Gabe was so engrossed he didn’t notice what I noticed: Malcolm approached the same deserted corner of the library. But when Malcolm saw Gabe, he quickly turned away from him and headed toward another vacant spot nearby. I wanted to follow him, but there was too much work to be done. We still hadn’t even looked at my phone, which was plugged in to the wall next to Gabe, charging.
Gabe got pretty deep into the Steers family history, discovering that Abigail and Kent were sixth-generation Wickies. Their relatives had been railroad barons, CEOs, US Ambassadors … billionaires.
“So, they’re rich and powerful. We already knew that. But come on, let’s look at my phone,” I urged.
Gabe grumbled as he turned his attention to my iPhone. He checked my emails first. Nothing unusual there. Then he scrolled over to the messages icon.
“You have one new one!” He selected it. “From Malcolm … from the night you died … at 2:07 A.M.,” he said excitedly. He started to read the words of the text, grunted, slammed the phone down, and turned back to the computer.
I leaned over and read the words myself.
you don’t have to say it back—just text back a single * if you want to be together. and then maybe someday you’ll say the three words. i’d wait for you, liv, forever.
All at once I was aching. The pain was different than the burning sensation I had when I crossed with objects, but it was no less terrible. I did want to be together, I did! And now he’d never know. Not possible. Not fair! I refused to accept it. I had to respond. I had to let him know I was there. It doesn’t take much force to push an iPhone key. I had to try. I knew if I was too forceful my hand would go right through the phone, so I tried to focus instead. Of course the * key wasn’t right there on the initial keyboard screen (thanks, Apple). First I had to press the ?123 key. I reached for it, strong and steady. I’d never even noticed that key before, but in that moment, it was the only thing that existed in the world.
“Holy shit! Their grandfather was Secretary of State!” Gabe blurted out. Then more silence as he kept reading.
I didn’t reply. I couldn’t break my focus. I made my finger rigid, as if that would make it more solid, and stared at that key, concentrating as hard as I could while I pressed it. It burned but it worked! The numbers screen popped up. It was only then I realized the * key is on yet another screen. Oh, Malcolm, of all keys, why the * key? Of course, I knew why.
Once again I focused, this time on that #+= key, praying that’s where the * was hiding. Once again, my fingertip scalded, but a new screen popped up—this one with the * key, that beautiful, bright * hanging aloft! I focused again, trying to ignore the pain in my fingertip and the weakness I was beginning to feel all over my body. I only had two more buttons to press. I pushed both in one swift, focused effort—the * key and then send. As the phone chimed, indicating the text had gone through, I collapsed on the chair next to Gabe, completely drained. I felt sick and weak, like I had a high fever.
Gabe heard the chime and looked down to the phone and saw the sent text. “Was that you?” he whispered, glancing around.
“Yes,” I murmured.
“Not a good idea, not at all.” He banged the cubicle desk. “Why didn’t you ask me?!”
“I had to do it. Why does it matter?”
“You reached into the real world. Who knows what doing something like that means? How it affects you? How it affects us?!”
I looked down at my hands and saw he was right. Gabe couldn’t see me in this spot, but I could see what I’d done had made me—my consistency—a little more faint. I was dwindling. I recalled those girls telling me to save my strength, first when I was trying to lift the leaf outside my dorm that first night, and then again when I was pushing the investigator’s table. I was changing every time I affected the real world.
“And now we have to get rid of the phone!” He snatched it up and shoved it into his pocket. “What if they trace it back to me? I would—” He broke off.
Malcolm appeared from around the corner of the cubicle, livid. He grabbed Gabe by the shirt. “Did you do that, you psycho?”
“No,” Gabe croaked.
“Where is it?” Malcolm was possessed. He dumped Gabe’s bag out on the floor. “Where’s the phone?!”
Malcolm seized Gabe’s left arm and twisted it behind his back, then started patting down his pockets. Immediately he felt the phone. Gabe tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but Malcolm got it out of his pocket. Shoving Gabe aside, he clutched it with trembling hands, certain it was proof that Gabe had sent the text.
