“What blood?”
“She’s sprinkled with blood.” Two little creases appeared on Rose’s forehead as her mouth formed a puzzled moue.
“My blood,” growled Chesney.
Dillon did a double-take, but Rose barely blinked, her expression smoothing. “Oh, that explains it. You must be new in town.”
Chesney bared his teeth in what might have been meant as a smile, but his eyes never wavered from Sylvie. “You could say that.”
“Um, Rose, this is Raymond Chesney, Rachel’s father,” Dillon said, feeling nervous and eyeing Chesney. How had Chesney suddenly become a ghost?
“This is your daughter?” Rose asked. “How lucky you are to be able to see her. Some ghosts are trapped where they die, you know.”
“Lucky?” Chesney snapped. “Lucky? There’s no such thing as luck.”
Rachel and Sylvie had been talking when suddenly Sylvie said, “Oh, God,” and shuddered.
Dillon looked back at them as Rachel said, “Are you hurt?” and stood.
“Ha!” Chesney snorted. “Not her.”
“It’s not my blood,” Sylvie told Rachel.
“Of course it’s not, you bitch.” Chesney clenched his hands on the edge of the table.
Dillon shifted uncomfortably. Rose looked at him, raising her eyebrows and tilting her head in Chesney’s direction as if to suggest he do something. Dillon gave a slight shrug, opening his hands. What did she want him to do?
Rose rolled her eyes at him, and then tried to console Chesney. “Being a ghost isn’t so bad, you know. You might get to like it after a while.”
He looked at her and for the first time seemed to truly notice her. His eyes raked her up and down, taking in her blond curls, full skirt and sleeveless top. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He dismissed her, lip curling with scorn, and turned his attention back to Sylvie and Rachel, his eyes hot.
Dillon felt anger stirring. Ghostly Chesney was as much of a creep as the living Chesney, he thought, as Rachel asked, “Yes, he’s dead?”
Sylvie nodded.
“Oh, how sad she must be,” Rose said sympathetically. She propped her chin on her hand and watched Rachel as the girl stared at the table, playing with her food.
There was a silence that felt awkward to Dillon. He didn’t want to talk to Chesney; he wanted the man to go away. But finally he said, reluctantly, “How did you die? Was there an accident?” just as Rachel asked, “Is it my fault?”
“No, absolutely not,” said Sylvie firmly as Chesney answered, “Accident! It was no accident.”
“He didn’t die because I ran away?”
“Damn straight I did,” Chesney retorted.
“No,” Sylvie said.
Chesney exploded. Foul words spilled from his mouth, expletive after expletive cursing Sylvie and Rachel and the entire world. Rose sat up straighter, her eyes opening wider and then blinking rapidly as Chesney went on and on. He turned and strode away from the table, walking through other tables, then turned and stormed back.
“Maybe you should cover your ears,” Dillon suggested to Rose.
“Do you know what he’s saying?” she asked him. “I’ve never even heard most of those words.”
His smile was wry. He was not going to be the one to teach Rose bad words. Maybe Akira would pay for HBO.
“It’s okay not to feel sad.” Sylvie finished what she was saying just as Chesney turned back to the table.
“The hell it is!” Furious, Chesney flung out his arms as if his rage had become too great for him to contain. Across the table, a photograph on the wall bounced and then fell.
Dillon and Rose exchanged glances, Rose wide-eyed. Dillon stood, sliding out of the booth. “Calm down,” he told Chesney. “You’re dead. Get over it.”
Chesney snarled with fury. Rachel’s fork slid away from her and toward Chesney. He tried to grab it, but his fingers went right through it as the fork dropped onto the floor.
“I may be dead, but I’m going to make her pay.” Chesney turned to a nearby table. He tried to pick up a glass without success. Then he narrowed his eyes and scowled. A spoon flew off the table and across the room, hitting the back of Sylvie’s head as she straightened from picking up the fork.
“Cut that out,” Dillon snapped.
“Not a chance!” Chesney looked around as if trying to find another object to hurl at Sylvie.
Dillon felt his simmering anger start to boil. He reached for Chesney, grabbing at his arm. The bigger man shoved him, and Dillon fell back. Ghosts sometimes faded away, but Chesney was solid to him, so he wouldn’t be fading any time soon.
