“You can rest assured, ma’am, that we’ll find the object you mentioned. However, during the course of our investigation, we obtained a search warrant for the vehicle of the suspected perpetrator and while I cannot, at this time, provide you with further information about the nature of our discoveries, I can assure you that we are no longer in any doubt but that you made a good call earlier this evening.”
Sylvie scrunched up her face involuntarily while she tried to weave her way through the police officer’s long words and complex phrases. What had he said?
He leaned forward a little and said softly, “Ya’ done good. Let me just get your statement and you can go home.”
She glanced at Lucas. He nodded at her. She wavered, uncertain, doubtful.
‘It’s okay, go ahead and talk to him,’
Lucas reassured her.
Sighing, Sylvie sat down and did as she was told.
Chapter Seven
Dillon watched his father silently reading a paperback, flipping through the pages at a speed that suggested Lucas barely saw them. They were sitting at Sylvie’s table, Lucas in one of the plastic chairs, Dillon cross-legged on top of the table.
After leaving the police station, Lucas brought them straight to Sylvie’s apartment. She’d complained, saying that she wanted to get her car, but she’d been falling asleep on her feet, and Lucas hadn’t bothered to argue with her. She’d walked straight into her bedroom, dropped onto the bed, and mumbled something that sounded like, “See yourself out.” Then she was asleep.
Lucas hadn’t left, though. Dillon had watched as his father looked around Sylvie’s apartment, checking out the refrigerator, the bookshelves, even the space under the television, before finally plucking a book off a shelf and settling down at the table. Every so often, he answered a phone call or responded to a text message, but they mostly sat in silence with only the brush of paper from the turning pages to disturb the quiet.
Dillon wished he could talk to Lucas. Really talk, not just text. His exertions of the evening and night had exhausted his ability but even if he could send another message, what could he say? How could he describe what it was like? The confusion, the fear, the frustration at his own helplessness. The speed at which Sylvie moved, the smile on her face that didn’t meet her eyes. The exhilaration he felt when he realized he could set off the car alarms, the relief when the mugger was curled up on the ground.
And then the police station. That had almost been worse. Sylvie had been giving her statement to one officer, as calmly as if she did this kind of thing every day, when another officer hung up his phone and said, “He’s claiming you attacked him, that he was just walking by.”
The police officers had been smiling as if it was a joke but Sylvie had stilled and said, “Oh, did he?” She’d leaned back in her chair. Dillon had been annoyed. He’d been there, he’d seen the whole thing. The guy was lying! Why didn’t his mom defend herself?
Instead, at the officer’s next question, Sylvie smiled, looking regretful, and responded, “I’m afraid I’m unable to answer any more questions without a lawyer present. Or immunity from prosecution.” The words sounded rehearsed. She’d said them often enough over the next several hours that maybe they were.
Dillon had been frustrated beyond belief. Why didn’t she just talk? Why didn’t she just tell them what had happened? When he finally had enough energy to send a text, though, he knew better than to send it to her. He’d always thought his grandpa was stubborn, but he bet Sylvie could teach Max lessons. He texted his dad instead. Lucas could fix it, he knew.
And maybe he had. Dillon didn’t really understand what had happened after Lucas had arrived, but it didn’t matter. They were home and safe. At least for now.
Was his dad ever really safe, though? His job seemed even more dangerous than Dillon had realized. And if his mom was working for a guy who was mixed up with drug dealers, well, she wasn’t really safe either. Dillon didn’t know anything about the cartels his dad had been talking about, but he knew his mom must be in danger.
He didn’t like it.
He wished Akira were here. She could talk to them for him, tell them to stop doing scary shit. He was definitely not going to stop haunting them until they did. Maybe he could use one of his parents’ phones to text her when he got enough energy back and ask her to come to DC? But then he remembered what his dad had said about Zane not wanting her to travel and sighed. It didn’t surprise him that Zane was being over-protective; his uncle had gone a little goofy over Akira. Still, it was awfully inconvenient.
Being a ghost had never been harder. Somehow he had to get his parents—both of his parents—back to Florida so that he could get Akira’s help to communicate with them. But how? He rested his elbows on his knees, cradling his chin in his hands as he stared at his dad and tried to think of a plan.