“She did it,” Gabe insisted.
Malcolm paused and looked at Gabe with horror. “You’re cruel.”
“And you’re evil.”
That set Malcolm off. He pushed Gabe again, hard. But Gabe—far scrawnier—did not withdraw. He straightened. “I’m not cruel. I’m not messing with you. She’s here. Right now in fact!”
“Stop!”
Gabe shook his head. “It’s true.”
“Tell him about the ring,” I said, desperate. “He gave me a ring that last night.”
“You gave her a ring that last night,” he echoed.
Malcolm paused.
I continued, “From his great-great-great-grandfather Balthazar.”
Gabe repeated the information: “From his great-great-great-grandfather Balthazar. I mean—from your … you know what I mean.”
Malcolm blinked.
I started spewing memories at Gabe. “Tell him about the drawing on his chest. It said VAPOR and INVISIBLE. The angel. And he drew in green, like my eyes, on my arm—the stars. That night. It was a military mission. And the painting in the tomb at the cemetery. I drew over it. And jumping off the cliff, with our clothes on and …”
Gabe struggled to keep up, spewing these random moments Malcolm and I had shared. “See, she’s here, telling me these things. That proves it!”
Malcolm’s face flushed with rage. “All that proves is that you’re a pathetic stalker!”
I looked around, desperate, and noticed the steam forming on the window nearby. I whisked over to the window and climbed atop the wheezing heater.
“Tell him to watch.”
“She says watch. She’s somewhere over there.” Gabe gestured over to the bank of windows.
I put all my focus on my hand, reaching out to the steamy glass. Focus, not fury, I reminded myself. Focus, not strength. Calm, pure focus. Malcolm had to know. He had to believe us.
I touched the glass and moved my finger through the thin film of moisture. It burned, but I was able to ignore the searing pain because I could see it! It was working! The excitement broke my focus, and my finger stopped working. I calmed down. I swallowed my thrill. I concentrated once again on moving the steam. It hurt, but I went on. I had to.
I drew the very same angel I’d drawn on Malcolm’s chest—kneeling, with one wing pulled into herself. When I finished, completely drained, I leaned against the wall, turned to Malcolm. I found him approaching me, slowly, cautiously with awe and fear.
He stepped up onto the heater, quivering, and focused on the marks with the same intensity that I’d drawn them. He lifted his own finger up and made a mark in the steam. I summoned my strength and copied his mark.
It was only then that he smiled.
And then, for a moment, we drew together—a duet of lines and strokes. For an instant I felt as if he could see me, as if I were alive.
“You’re really here,” Malcolm said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. He finally believed. Gabe nodded.
But I had to stop. It hurt too much. It took too much from me. I collapsed onto the heater. I looked at my limbs, and I was definitely fainter. I still didn’t know the rules. Would I eventually end up like the others—barely visible? Powerless? Angry? Haunted? I had no way of knowing.
Malcolm turned to Gabe, shaking his head, still trying to absorb the unbelievable truth. He had no words. There were no words. After a long silence, Malcolm went to Gabe
and gently patted him on the back, silently apologizing.
We were an unlikely trio: the handsome golden boy, the conspiracy theorist of questionable mental health, and the ghost. And we had some pretty serious communication issues seeing as the golden boy couldn’t hear the ghost, leaving the conspiracy theorist to be the go-between. Not to mention, just minutes prior, the golden boy had thought the conspiracy theorist was an insane stalker and the conspiracy theorist still suspected the golden boy to be the ringleader of some kind of evil scheme. However, we needed one another. Kind of like a mini-ecosystem or a triptych painting or the premise of a wacky TV sitcom.
We retreated to the dreary stacks of the library. We had much to discuss. First of all, Abigail. We told Malcolm we thought she had killed me.
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Then why did she lie about me and try to make it seem like I killed myself?!” I yelled.
