And then she’d wanted to know all about him and about being a ghost and all about Sylvie. Between interruptions for sleep and meals and school and homework—which, much to Dillon’s frustration, Rachel still insisted on completing—making a plan to get to Tassamara felt as if it was taking forever.
Rachel ruled out the simple approach. She’d scoffed at Dillon’s suggestion that she sneak out of school and hop on the nearest bus. “My father is rich and famous,” she told him, not sounding happy about it. “If they think I’ve run away, every police officer in five states will be looking for me. My picture will be everywhere. I bet I wouldn’t make it ten miles. No, if I’m going to get all the way to Florida, we’ve got to distract them. They have to think I’ve been kidnapped.”
Dillon had reluctantly agreed. He didn’t like it, but to get Rachel away from here, they were going to have to trick a whole bunch of people, starting with her security guards.
At least his mom wouldn’t be one of them. He’d been freaked out when she hadn’t shown up for work on Monday, but some easy eavesdropping on the other bodyguards revealed why she was missing. It was perfect, really. He’d get Rachel to Florida, then text Sylvie and tell her he could help find Rachel if she’d come to Tassamara. She wouldn’t want to tell anyone that she was getting messages from a ghost, so she’d have to fly down there and talk to him.
Perfect.
If only the rest of it went smoothly.
Escaping from the house was out. Apart from the security system, there were too many people and too many cameras. Escaping from the school was just as bad. Strangers weren’t allowed on the grounds and students weren’t allowed off them. Plus, more cameras. No way could Rachel convincingly pretend to be kidnapped from the school.
A field trip would have been a good opportunity, but it was early December. Rachel didn’t know when the next school trip would be, but she was sure it wouldn’t be until after Christmas and they both agreed that was too long to wait.
That left her after-school activities. They’d been using Google Maps to trace out the distance between each of Rachel’s activities and the bus station. When Rachel paused, Dillon peered over her shoulder to see what she was looking at. “I know that address,” she’d said, pointing at a location two blocks away from the train station.
Train?
he texted
.
No train tracks passed through Tassamara, only a bus line. If she took a train, she’d have to stop somewhere along the way and switch to a bus.
She didn’t answer him, just quickly switched websites and started searching the Amtrak schedules. “Look at that,” she said. She leaned back in her chair.
Dillon looked, but he didn’t know what she wanted him to notice, so he turned to see her face instead. She looked pale and pinched, almost scared.
Bad?
he texted. She didn’t look at his message right away, still staring at the computer screen, but then she visibly shook off her reverie and picked up the phone.
“No, no.” She shook her head. “It’s just—it’s real.” The volume of her voice dropped until she was almost whispering. “I can do this.” Her eyes grew bright with excitement. “I can do this,” she repeated.
“Tell me,” Dillon demanded. He started texting but before he’d even gotten the first few letters out, Rachel started talking.
“That address is where AlecCorp has its offices,” she told him. “I’ve been there before. I didn’t pay much attention, but it’s right near the train station. And look, a train leaves for Florida at 9:40 on Friday night.”
“So?” Dillon asked when Rachel paused.
“Somehow I have to get him to let me go to the party.” Rachel pushed back her chair. Standing, she began pacing around her room, head down, staring at the floor. She was still talking, but the words were mumbled and Dillon could only understand a word here and there.
“If I—no, that won’t work. Maybe I—no. But if he thinks . . .”
Dillon wanted to yell in exasperation. Instead, he flopped onto Rachel’s bed and waited. Being a ghost had taught him far too many lessons in patience.
Finally, Rachel stopped moving and looked up. “AlecCorp is having their holiday party on Friday. If I can get to the party, I can catch a train to Florida. Look.” She crossed back to the computer and pointed at the screen. “I could get one of these little rooms. I wouldn’t have to worry about people seeing me. If we timed it right, I could be on the train before anyone even knew I was gone. I’d take the train to this place, Palatka, and get there before lunchtime. And then find a bus.”