“Dillon, be careful,” Rose said, sounding worried. She also slid out of the booth and came to stand between the two ghosts. “Mr. Chesney, this isn’t going to help you.”
Max called something to Rachel, and Dillon looked back at the table. Rachel looked scared, he realized, and the sight of her fear made him even angrier. Chesney had done nothing to help her when he was alive and he was upsetting her now. He stepped forward, next to Rose, between Chesney and the booth, but the man ignored him. Behind him, Dillon heard a plate moving across the table and his mother gasp.
People were moving, looking their way, some standing up. A man at the door said something but Dillon was focused on Chesney. “Nothing you do can hurt them now.” His fury pulsed through him, a throbbing energy that burned.
“Want to bet?” Chesney’s eyes narrowed. Dillon could see the calculation as the man added, thoughtfully. “You recognized me. And you know them.”
He looked behind Dillon at Rachel, still seated, and Sylvie, standing by the edge of the table, before finally letting his gaze stop on Rose. “What did she say?” He gestured at Sylvie with a jerk of his head. “That’s your mother?”
Dillon glared. “That’s right.”
“Well, kid, I’m going to make her life hell.” His voice held a vicious edge.
“Right, by throwing spoons at her?” Dillon scoffed, but his rage was like a choking cloud around him, a fog that he had to fight to see through.
Chesney closed his eyes and clenched his fists. Behind them, a light bulb popped and glass shattered.
“Leave her alone,” Dillon yelled. His hands curled into fists. Another light bulb crackled and shattered.
“Dillon, don’t,” Rose protested. “That was you. Stop it.”
Chesney stilled, but he was watching the people at Dillon’s back, ignoring Dillon. Then he laughed. The sound grated like the shriek of an owl. “Yes! That murdering bitch will fry.”
Dillon looked behind him. Colin Rafferty, the sheriff, had his hand on Sylvie’s shoulder and she was turning to accompany him, tossing a wry grin at Rachel. “What’s going on?”
“He’s arresting her.” Chesney chortled with mirthless glee. “For my murder. We’ll see how the bitch likes jail.”
The words hit Dillon like a bucket of ice water pouring over his head.
Jail?
His mother had killed Chesney. He wouldn’t be able to talk to her. His parents wouldn’t be together. His mother wouldn’t be safe.
His father wouldn’t be happy.
“Dillon, please.” The urgency in Rose’s voice broke through his shock. “You have to calm down.”
“Run, Rose,” he answered, although his voice didn’t sound like his own. “Run.”
Anger, frustration, despair, grief. His emotions were a whirlpool, pulling him down, down, down.
And then the restaurant was gone. Walls, tables, chairs, people, all had disappeared. The ceiling and the floor were lost, vanished into an infinity of space and endless nothing.
*****
‘Sylvie. Sylvie.’
The voice was insistent, demanding. Sylvie rubbed her nose against her arm, squeezed her eyes shut a little tighter, and tried to ignore it.
‘Sylvie. Love. Wake up for me.’
Wait. Was that Lucas? She forced her eyelids up, feeling the stickiness of sleep and the burn of not enough of it in her eyes, but not moving as she came slowly alert.
‘Lucas?’
Head still resting on her folded arms, she tried to remember where she was. The interrogation room at the police station, of course. She’d been so tired that when they’d left her alone in here, she’d put her head down on the table and gone to sleep like a first-grader at quiet time. How long had it been?
She pushed herself upright and rubbed her face. The room was still empty, but she could have sworn she’d heard Lucas talking to her. “Lucas?”
‘I’m here. Behind the glass.’
Sylvie looked. The wall across from her held a window that was dark glass. A one-way mirror. Still half-asleep, she said, “Your dress saved my life.”
On the way to the police station, sitting in the back of the sheriff’s car, she’d been thinking about the phone calls she hadn’t had a chance to make, the words she hadn’t had a chance to say. She’d wanted to tell Lucas that even though she’d destroyed their future, she wouldn’t be alive without him.
‘
Shhh. Not out loud,’
he thought.
‘I don’t want Colin to know that we can talk.’
She blinked and then shook her head slightly, trying to come back to full consciousness. Now that she was awake, she could feel Lucas’s presence. But he wasn’t alone—at least two, maybe three other people stood with him.