Gabe repeated my question for Malcolm in a respectfully calmer tone.
Malcolm looked down, silent.
“And her friend Sloan?” I continued. “And that guy Amos … and … you.”
“Him?” Gabe asked. “You didn’t tell me that.”
I instantly regretted having said it. “But he only lied to keep from getting in trouble.”
Gabe turned to Malcolm. “She says you lied, too.”
He nodded. “The Victors … They didn’t want my name associated with what happened.”
“But why would the others—all Victors, I might add—lie?” Gabe pressed, now speaking for himself. “Why would they try to make it look like a suicide?”
Malcolm stared ahead, silent.
“What did they—you—have to do with Liv’s death?” Gabe demanded.
“Nothing.”
“Then why lie?!”
“Don’t you understand I am sworn to secrecy?”
“Let me guess.” Gabe sneered. “It’s a blood oath.”
“Exactly,” Malcolm confirmed, deadly serious.
Gabe stared at him as if he were speaking a different language. “But Liv got killed and came back as a ghost. Don’t you think that means pretty much all bets are off?”
Malcolm ran his hands through his messy hair, frustrated, then finally caved. “The Victors covered it up to protect the image of Wickham Hall. Murders can’t happen here. It’d ruin our reputation. Suicide’s different. Suicide has happened before. It’s a tragedy, but it doesn’t tarnish the school. That’s the way the Victors see it, at least. The society forced each of us to say what we said. When you join the Victors, you take an oath that you will do anything in your power to protect the society, and the society only exists to protect the school.”
Gabe glared at Malcolm, his disgust palpable.
Malcolm met his stare. “I know you think I’m awful right now, but the Victors did not kill Liv.” He turned away from Gabe and now spoke to me, looking blankly into the air in my general direction. “They did not kill you, Liv. I would know if they had. It’s not what Gabe thinks. It’s not some evil empire aimed at ruling the world. It’s just a bunch of rich families who look out for each other.”
It all added up. I believed Malcolm. “But what if Abigail did it solo, knowing the Victors would cover up for her?” I asked, and Gabe repeated.
Malcolm thought it through. He buried his face in his hands. “It’s possible, I suppose.”
THE PLAN: MALCOLM WOULD go to Abigail in her room seemingly seeking consolation. We’d pick a time when Pitchfork Lady was not in the dorm, knowing Abigail would invite him in. I’d be with him, follow him in, and look for clues while they talked.
So, Malcolm knew I was right next to him when he knocked on Abigail’s door. As he waited for her to answer, he turned toward me. “Military mission,” he quietly joked. “But this time it’s kind of for real. Good thing we got all that practice.” I smiled, not that he could see me.
Abigail’s face lit up when she opened the door and saw it was Malcolm. He told her he “just wanted to talk.” She was clearly delighted, but remembering I’d just died and everything, she quickly shifted to melancholy. She said Mrs. Mulford was at the Science Center and, as anticipated, quickly pulled him into her room.
I followed, sweeping through the doorway.
The room was now extremely tidy. “Spring cleaning?” Malcolm asked, looking around, surprised. So, he’d been in her room before and knew, as I did, that it didn’t usually look like this. But of course he’d been in her room. They were both Victors.
“I had Mariska come up from the City and give it a once over. You know how dusty these rooms can get.”
“Mariska?”
“Mum’s live-in.”
He nodded, sitting on the edge of her bed. There was nowhere else to sit.
“You must be devastated.”
“I just wish I knew what happened,” he said, truthfully.
“What we said happened is probably what happened.”
“I don’t think so. And because we lied to the police, we’ll never know.”
“It’s for the greater good. You know that. You’re just sad.” She crossed and sat down next to him. “I’m sad, too.” She put her hand on his leg. But he didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were darting around the room, looking for something, anything. I was looking, too. Whatever incriminating evidence may have been was now long gone. Thanks to Mariska. She was smart, this girl.
