She has Jane’s eyes, big and brown, but paler, tired, with deep lines at the edges. Her mouth is different, smaller and harsher, but the cheeks are the same.
“Can I help you?” she asks, her tone slightly hostile.
“Mrs. Morris?” I ask.
“Yes?”
“My name is Lexi. I’m a friend of Jane’s.”
Silence, and then she hurries toward me.
“Have you seen her?” she asks anxiously. “Did you talk to her?”
“No,” I say quickly. “I’m sorry, I haven’t. I just wanted to talk to you.”
She searches my face, dark circles under her eyes.
“Come in,” she says, turning into the house. I follow her, step back into the living room.
“Sit,” she says, carrying the bag into the kitchen. “You want something to drink?”
Jane makes a noise in her throat and I glance at her.
“I’m all right,” I say. I clear a spot on the futon, pushing aside magazines and a sweatshirt covered in cat hair, and sit down. A cat immediately jumps up and butts its head against me.
“You sure? Water? Soda? Iced tea?”
“Um, okay, iced tea,” I say, trying to move her along.
I hear cupboards opening and the tinkle of ice cubes, and after a moment Mrs. Morris is back with two tall glasses. She places one in front of me on the wicker coffee table and sinks down into the yellow chair with her own. Watching me, she opens the bottle of vodka and pours a good portion of it into her glass.
“You want any?” she asks.
“Jesus, Mom,” Jane says, rolling her head back.
“No, thank you,” I say, taking a sip of the tea. It’s bitter, and the ice cubes have that old freezer taste.
“You’re a friend from school?”
I nod. “We have pre-calc together.”
“So what do you want?”
“Mrs. Morris—”
“Amanda,” she interrupts.
“Amanda. I was hoping I could ask you some questions.”
“About Janie? Why?”
“I’m a reporter,” I lie, “for the school newspaper. I thought I could write a piece about Jane, get her picture out there. I thought it might help.”
Amanda looks at me, taking a long drink. “The police asked me all kinds of awful questions. Does Jane do drugs, does she disappear often.” She swallows hard, a slight tremor in her hand. “My daughter didn’t run away. She wouldn’t. She has her whole life ahead of her.”
“I don’t think she did, either,” I tell her.
“That’s worse, isn’t it?” Amanda asks, her eyes shining. “They told me there are other missing people. They haven’t found any of them, not alive, not dead. They’re just . . . gone.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“That morning,” Amanda says. “She left for school just like any other day. Left the coffee on for me.” She gives a sad, wet laugh. “She’s always trying to take care of me.”
“Somebody has to,” Jane says quietly.
“Were you worried when she didn’t come home?” I ask.
Amanda won’t meet my eyes. “I was asleep. I thought she’d come home late or spend the night with a friend. I guess she got separated from them somehow. I didn’t even know she was missing until the next day.”
She takes another long pull from her glass, and when she sets it down I catch a glimpse of red marks on the inside of her arm.
“What happened to your arm?” I ask.
Amanda looks down at her wrist, blinking a few times.
“Oh. I don’t know,” she says, her voice slightly thick. “I think it was the cats.”
I glance at Jane, and her face darkens.
“My mother wouldn’t hurt me,” she says. “She’s a sad drunk, not a violent one.”
“We fought that morning,” Amanda says suddenly, and I look over at her.
“About what?”
Amanda shakes her empty drink and I understand. “I didn’t want to get up. She yelled at me that I was going to be late for work.”
“Wait. I remember this,” Jane says slowly. “Oh, god. I told her I wouldn’t always be around to wake her up.”
“I thought she was trying to teach me a lesson,” Amanda whispers. “I thought that’s why Janie didn’t come home at first.”
The air in a normal-sized room weighs a hundred pounds. I swear the air in this room is heavier; I can feel every pound pressing down on me. Maybe it’s the faint scent of cigarette smoke, maybe it’s Jane, or maybe it’s the choking weight of guilt that makes it hard to breathe.
“Can we go?” Jane asks tightly. “I remember that morning. We fought; I left for school. I don’t want to be here anymore, Lexi.”
