bacon cheeseburgers, no veggies, with fries. Once she’s gone, he returns his attention to me. “How do you know something is wrong?”

  How do I know something is wrong? Is the bad feeling in my gut the result of too many months of drama and nothing more? Does Will just want some relationship advice, or to pick my brain about why Travis is coming back to work?

  No. I know Will as well as I know myself, and the flicker of protective worry in his blue eyes tells me it’s more.

  “Because I know you, and you wouldn’t show up unannounced and cleverly get rid of Amelia unless you have something to say that she’s not going to like. Which can’t be good.”

  “It’s not.” Will sighs and wraps a strong hand around his slippery glass of draft beer. “We got a tip at the station tonight. About you.”

  My mouth goes dry. His words don’t totally make sense, as if perhaps they’re out of order or in another, still familiar language. “What about me?”