But—and maybe this was the late-night version of herself talking, the inner voice we all have once it gets too late and we get too tired—that didn’t mean she couldn’t make a bit of a play. Give a little more effort.
She typed, So where are you right now?
She immediately wished she hadn’t. Instantly felt as though she’d violated some unspoken agreement between the two of them.
A minute later, Lance answered, his words betraying his exhaustion: cant tell u. But there smthing wrong here.
All the happiness quickly deflated, giving way to a sinking feeling in her stomach as she read his words and flashed back to the danger he’d faced in Westhaven, then imagined infinitely worse scenarios. Hellish scenes that paraded through her mind as she scrambled to push them away.
She typed: What’s wrong? Are you going to try to fix it, like you did here?
Leah waited a long time, but Lance did not answer.
9
Lance dreamed he was back in the lifeguard stand, only the tide was higher than it should be, as if a great and powerful storm had recently blown through, and the waves were crashing all around him, reaching up to touch the dunes.
In the water, bodies floated facedown, swirling with the current and knocking into each other like bumper cars.
They weren’t just bodies. They were him. Each of them wearing his backpack, strapped on tight and looking like a tortoiseshell as they floated.
It was strange, seeing himself from the back. Stranger still seeing his dead body—lots of his dead bodies—below him as he perched on the edge of the lifeguard stand and wondered if he should jump down. Wondered what would happen if he touched the water. Would he end like the rest of him? And then, in a blink, the water receded, the tide rolling out, and all that was left was five versions of his own body, lying stuck in the sand.
There was a sharp pain from below his stomach, and Lance’s eyes shot open. He sat up fast in the bed, taking a moment to remember where he was. The armchair, the full-length mirror, the dresser, the bed—oh, the blessed bed. He remembered the walk on the beach and the tea with Loraine Linklatter, and then there was another stab of pain from his gut.
All that coffee.
Lance excavated himself from the sheets and comforter and crossed the room. He’d fallen asleep with the lights on, thankfully. Otherwise, he was certain he would have stubbed a toe or tripped on his own enormous sneakers and fallen on his face. He reached the door and opened it just a crack, peering out. The hallway was empty, which wasn’t surprising given the hour, but from a room across the open space, he heard the faint buzz saw of a man snoring. The other couple staying here that Loraine had told him about. Lance took another quick glance around, saw nobody, and then walked on tiptoes in just his boxer shorts to the bathroom on his side of the hall.
The bathroom, like the kitchen, was top-notch. Elegant tile and fancy sink fixtures and a walk-in shower that Lance thought he could lie down in. The porcelain was so clean it was almost blinding as Lance relieved himself. He washed his hands, using a berry-scented soap from a foaming pump bottle, dried them on maybe the softest towel he’d ever felt, and then, after taking another quick peek in the hallway, made his way back to the room, closing his door on the buzz saw from across the hall. He switched off the lights using the switch by the door and then turned to head back toward the bed. He made it half a step before he stopped hard in his tracks.
There was a little girl sitting in the armchair by the bed.
She wore a blue dress with a matching bow in her blond hair. White leather shoes with a single strap. Six years old. Maybe seven. Lance wasn’t great at guessing kids’ ages. They all looked so tiny to him. The girl sat on the edge of the chair with her hands clasped in her lap and her feet crossed at the ankles. She looked ready for church, or maybe picture day at school. But Lance knew the truth about her outfit.
It was the dress she’d been buried in.
Lance had seen this little girl before. Just a couple hours ago at the most, in the memory he’d been given when he’d shaken Loraine Linklatter’s hand.
The little girl leaned forward a bit on the chair, looking at Lance expectantly. Lance stepped closer, walking around the front of the bed and sitting on the edge. Something hard jabbed him in the butt and he winced, leaning over and pulling something hard from beneath him. His cell phone.
Leah. Oh crap, I fell asleep. He tried to remember the conversation they’d had but couldn’t. But that would have to wait. There was something more pressing to deal with now.
“Hi,” Lance said. “I like your dress.”
The little girl gave a shy smile, then almost yelled, “So you can see me!”
Lance chuckled. “I can. It’s weird, right?”
“I thought you might be able to. I don’t know why, but it was just a feeling in my tummy or something. Like, I knew as soon as you got here. But I didn’t know if you were good or bad, so I watched you talk to Mommy and then decided you were good. You are good, right?”
Lance nodded. “I’m good. Promise.”
“Mommy can’t see me,” the little girl said. But her words weren’t sad, they were more matter-of-fact. Just telling the truth. The way kids do.
Lance shook his head. “No, I’m sure she can’t. I don’t think there are many people like me in the world. Maybe nobody else at all. You know, people who can see people like you.”
“You mean dead people? I’m dead.”
Lance Brody did not cry often in life. Hardly ever, in fact. But something about sitting across from this innocent little girl with her pretty blue dress and her sly smile and her cheerful voice, listening to her so casually announce that she was dead, not even aware of all the life she had been robbed of, all the joy and experiences and … all of it, made a knot form in Lance’s throat and caused his eyes to tingle. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. Tried to keep his face happy and his tone casual.