“Okay,” I say out loud. “Thank you for talking to me.”
Amanda nods, her eyes glassy. I get up to leave as she reaches for the vodka bottle again.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I shut the door behind us.
“What are you sorry for?” Jane asks.
“Janie, your mom—”
“Don’t call me Janie,” Jane snaps.
“Okay,” I say, holding up my hands. “Look, we need to figure out why you went to the club and who was with you. If people are going missing from the same areas, then maybe whoever brought you down there is involved.”
“I don’t know why I went there,” Jane says. “I’d never been there before.”
“Maybe your boyfriend knows? Maybe the concert was canceled and you went dancing with him instead?”
“I don’t know,” Jane repeats. “I don’t have any answers for you, all right? My memory is like Swiss cheese and I can’t stop bleeding.” She wipes at her neck angrily. “Why can’t I fix it?”
I don’t answer, because I don’t know. She’s a powerful ghost, or at least she should be. Maybe she isn’t concentrating hard enough.
“It isn’t real,” I remind her.
“Yeah,” she says, huffing out a bitter laugh. “But it was.” She wipes her fingers on her shirt, leaving long trails of red, like a claw over her heart.
10
“I HAVE TO GO TO WORK SOON. WE CAN FIGURE out a plan to talk to your boyfriend when I get back.”
We’ve been driving in silence for almost twenty minutes as I head back home. Jane stares straight ahead, her back rigid, mouth tight at the corners.
“Jane?” I turn onto my street, glance over at her. “I said—”
“I heard you the first time,” she says.
I park the car and turn to face her.
“Are you going to be okay?”
“I think I passed okay a while back, don’t you?” She doesn’t wait for me, gliding through the car door and out the other side. The hair on my arms raises, an electric current pulsing in the air. I know they can do that, but it’s one thing to know and another to watch a body seep through a wall like grease.
I climb up the stairs slowly and Jane’s already inside when I open the door, spreading out on my bed.
“I didn’t mean it like that, and you know it,” I tell her, pulling the sketch out of my pocket. I unfold it and lay it on my dresser, smoothing out the creases. I open the drawer and pull out a clean black T-shirt to change into.
Jane sighs. “Fine, I’ll be okay.”
“Are you sure? Because you seem a little . . .”
“A little what?” Jane asks. “Upset? Why would I be upset? Because my alcoholic mother is falling apart?”
I tug the shirt on, a tremor running through my hands. “You think you’re the first person to have mommy issues? She’s falling apart because she cares. At least you can still see her. Not everyone comes back, even if you want them to.”
Even if you beg them to.
“Are you saying I’m lucky?” Jane growls at me. “I’m dead.”
“So are a lot of people,” I snap. “Cut it with the self-pity, because I’m not interested. You don’t have a corner on shit luck.”
Jane’s eyes
narrow and heat rolls off her from across the room. She sits up, her teeth bared, and then a body flickers in front of my face.
“Dammit, Trevor,” I yell, pushing him away from me. “Stop doing that.”
“It’s not my fault,” he says, holding up his hands. “You’re always in the way.” He glances from me to Jane, taking in her eyes and the sweat beading my forehead. “So, what’s up?”
“Nothing,” Jane says, her jaw flexing.
“I talked to Jane’s mother today,” I tell him, my voice too light.
“Oh,” he says. “That bad, huh?”
“It’s none of your business,” Jane hisses at him. “Or Lexi’s. So both of you can just back off.”
“Hey,” Trevor protests. “Back off yourself. Lexi’s trying to help you. It isn’t easy for her to meet people, you know.”
A rush of panic hits my lungs.
“Oh, I’m sorry, is my murder getting in the way of your social anxiety or whatever?” Jane asks me.
“What?” Trevor frowns. “No, I mean—”
“That’s enough,” I interrupt, before he can clarify why I don’t like to touch people. “I have to go to work.”
Trevor blinks at me. “Aw, right now?”
“Yeah.” I shrug on a hoodie. “Don’t break anything.”
