by C. P. Rider
Dead End
C.P. Rider
Alex Pitones
VC Group, LLC
Copyright © 2021 by Alex Pitones & C. P. Rider
Cover Design by Isabelle@The Book Brander
Developmental Editing Services by Sue Brown Moore
Translation assistance by Julissa Tirado Martin
Proofreading Services by Laurel Kriegler
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For Maria Guadalupe Hernandez Pitones, beloved mother-in-law and grandmother
Contents
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Also by C.P. Rider
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
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1
It was three fifteen in the morning and I was lying in a musty motel bed, sneak-reading the last pages of my book by the light of a burner phone, when the ghost popped into the corner of my vision.
What are you doing here? I mouthed the words so my dad wouldn't hear.
The ghost slouched against the table where Dad and I had eaten dinner and stared at me. Then he looked at the bathroom door. Then me again.
Not only do I see ghosts; I speak to them, too. The fact that this isn't even close to the strangest thing about me goes a long way toward explaining the weirdness that is my life.
I set my book and phone aside, and threw back the covers. All right. I'm coming.
The ghost's first name was Aedan. I didn't know his last name. He was around my age, nearly a foot taller than my 5 foot 3, and built like a baseball player—muscular, but slim. Aedan and I were color opposites. I had brown-olive skin, dark brown hair and eyes, and he—was a ghost. So, mostly colorless and a little fuzzy around the edges. Even as a ghost, he was hot. Long hair, nice smile, and eyes that stared into a person's soul.
He grinned at me and my heart did a flip-flop in my chest.
I glanced at the next bed, where Dad and my dog Toby were sprawled out, both snoring. Toby usually slept with me, but he'd abandoned my bed an hour ago when it became clear I wasn't putting down my book anytime soon.
Aedan passed through the closed bathroom door. I followed him into the closet-sized room, after stealing a last glance at Dad to be sure he was asleep. He was.
The bathroom, much like the rest of the motel room, stank of bleach, smoke, and mildew. The windows and walls were yellowed from nicotine, and there were traces of dried blood in the tile grout. Honestly, I was kind of shocked there weren't more ghosts in the room.
"My dad could have seen you," I whispered.
Aedan shrugged.
With another glance at the closed door, I turned the hot water tap on the sink to full blast until the mirror fogged up. Ghosts don't speak, so the only way he could communicate was by writing on a steamy mirror. We spent a lot of time in the bathroom together, although Aedan never approached me in there when I was showering or—anything else. He wasn't a perv.
What's shaking, babe?
I rolled my eyes as he silently laughed at his own stupid joke. "Not funny, ghost boy."
Zero. That's how many people knew that I was born with the ability to make the earth quake—other than my dad—until Aedan. I told myself it was safe to tell him because he was a ghost, but the truth was, I'd have confided in him even if he were a living person. Something about Aedan made me feel like I could trust him.
Ghost MAN. He wrote the words close together with small letters as if trying to squeeze as much as he could on the small mirror.
"Ghost child. And you were asking for it."
The old motel mattress creaked with movement from outside the bathroom door, and I shot a quick glance over my shoulder. Dad could just be turning over in his sleep.
Not wanting to take the chance, I turned back to tell Aedan it was time to go. Instead, I locked onto his latest mirror message.
Missed U.
My cheeks warmed, and I combed my fingers through my hair. "I missed you, too, but you can't stay here."
This was the hard part about getting attached to ghosts. Eventually, you had to let them go.
Want 2 stay w/U.
My heart did another little joy-jump. In my seventeen years of life, Aedan was the closest thing to a boyfriend I'd ever had. A spirit that I couldn't see clearly, couldn't touch, definitely couldn't kiss. But he'd listen to me talk, sometimes for hours while Dad was out looking for work, and I'd gotten attached to him.
"I don't want you to go, but there's a whole other world waiting for you. You don't want to get stuck on this plane forever."
Behind the door, Dad's cell phone went off and there were a few more creaks, followed by footsteps and slippers scuffing across the floor and fading out as the outside door opened and closed.
I turned back to find that the mirror had cleared while I was distracted. I ran the tap, fogged it up again.
Don't U like me?
"You know I do."
I like U. A lot.
He reached for me, and if I tried hard, I could almost feel him stroke my hair, my cheek, my lips.