“People like you,” he said again. It was all he was willing to say.
“Well, I’m glad you’re here, and I’m glad you can see me.”
Lance smiled, big and genuine, and said exactly what he was feeling in that very moment. “I’m glad, too. Hey, what’s your name, anyway?”
“I’m Daisy. Like the flower, not like the duck. Will you read me a bedtime story?”
“A bedtime … wait, you don’t sleep, do you?”
The girl laughed. “No, of course not, silly. I’m dead, remember?” She hopped off the chair, as if that was all the answer she needed, and pointed to the bookshelf with the rows of hardbacks. “You can just pick one of those. I don’t care which.”
Lance couldn’t believe what was happening. He’d seen a lot of strange things in his life, and had done even more, but reading a bedtime story to the ghost of a little girl seemed so surreal and unexpected even he was having a hard time wrapping his head around it. But how could he ever say no? Who could ever say no?
“Sure,” he said. “Why not?”
He stood and switched on the bedside lamp on the end table and then carefully stepped around the girl, scanning the spines of the books. He recognized a lot of the authors and tried to find a genre that was appropriate—at least as appropriate as he could get with the selection at hand—for a child. But then he started wondering if you had to follow the same rules of censorship when dealing with the ghost of a child. It wasn’t like they could have nightmares. He didn’t even know if they could really get scared. He marveled over how little he actually knew about any of this.
“You’re really skinny,” Daisy said.
Lance pulled a Harlan Coben mystery from the shelf and stood, remembering for the first time that he was nearly naked, standing there only in his boxer shorts.
“Yeah. Sorry,” he said.
Daisy was now lying in the bed, next to Lance’s own spot with the downturned covers. “Why are you sorry?”
“I … uh … I found a book. You ready?”
“Yeah!” Daisy laid her
head back, her tiny skull half-disappearing into the pillow, and closed her eyes, a tiny grin on her lips.
Lance looked at her for a few seconds, fully aware of how much she now looked like a corpse, before sliding into the bed next to her.
Why?
That was the question he couldn’t answer. Two different applications.
Why did this little girl have to die so young?
And the other question that Lance felt he would learn the answer to in time: Why was she here?
Lance opened the book and started to read, not being able to help himself and skipping the rare curse word. He made it to chapter three before he eventually looked over and saw Daisy was gone.
10
Lance woke to the sound of a door slamming shut.
He opened his eyes and sat up in the bed, immediately feeling more physically refreshed than he had in quite some time. The bed had been glorious, the comforter soft and warm, the pillow perfect. Lance had never been the type to lounge around in bed all day, even when he was in his early teens, but at right this moment, he glanced over to the novel on the nightstand and thought maybe today was the day he’d understand the appeal.
The novel.
Daisy.
He turned and looked at the other side of the bed and was not surprised to find her gone. Daisy had vanished while he’d been reading, but Lance would never forget the look of her as she’d lain there, silently enjoying him reading to her. It was heartbreaking, and Lance was glad he could offer her such a simple comfort, that short moment of pleasure.
He spied his phone, half swallowed by the comforter he’d thrown aside, and snatched it quickly, flipping it open and suddenly remembering that he’d fallen asleep during his and Leah’s conversation. Through a tedious and repetitive combination of button clicks, he went back through and read their exchange, smiling at the beginning as they’d flirted, getting that warm feeling in his chest, and then letting his face fall and his excitement dissipate as he’d read her last few questions: So where are you right now?
“Why did she ask that?” Lance asked the room, feeling a confused cocktail of emotions. On one hand, he was happy that she was interested, and curious as to whether she was trying to warm him up to the idea of her coming to visit him, maybe even travel with him. Lance wouldn’t deny that he enjoyed the fantasy. But on the other hand, he thought she’d understood that her being with him right now just wasn’t possible. It wasn’t safe. Nor was her knowing his location. Maybe Lance was being overly cautious, but when it came to the Reverend and the Surfer, he didn’t think so. Yes, there was a small part of him that was actually disappointed in Leah for asking. But he would shake it off. She just didn’t fully understand. He couldn’t blame her for that.
But he could blame himself for his answer: cant tell u. But there smthing wrong here.
First off, somebody call the spelling and grammar police. Apparently exhausted Lance should not be allowed to text.
But there smthing wrong here.
Second, he was no fool. Saying something like that would only cause Leah to worry. She’d seen and heard about what he’d been through in Westhaven, so she would understand that when something was wrong, and Lance tried to help, the odds of him putting himself in some sort of dangerous or precarious situation were basically guaranteed to be high.
With all the abilities the Universe had bestowed upon him, he often wondered why it hadn’t thrown in some sort of physical superpower to sweeten the deal a bit. Protect their investment. The ability to stop bullets would have been nice, but he would have also accepted invisibility or the ability to see through walls.
He was getting off track.
He clicked the button to compose a new message to Leah. Thought for a moment and then typed: Sorry, fell asleep last night. First decent bed in a long time. I hope you have a great day!