She sat down again and her fingers flew over the keyboard as she pulled up bus schedules. “Look,” she said with delight. “The bus station is right at the Amtrak station. I wouldn’t even have to look for it; it’s right there.”
She turned around again and looked at the empty room. “What do you think?” she asked, sounding tentative, and reached to pick up her phone. She stared at its blank screen and waited.
It’s perfect
, Dillon texted her. A party was even better than an after-school activity—noise, confusion, crowds, maybe even dim lighting if they were lucky. He’d cause a distraction and Rachel would sneak away. The only problem would be her bodyguard.
Well, probably not her only problem. Maybe just the biggest.
Rachel smiled.
“We can do this,” she said. “I can get you home.” Her voice held a mix of determination and excitement as she turned back to her computer.
“And I can get you away from here,” he told her. He didn’t know how he’d help her once they got to Florida, but he’d find a way.
*****
By Friday afternoon, almost all their problems had been solved, but Dillon couldn’t help worrying.
U sr?
he texted her, as he watched her trying to carefully grind a pill into dust. She glanced at her phone when it buzzed, then frowned and tilted it up.
“Sr?” she said aloud. “Serious?”
Dillon rolled his eyes. He was trying to be careful how he used his energy.
Sure
, he sent, feeling impatient.
“Oh!” She frowned. “Yes, of course. I’m serious, too, though. Lydia always carries around her own drink, this weird red tea from Africa. She keeps it in the refrigerator in the staff kitchen, the big one downstairs. I can sneak in there and put this in the tea right before we leave for the party.”
Dillon hated this part of the plan.
“Or almost right before we leave,” Rachel said. She paused in her grinding. “If I put it in too soon, she might start feeling funny before we get to the party. But if I leave it too long, she might have already refilled her bottle.” She stuck her pinky in her mouth and started chewing on the fingernail.
Dillon would have loved to point out the other risks. What if Rachel misjudged the amount and gave her bodyguard only enough to make her sick? If Lydia called someone for help, Rachel could wind up with an alert and now paranoid guard watching her. Or what if Rachel put too much in? What if she didn’t just knock Lydia out, but killed her?
“No, this idea is still the best.” Rachel pulled her finger out of her mouth and returned to work. “It’ll be okay.”
Dillon thought she was reassuring herself as much as him. Gloomily, he wondered whether he’d have to keep her company if she wound up in jail after this.
She’d already stolen money and a credit card from her father. She’d bought a plane ticket online with the credit card. It would serve as a distraction, she told Dillon. They’d realize she’d run away eventually, maybe within a couple of hours depending on how long it took them to trace her GPS tracker. With any luck, the plane ticket would send them to the airport first. The extra time that would give her might be enough to get her to Florida. With her own savings and the cash she’d stolen, she’d have enough money to buy the train ticket without leaving a paper trail.
But first they had to get out of AlecCorp. She’d managed to convince Chesney to let her accompany him to the party. He’d been doubtful, but she’d told him she wanted the opportunity to make him proud, to erase the shame of throwing up at the last party. Dillon had been awed and a little worried at what a good liar she was.
She wasn’t going to be able to bring much with her. They’d tried to figure out how she could sneak her backpack into the car, but even if she could manage that, how would she get it into the party? Instead, she was wearing a shirt and rolled-up leggings under her long-sleeved dress. Fortunately, she was so skinny that the extra layer wasn’t too noticeable.
“All right,” she finally said, looking down at the powder she’d made. Carefully, she scraped it into a plastic bag. Looking up, she said, “You’ll stay with me the whole time, right?”
She was going to have to leave her phone behind. If she didn’t, the GPS in the phone would give her away as soon as someone called the phone company. That meant no way to communicate with her.
The whole time
, he promised her, texting the words as he said them. But what good would he be? If she got into trouble, how could he help her?
She nodded. “Here we go then.”
Dillon grimaced. Here they went. And if this went badly, it would be all his fault.
*****
Sylvie swiveled. Layers of black chiffon floated slightly up, then slowly settled down.
She spun. The dress spun, too.
“You look amazing.”