Then Abigail put her head on Malcolm’s shoulder. He looked uncomfortable but didn’t move. She nestled her head into his neck, summoning tears. “I really liked her. I did,” she sniffled.
“Liar!” I yelled. “This was not part of our plan. Are you really falling for this?”
But, as if he could hear me, Malcolm said, “This is all part of the plan.”
I paused. Was he talking to me or her? He turned his head away from Abigail and glanced at the door. He’d said it to me. I calmed down.
“What plan?” Abigail asked.
“I was just saying, this is all part of the plan, the Victors’ plan.”
“I know,” she said, snuggling in even closer to him. “But I also know this is all so hard for you. You’re so sensitive and kind. I’m here for you, Malcolm.” They were face to face now.
I watched in disbelief—powerless—just praying this was, as he’d said, part of the plan. Then she leaned in to kiss him. He stopped her.
“Don’t,” he said.
“Why?” she breathed.
“I’m too confused right now,” he said, as if in a few days he might not be, as if he might actually kiss her then.
Abigail nodded, satisfied. And she nestled her head back into the crook of his neck. I couldn’t take it—I stormed right at them. Abigail shivered. I’d given her a chill, so she pulled in closer to Malcolm. I sighed. Nice. Perfect backfire.
“You understand why I’m doing this, right?” He turned his head away from her and mouthed “for you.”
Again, he was speaking to me, but Abigail answered, “Yes.”
“Where were you that night, really?”
“At the meeting. Same as you.”
“Until eleven. But what about after that?”
She hesitated.
“I just need to know, if we’re gonna … you know, move forward at some point.” Malcolm looked down as he said that. All at once I felt mortified and blissful. He sounded like a bad actor in a worse movie, but she didn’t seem to notice.
She sighed and finally confessed. “I was in the infirmary. Lady things, you know. You can check the logs if you don’t believe me.”
He hopped up. “I think I should go.”
She walked him to the door and gave him a hug. A lingering hug. He pulled away and pushed open her door, careful to hold it open long enough for me to follow.
We checked the infirmary logs. And, yes, she had been there immediately after the Victors meeting, during the time I was murdered. Nurse Cobbs had administered prescription-strength Advil and let her lie down for t
wo hours. It was all documented. And seeing as it was impossible to imagine any conspiracy involving crotchety Nurse Cobbs—even for Gabe, who thrived on such theories—the three of us agreed unanimously that Abigail was not guilty.
AT DINNER, MALCOLM SAT with Gabe in the Pit. They both pushed their food around on their plates. Students shuffled past, rubbernecking as if Malcolm’s sitting with Gabe was a horrific car accident. Time blurred again, and in an instant, their plates were nearly empty.
As they started to get up, I noticed Malcolm’s lips twist as if he was wrestling with something. Finally, he said, “Listen, I was wondering if you’d ask Liv if she wants to go to the mountain tonight.”
“Yes!” I yelped without thinking.
But Gabe just said, “You won’t be able to hear her.”
“I know. But I want to be with her. Alone.”
“Yes, yes, yes!” I shrieked.
But Gabe completely ignored me.
“Did you hear me, Gabe?!”
He nonchalantly told Malcolm, “She said yes. She’ll meet you there.”
“Hello?! Don’t you still hear me?” I was nearly yelling as Malcolm got up and walked away. Gabe finally turned to me and whispered, “Yes, God. Relax. I was trying to play it cool for you.”
“Oh,” I quietly chuckled. “Thanks.”
I GOT TO THE mountain before Malcolm and watched the sun set. I walked to the edge of the cliff and looked out. The setting sun was cold and muted. The lake was nearly covered with fog. I felt like Friedrich’s Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog. That intrepid wanderer atop a cliff, seen in silhouette from behind—triumphant. But I wasn’t. I wasn’t even the meager and practically incidental Monk by the Sea.
I looked down. The fog rolled, revealing slivers of lake. I wanted to relive that moment. I wanted to know what it’d feel like. So I jumped.
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