“Very funny,” he huffs, and turns to Jane. “Well. Guess it’s just you and me, baby doll.”
“Keep an eye on her,” I tell him quietly.
“I don’t need a baby-sitter,” Jane says, her voice cool. “And take that thing out of here.” She points at the sketch on my dresser.
“What is that?” Trevor asks.
“One of Jane’s sketches,” I tell him while she glowers.
“I like it,” Trevor says, leaning over the paper. “I didn’t know you could draw.”
“Not anymore,” Jane says curtly. “I can’t hold a fucking pencil now, can I?”
“You said I could have it,” I tell her.
“You can have it, but I don’t want to see it.”
There’s a spike of heat, and if I keep fighting I’m going to be late. “Fine,” I say, teeth gritted, and I grab the picture and leave, slamming the door behind me.
“Lexi!”
I turn around in the hallway, find Trevor running after me.
“She doesn’t know, does she?” he asks, his eyes troubled. “Everything you can do.”
I go still, and then with a sigh the tension bleeds out, my back softening. “Don’t tell her. Please.”
He stares at me, pity blooming across his face. “You touched her, didn’t you? You saw what was going to happen.”
“I have to go.” I go to turn away, but his hand on my arm stops me.
“Is that why you’re doing this?” he asks. “You’re trying to make it up to her?”
“No,” I say, stepping out of his reach. “I know I can’t.”
“Maybe she would understand.”
“Would you?”
Trevor’s eyes are pained, and I nod.
“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” I start back down the hall.
“Wait, Lex—”
“I have to go, Trevor,” I say, not stopping.
“I know,” he calls after me. “Just . . . don’t get rid of the picture, okay?”
I tuck it more firmly under my arm.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
Nicole gives me a bright smile when I finally show up to work.
“Hey,” she says, wiping water rings from the bar. “Listen, thanks for the other night. I probably shouldn’t have made you come all the way out here for something so silly.”
“It wasn’t silly,” I tell her.
She huffs out her cheeks. “I never know how much of it is real, you know? How much is true and how much is me wanting it to be true.”
I take my hoodie off and hold out my hand for a towel. She tosses one to me and I start cleaning the other end of the bar.
“You should trust yourself,” I tell her. “I do. How many times have you saved me from breaking my fingers on some guy’s face?”
Nicole laughs, and it rings out like a bell. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t want you getting arrested.” Her face turns serious. “But I’m not like some of the others here. I can’t do what Theo does with the tattoos; I don’t see ghosts like you.”
I turn before my face gives away anything I don’t want to tell. I don’t want Nicole looking at me the way my mother did, the way Jane would if I told her the truth.
“I wish things were clearer, you know?” she says. “Like, my aunt, she’s the strongest psychic I know. She’s been working with me, but it’s still just feelings, nothing concrete.”
“You’re young,” I say, even though she’s two years older than me. But I’ve never been young. “And maybe they’re just feelings, but you’ve never been wrong. You’ll get stronger the more—” Nicole’s eyes go wide and unfocused and I stop. “Nicole? What is it?”
“Something’s wrong,” she says, her face draining of color.
“Where?”
“Stockroom,” she says. She blinks and her eyes snap to me, wide with fear. “Someone’s hurt.”
“I’ll go.” I drop my towel on the bar. “You stay here and call Ilia.”
She reaches for me but pulls her hand back at the last second.
“Be careful, Lexi,” she says, and I can feel her watching me as I head toward the door.
I keep pressing the button for the basement, even though I know it won’t make the elevator go any faster. When it finally dings open, I burst out into the stockroom. I can hear a voice, low and frantic, coming from behind the rows of wooden shelves stacked with wine and liquor. The room is huge, with cement floors, and I shiver at the clammy chill in the air and zip my hoodie.
“Hello?” I call out, heading toward the rows. “Who’s there?”
There’s a scrape of movement, and then Ilia steps out from behind a shelf, his skin pale under the fluorescent lights.
“Lexi?” he asks, eyes wild.
“What’s going on, Ilia?”