Sylvie stopped spinning so quickly she almost tripped. Smoothing the layers of skirt, she turned toward Lucas. He was leaning against the wall, dressed in formal evening attire, his hair still wet from his shower.
“That was fast,” she said, feeling a slight burn of embarrassment climbing to her cheeks at having been caught playing like a little girl.
“No, don’t,” he said, straightening and taking a step closer.
‘
Don’t?’
“I like seeing you happy,” he answered her thought.
The color rose higher. They’d spent the past two days in her hotel room, eating room service meals, occasionally watching the latest movies on television, leaving only for brief interludes in the exercise room, and he’d definitely seen her happy. Very happy.
He grinned. “Not what I meant, but that’s nice too.” He reached for her and she came willingly, flowing into his arms as if she was meant to be there. She lifted her face for his kiss, but before his lips touched hers, a thought slipped free.
‘
How much longer?’
He paused, arms tight against her.
‘Ever the optimist.’
“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling back. “That wasn’t meant for you to hear.” She tried to smile at him.
“Most things people think aren’t,” he answered, a twist to his mouth. “Why are you afraid, Syl?”
“I’m not afraid,” she answered, heat in her voice, reacting before thinking. And then she paused, looked away and up, looked back, sighed. “Okay. It’s just . . . we’re bound to fight eventually, Lucas. We always do.”
Taking her hand, he tugged her to the side of the bed and sat next to her. He laced their fingers together, looking down at their hands. She could feel his caution, and she clenched her fingers around his. “There’s no point in trying to be careful with me, Lucas. I’ll know what you’re thinking.”
He looked up at her, his blue eyes bright. “All right, then, I won’t be careful. We only ever fight about whether we should be together, Sylvie. That’s the only important fight we’ve ever had. If you’d give us a chance this time, we might not argue at all.”
Sylvie’s mouth opened but no words came out. Finally, she snapped, “Me? Me give us a chance? I wasn’t the one not giving us a chance in Milan.” She pulled her hand free from his and stood, turning her back to him, walking the four steps away to the desk by the window, feeling her anger rising while the black chiffon layers floated with every quick movement.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, sounding authentically confused.
“Milan? When you didn’t want things to change and I did?” She could hear the bitterness in her own voice and she tried to hold it back, to not let it spill out into her words.
“Again, what are you talking about?”
With the distance of the room between them, she turned to face him. “The last time we met? In Italy?” She didn’t want to say the words but she couldn’t stop herself from thinking them.
‘When you said that Dillon was better off with your parents? That they were better for him than we would be?’
Lucas stood. “I didn’t say that.”
Sylvie arched her eyebrows at him.
“Well, not like that.” He paused, frowning, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “You thought I was a bad father. I wasn’t.”
“I didn’t say that,” Sylvie protested. She’d abandoned their child, so what right did she have to judge Lucas? On the other hand, he hadn’t exactly been spending his time going to Little League games. She wouldn’t have accused him of neglecting Dillon out loud. She hadn’t meant to accuse him at all. But it was hard enough to control her unruly tongue without having to manage her wayward brain waves. “But you weren’t any more of a father than I was a mother.”
“Agreed.” He shrugged. “I was fifteen years old when Dillon was born. You were seventeen. I still don’t think you would have gone to jail, but you made a loving choice, Sylvie, when you let my parents raise him. All those things you wanted for him? He had them. He had the bedroom and the bicycle and the backyard and dinner on the table every night at six. And I made that choice, too. Sure, I could have dragged him to college with me and let a nanny raise him while I went to classes and studied, but with my parents, he had a home and love and security. And damned good parents, too.”
Sylvie closed her eyes. Here they were, fighting about Dillon again. And the irony was, this time it didn’t matter. Dillon was dead. Nothing she did could change that.
“Sylvie.” Lucas’s voice was husky, gentle. He had felt the moment her anger changed to grief, she knew. “We did the best we could.”
‘It should have been different.’
For once, Sylvie didn’t hide her pain. She let the hurt show
. ‘Why didn’t you want it to be?’
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”