From the next room came the sound of the shower starting. Lucas looked up from his book as Dillon looked toward the closed door. Good, his mom was up. Now maybe something would happen.
Several minutes later, Sylvie emerged dressed in casual clothes with her hair wet and dangling loose around her shoulders. She paused in the doorway, seeing Lucas at the table.
Lucas dropped the paperback he’d been reading, a shiny-coated thriller, on the table before him. “That book sucks.”
Sylvie glanced at it as she crossed into her tiny kitchen. “I haven’t read it.”
“Gaping plot holes, bad characterization,” Lucas continued and then paused. “Oh. Why is it so beat-up?”
“Bought it at a garage sale for a quarter,” she answered, pulling a mug out of her cabinet. “What are you still doing here, Lucas?”
She pulled the coffee pot out of the machine and poured the final dregs into her mug.
“That’s cold,” Lucas pointed out, standing up and moving to where he could watch her.
“I’m not picky.” She took a sip, looking at him over the top of the mug. Her expression showed no reaction to the taste of the bitter beverage, but she put the mug down on the counter. “Why are you still here?”
He leaned against the wall, and for a moment, there was silence. Damn it, Dillon wished he could swear at them. They were talking to one another without words again, he recognized. But he wanted to hear what they had to say.
“And did you learn anything?” Sylvie asked, turning back to the coffee maker and opening the top.
Lucas also turned away. He looked out into the Spartan living room. “No DVDs,” he said. “So I don’t know anything about your taste in movies. No CDs, so ditto music. Books a mix—you’ve got some of everything, and no way of telling which you really like.”
“I like them cheap,” Sylvie answered. “I buy them at garage sales, and get rid of them when I’ve read them.”
“No photos on the walls, no mementos, no souvenirs,” Lucas continued. “White walls. I’d say you didn’t paint, just left the place as the landlord had it, so no idea about your taste in color. Refrigerator almost empty, so you don’t cook.”
Sylvie made a noncommittal sound as she dumped the old coffee grounds into the trash.
“Sherlock Holmes couldn’t learn anything about you from this place, Syl. Except maybe that this is just a bed to sleep in, not a home. You might as well be living in a hotel.”
“So why were you trying?” Sylvie scooped coffee grounds into a fresh filter.
“Because you were right before.”
She looked at him and lifted an eyebrow. Dillon didn’t know what Lucas was talking about either. From his perch on the table, he said, “Go on.”
He knew his father couldn’t hear him, but Lucas obeyed. “You said that people change, that we weren’t the same. You were right. I’m not who I was at fifteen or even at twenty-five. You don’t know who I am. And I don’t know who you are either.” He paused, maybe waiting for an answer.
Sylvie filled the coffee pot with water, not looking at him.
“I want to learn, though.”
She still didn’t answer.
Dillon would have pounded on the tabletop in frustration, except that he’d fall right through it if he did. Why couldn’t his parents just talk to one another like normal people? He wanted to know what his mom was thinking.
Lucas spoke again. “We never had a chance.”
Finally, Sylvie turned away from the coffeepot. “Is Dillon here?”
“I don’t know,” Lucas answered. “He hasn’t sent me any new messages.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Check your phone?”
She nodded and returned to her bedroom for a moment, then came back, phone in hand. “Nothing,” she said, looking troubled. She looked around the room. “Dillon?” Her voice sounded tentative. “Are you here?”
She looked down at her phone. Lucas watched. Dillon tried again to send a message. But nothing happened. The events of the previous evening and night had used up his energy. He’d have to wait.
“Where is he?” Sylvie asked.
“I don’t know.” Lucas shrugged. “Last time, Akira said to give it twenty-four hours before I worried. But I didn’t hear from him until I found you again.”
“Akira?”
Lucas didn’t quite smile. “Zane’s girlfriend. Soon-to-be-wife. She talks to ghosts.”
Sylvie didn’t smile back.
“I know. But she’s not crazy. Or at least not crazier than anyone else at home.”
Sylvie didn’t quite sigh. Lucas’s not-quite-smile turned into a grin. Dillon had to smile, too. Akira could see and talk to ghosts but she didn’t much appreciate the ability.