He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, then closes it.
“Ilia?” I prompt.
“Over here,” he says, snapping into movement. “I need your help.”
He runs over to the wall lined with heavy wooden crates of beer, and I suck in a breath when I see what’s waiting for us.
“Ilia, what the hell? Who is that?”
The man is slumped against the wall, his face so bruised and swollen it’s hard to make out the features.
“Jordan,” Ilia says through gritted teeth, looking like he wants to smash something. “I just came down to get mixers.”
I glance back at the man, try to rearrange the face into the rangy features of the man usually outside Urie’s office.
“Here, help me move him,” Ilia says.
“What?” I shake my head. “Ilia, no. Let me get Theo—”
“Just help me,” Ilia snarls. “Get his feet, okay? He’s got boots on; you don’t have to touch him much.”
“Shit,” I say, moving closer to Jordan. His eyes open a slit, and a soft moan comes out of his mouth.
“Jordan, are you okay?”
“Of course he’s not okay,” Ilia says. “He’s beat half to hell.”
“So how did he end up here?” I ask.
Ilia meets my eyes. “I don’t know; I just found him down here, looking like this. Feet, Lexi.”
I set my jaw and go toward Jordan’s feet while Ilia crouches next to his face.
“Jordan, we need to get you off the floor, okay?”
Jordan opens one eye and mumbles something.
“It’s gonna hurt,” Ilia says. “I’m sorry.” He looks up and waits until I nod.
“Go,” I say, and I wrap my hands around Jordan’s thick boots while Ilia takes his shoulders. His death whispers against my senses, tugging at the edge of mind. I grind my teeth and try to shut it out as we shuffle Jordan over to th
e stack of crates.
“Here,” Ilia says, and I let go, breathing hard. I only caught a glimpse, but it’s enough. Jordan’s death has blood, and pain, and a bullet. Not yet, but soon.
Jordan grunts as Ilia releases him, his eyes closing as he settles against the crates. I rub my hands against my pants, wait for the images to trickle out of my mind.
“You still with me, buddy?” Ilia asks, leaning over Jordan’s face.
“Ilia, he needs to go to the hospital.”
“No.” The word is garbled but clear coming out of Jordan’s lips. “No hospital.”
Ilia’s mouth goes flat, but he doesn’t argue. “I’ll call Phillip,” he says, glancing at me. “Stay with him.”
I nod, bending down so my face is close to Jordan’s.
“Hey,” I say. “Jordan, it’s Lexi. Can you hear me?”
“No hospital,” he says again.
“We got that,” I tell him. “No one’s taking you anywhere, okay? Relax.”
“Just hurry,” Ilia says into his phone, coming back over. He hangs up and runs a hand over his face. The lines around his eyes are deeper than I remember, his eyes shadowed. He looks scared—scared and angry. “Phillip’s coming down.”
“Good,” I say.
“Jordan?” Ilia says. “Can you tell us what happened? Who did this to you?”
Jordan takes in a rattling breath. “Don’t know,” he mumbles. “Spell.”
He coughs, his whole body shaking, and Ilia braces him across the chest.
“Easy, man,” he says. “Try not to move. What spell?”
Jordan blinks his eyes open and focuses on Ilia. “Protection spell,” he says slowly. “Someone tried to break through.”
“Do you know who?” I ask him, my heart pounding.
His gaze flickers to me. “No. I tried a trace, but it went wrong.”
“Wrong how?” Ilia asks.
“They’re concealed,” Jordan says. “Spell rebounded on me. Too strong.”
I meet Ilia’s eyes over Jordan.
“Blinding magic?” he whispers, horrified. “A concealment spell?”
“It’s one of us,” I say, dread hammering at my spine. “The killer is a witch.”
“Why?” Ilia asks, looking as sick as I feel. “Why would anyone do this? Is this some sort of fucked-up witch sacrifice thing?”
“Don’t do that kind of shit,” Jordan says, struggling to breathe. “Not anymore. Not even the old-timers.”
Missing, Presumed Dead Page 9