One of them was the sheriff. Sylvie’s lips curled in a reluctant smile at the sound of his grumbling thoughts.
‘I’d say he suspects.’
‘Yeah.’
Sylvie could almost see the resigned shrug Lucas was giving in the face of the sheriff’s glare.
‘He’s an old friend. It doesn’t matter as long as he doesn’t try to kick me out. If he does . . .’
He let the thought trail off, but the threat was implied.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’
‘Not about that. About all of it.’
‘It’ll be okay.’
His thought held a calm assurance that almost made Sylvie laugh. It was so Lucas. And so wrong.
‘Lucas,’
she protested. Didn’t he understand? Did he not know why she was here?
‘I killed two men.’
‘I know.’
Sylvie’s eyebrows drew down as she frowned. How could he sound so sure? He hadn’t been there. And what was he doing here? She glanced around the room, wondering. Was she really awake? This wasn’t a dream, was it? But the cool air, the hard chair, the antiseptic smell—it all felt real.
‘Once I knew you were headed to Florida, I caught an early flight. I thought it’d be faster than getting a company plane sent to Washington to pick me up. But we got stuck on the runway.’
Regret and frustration at the memory tinged the words as Lucas answered one of her questions.
‘But how did you know . . .’
Sylvie let the thought trail off.
‘We had the house under surveillance.’
Sylvie winced. Hell. If she’d known that, if she’d known that Lucas was on his way and that help was so close at hand, would her choices have been different? Probably.
‘I wish I’d known. I wish . . .’
Sylvie couldn’t find the words to express her regrets.
‘I’m so sorry,’
she repeated instead.
‘Don’t apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for.’
Why didn’t he understand?
‘I’m going to prison, Lucas. Probably for a very long time.’
‘No, you’re not.’
Sylvie wasn’t sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry. She pressed her lips together to stop herself from doing either.
‘Florida’s a death penalty state. I’ll be lucky if they call it manslaughter, not murder.’
‘Trust me on this.’
His thoughts sounded so calm, so reasonable.
Sylvie closed her eyes.
‘Even if you’re friends with the police here, Lucas, you can’t be sure of that.’
‘That has nothing to do with it.’
His thought felt slightly offended. Sylvie almost felt relieved. She didn’t want to go to jail, but she also didn’t want any part of a corrupt investigation.
Then he added, with a tone that was more amused than anxious,
‘Besides, I’ve waited twenty years for you, Sylvie. I’m not going to stop now.’
‘Lucas,’
Sylvie tried to protest.
‘You’re insane.’
‘Admit it, Syl. It’s the same for you. What we have is special, worth waiting for.’
Sylvie stared at the glass. She wished she could see Lucas’s face, wished she could touch him and know that he was next to her. He hadn’t sounded worried about whether or not she was going to prison, but was there a trace of anxiety in his last statement? Was he asking a question?
‘Yes,’
she admitted.
‘Why?’
Maybe it was his uncertainty or her fear that this might be the last chance she’d have to share her thoughts with him for a very long time, but she felt as if she were opening a door. He’d always been Prince Charming—rich, attractive, smart, the world at his fingertips. But she’d always been Cinderella. What did he see in her?
His answer was a flood of memories and then he stilled his thoughts. She could feel him picking his words.
‘People wear masks. I see beneath them. Do you know what’s under your mask, Sylvie?’
She scowled. Good God, was he going to get all complicated and weird and metaphorical on her? And then her frown deepened as she felt him laughing.
‘That’s what’s under your mask, Sylvie. Honesty.’
‘I don’t wear a mask.’
‘No, you don’t. And . . .’
It was feeling he sent, no words, but she understood the message because it was how she felt, too. Without Lucas, she was alone. Aware of other people in a way they couldn’t reciprocate, understanding but not understood. Lucas, though—he saw her, the real her. He understood her. And she gave that back to him.
She’d never admitted it, not even to herself, but that link had always scared her a little. Lucas had exploded into her lonely adolescence like a dangerous narcotic, one that could far too easily take her over.
‘Ha.’
He was listening as she thought, of course, and responded with a picture, a memory of the exotic, mysterious older woman he’d seen her as when he was fifteen.
She smiled but sorrow was rising in her throat. They could have made it work this time. They could have.