“So we’re just supposed to hope?” Sylvie asked. “Just wait and wonder?”
“Yeah.”
“Holy Christ, that sucks.” Sylvie grimaced. “Is he okay? Could he have gotten hurt?”
Lucas raised his hands in a gesture of uncertainty. “I don’t know.”
Sylvie stared down at her phone, as if wishing it could talk. “How can he be a ghost?”
“I don’t know.”
“What does he need?”
Lucas shook his head. “I can’t answer that.” His smile was gone. He looked grim, the way he’d looked most of the time since Dillon had been a ghost. If Dillon had realized that his death would screw up his dad so badly, he would have been more careful. But it was too late now.
“Does he want something?” Sylvie continued. “Is there something he has to do? Something unfinished?”
Lucas crossed his arms. “Unanswered questions, you mean?”
Sylvie scowled at him. “I made the right choice.”
Lucas didn’t answer her. She turned her face away from him. Then she walked back into the kitchen.
That was interesting, Dillon thought. His dad sounded almost angry. And he didn’t do angry, usually. He did quiet. Cold. Not even that very often, really.
“I am not an idiot,” Sylvie called from the kitchen. Uh-oh. Where Lucas had sounded almost angry, as if a hint of temper was tucked under his stoic surface, Sylvie sounded pure mad.
She returned to the living room, her fair skin flushed almost red, fingers tight around the coffee cup in her hand.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You thought it.”
A muscle twitched in Lucas’s cheek. “Yeah, well, if you cared what I thought, maybe you should have listened back then.”
“You thought everything would be fine!”
“It would have been.” Lucas scowled.
“You heard the sheriff’s thoughts as clearly as I did. He was waiting for my eighteenth birthday so he could try me as an adult!”
“It wouldn’t have happened!” Lucas snapped.
Dillon wanted to scream. This was almost as bad as when they’d been communicating telepathically. He had no idea what they were talking about it. The sheriff wanted to arrest his mom? And his dad—his dad, who never got angry, never raised his voice—was looking at least as furious as his mom, blue eyes bright, an edge of color touching his tan cheeks.
“You can’t—” Sylvie started furiously. And then she stopped. She took a deep breath. Carefully, she placed her coffee cup on the table, narrowly missing Dillon’s leg. “I can’t believe we’re having this argument again.”
Lucas’s mouth twisted. He glanced at his watch. Anger still edging his voice, he offered, “Took us longer this time. We’ve been together for at least six hours.”
“I was asleep,” Sylvie protested, half smiling, half sulky.
Lucas shrugged. “Still a record.”
Sylvie shook her head, expression rueful. She looked at Lucas for a long moment, then turned away and crossed to the window. She pushed the curtain aside and looked out. Dillon had already spent a long time looking out that window. He knew there was nothing to see but a parking lot and some trees.
“Is that his unfinished business?” she asked, her voice sounding muffled. “Is he a ghost because I abandoned him?”
Dillon stood, jumping off the table. He wished he could talk to her. He was sure she was wrong. He didn’t know why he was a ghost, but he knew it couldn’t have anything to do with his mom leaving him.
Lucas followed Sylvie to the window. “I don’t think he’s a ghost because of anything you did, Syl. Or anything I did.”
“But you don’t know.”
“I do,” Dillon said, annoyed. “It’s nothing to do with you.” Or was it? Perhaps his continued existence did have something to do with his parents. Not that he needed questions answered. And not that they’d done anything wrong. But maybe the reason he was stuck—he paused and glanced over his shoulder, but nope, there was still no sign of a passageway to another plane of existence—was that they needed something from him.
Forgiveness? Absolution?
Or better yet, lives.
Both of his parents lived like campers. No real homes, no real belongings, no real relationships. He knew his dad had girlfriends, but he’d never had one important enough to bring home, and his mom clearly didn’t have anyone significant in her life.
“It’s not your fault,” Lucas said gently.
Sylvie turned toward him. “This is how this story goes,” she said, voice bleak. “We make up, we fall into bed together, we fight again, we don’t see one another for years. Right?”
No, Dillon thought. He didn’t like that story. It was time for a new one. Time for a story where his parents stopped doing scary shit and started living instead. Now that he’d met his mom, it was like he finally understood his dad.