He sent the message, closed his phone, and then opened it a second later.
Not good enough, he thought. He owed her more than ignoring her question. Even if he couldn’t tell all the details.
He typed: You know I have to help when I can. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. Then he pecked out the same semicolon-and-parenthesis wink face that Leah had sent him the night before. ;)
He sent the message, grabbed his backpack, and went to take a shower before he set off for the donuts he’d promised himself the night before as he’d walked into town.
* * *
Just like the night’s sleep, the shower experience was the best he’d had in a long time. Best he’d had ever, actually. The majority of the showers he’d taken in his life had been in the small bathroom he’d shared with his mother back in Hillston, the one with the showerhead that was positioned nearly chest-level for him, or the Hillston High School locker room. Luxury was something Lance Brody was severely unaccustomed to.
He could hear his mother now. Why does a person need such a shower? What are they planning on doing in there? Do they get cleaner by having a prettier shower?
Lance smiled at this thought as he toweled himself off. He pulled on clean boxers and socks, and then a pair of basketball shorts. He sniffed his hoodie and, accepting that it had exceeded its shelf life, added finding a washing machine to his to-do list for the day, if the Universe was willing to allow him that. He pulled on a long-sleeved t-shirt he’d picked up at his last stop—his last clean shirt, too—and then brushed his teeth before packing up his toiletries.
Back in his room, he made the bed and slipped on his shoes. He reached for the Harlan Coben novel on the nightstand, ready to slide it back onto the shelf, and then stopped himself. A feeling.
He left the book where it was, shouldered his backpack, and then headed out the door and down the steps, where he was instantly greeted with the smells of eggs, bacon, and biscuits.
And coffee.
There was definitely coffee.
He inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma. Good stuff, he bet. French press, maybe, or pour-over.
When he reached the bottom of the steps, he was greeted by the sounds of forks and knives on plates, along with softly mumbled conversation. He turned right, into the dining room, and found a couple seated at the table. They were on the far side of middle-aged, seated beside each other on one side of the table, plates full of food in front of them. When Lance entered the room, they stopped eating and talking and looked up, both smiling brightly.
“Good morning!” the woman said. She was on the shorter side, and while her features had gone a little soft with age, Lance could tell she’d once been very pretty. “Lori said you might come down. She just ran out to do her meditation but wanted us to tell you to help yourself to what’s in the kitchen. She’s just across the road in the little park if you need her.”
“Thank you,” Lance said. “I’m Lance, by the way.”
The woman smiled and swallowed a sip of coffee. “I’m Melissa Keaton, but please, call me Mel.” Then she reached and rubbed the man’s shoulder. “This is my husband, Jon.”
Jon Keaton gave a nod. “Hello, Lance. Come join us. We’re about to hit the road after we eat, but we can chat for a bit.”
Lance, never one to turn down food and coffee, and not wanting to seem rude to such nice people, nodded and then went into the kitchen. There was a small buffet set up along a long countertop, with just enough food for all of Lori Linklatter’s guests, plus maybe two more people. This was a smart move on Lori’s part, planning for more, considering Lance’s appetite was considerably larger than your average person’s.
He grabbed a plate from the stack and then loaded it up. Two scoops of everything. Two biscuits. And there, at the end of the counter, was a glass carafe of coffee with steam rising from the top in such a way Lance thought if he watched it closely enough, it might spell his name in the air, luring him closer. He filled a mug to the brim and then went to join the Keatons.
They did almost all of the talking while Lance ate and smiled and nodded politely. They seemed very much in love with each other—sh
e always rubbing his back or tangling her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck while they chatted, he giving her playful smiles and looks of … well, they seemed very happy.
“Marriage is hard work, son,” Jon said seemingly out of nowhere while Lance worked on his second biscuit. “In fact, we had a pretty rough time there for a while, but then…” He eyed his wife, locking gazes with her. “We went through something together that really opened our eyes. Best thing that ever happened to us. Taught us not to take each other for granted, you understand what I mean? You only get a few good ones in life, son. Cherish them.”
Lance swallowed and thought seriously about what Jon Keaton had said. Thought of Leah. Thought of his mother. “Yes, sir,” Lance said. “I think I do. I’ll try to remember that.”
The Keatons had to hit the road. They said their goodbyes to Lance and went upstairs, returning a moment later, each carrying a small suitcase. They left out the front door, giving Lance one last wave and their best wishes, and then he was alone, the room suddenly very silent and very still.
His coffee cup was empty.
He sighed, stood from the table and took his dishes over to the sink. Then Lance grabbed his backpack and went out the front door. He was off to get his donut. The walk would help burn off some of the breakfast.
He also knew it was time to get to work. Even though, as usual, he had no idea what that meant, or where to start.
11
Lance stood on the front porch of the Boundary House Bed & Breakfast and looked out toward the road. Across the street, he could just barely make out the metallic shimmer of the water past the dunes as the sun perched high above. The air was cool, but the sun was warm. Winter would be here soon, and Lance figured he should savor a day like this.
The Lance Brody Series: Books 3 and 4 Page 6