No one sees me like you do. He wrote every word out, even though he had to write small to fit it on the mirror. The extra effort made me think he meant it.
"Because of my ability. There are others who could see you." I gave a sideways glance to the door. I could hear Dad moving around. It was making me nervous. "My dad, for instance."
As if on cue, he knocked on the bathroom door. "Loops, you in there? Hurry up. We gotta move. Now."
Electricity sparked and the sink handle spun, sending hot water shooting out of the faucet. This steamed up not only the area in front of the mirror, but the entire small room.
"What was that? Some kind of static electricity? I've never seen a ghost do that before." I stared hard at the black scorch mark on the sink.
You see me. Not ability. You.
You see me. He wasn't being literal; he was saying I understood him. I whispered back, "Yes. You see me, too, don't you?"
Yes.
Aedan took a step closer. His body gave off no heat, but the room got hotter anyway. I felt my heartbeat in my throat, and my fingers went all tingly.
"Aedan?"
With hands that had no substance, he cupped my face. Leaned in and brushed weightless lips over mine. The contact buzzed through me—it felt like
my cell phone in my pocket when it rang on vibrate mode. I wanted so badly for him to be alive that my mind was playing cruel tricks on me. Making me feel the sensation of his nonexistent touch. The warmth and pressure of his mouth on mine.
"Maria Guadalupe Flores Thompson, get out here." My dad hit the door with his fist and I jumped away from Aedan. "We don't have much time—half hour, tops."
"Coming." I took a step toward the door. Hesitated. "I'm sorry, Aedan, I have to—"
I was talking to myself. My ghost boyfriend was already gone.
When I walked out of the bathroom, Dad was shoving clothing, his and mine, into suitcases, a frantic grimace on his handsome face. Lately, he looked older than his thirty-seven years.
"Grab your chewy, Toby. Loops, grab your stuff. Time to go."
My dog wagged his tail, stood at attention. We'd adopted the scruffy terrier from a rescue a year ago, when he was two years old and we weren't changing addresses every six weeks.
Two weeks now, if Dad's current behavior was any indication.
I flopped back on my bed. "It's three thirty in the morning. We never run away from home this early."
"The Thompson family is trying something new. Fleeing at the first blink of sunrise rather than the jowly yawn of midnight." He flashed me his straight-toothed, wrinkle-eyed smile, the one that made all the diner waitresses fill up his coffee cup before he needed it.
It seemed more strained than usual. He was acting the way parents did when things were bad, but they didn't want to let on exactly how bad they were.
I shot up on my bed, my spine straight and stiff. "How close are they?"
"Close." His smile slipped. "We need to put Tucson in our rearview. Now."
"Maybe I can help slow them down. I can use my ability to—"
"No." The word came out short and crisp, like a dead branch snapping underfoot. "No," he repeated, as if I didn't hear him the first time.
"It won't be like before. I promise I won't hurt anyone."
He didn't respond, but he didn't have to. Dad had a way of making me feel guilty without saying a thing.
"I didn't mean to do it," I mumbled. "I was trying to create a diversion to help us."
"I know, but this ability of yours." He sighed. "Honey, it's best if you don't use it."
He didn't trust me not to lose control of myself again. Honestly, I couldn't blame him. I didn't even trust myself half the time.
"Please don't look at me like that."
"I'm not blaming you. It's fine. I get it, okay?" I didn't like it, but I got it.
Dad raked his hands through his dark blond hair. "Look, you know I've got a friend or two left on the force back in California, people who don't believe that BS story about us being wanted by the feds. Whenever something odd rolls into town, they give me a call."
He zipped up my suitcase, then his. "Turns out some private science organization brought in one of those heavy trucks with seismic equipment—the kind that measures earthquakes. My source said it was odd enough to warrant a call. Especially since the town hasn't had a real shaker in two years."
Translation: The town hadn't had an earthquake since I left.
"You think it's Kilshaw."
"Yeah. And if the Kilshaw Agency has access to that kind of equipment in other places and you were to do … your thing, they might find us even faster." One more rake through the hair, this time capped with a sigh that went on so long I thought he might run out of air. "The evidence would suggest the agency thinks we're back home, but my gut tells me it's a diversion."
Dad's gut was never wrong. If he thought it was a diversion, it was.
I popped off the bed, grabbed my suitcase. "I'm ready. Let's go."
2
"Did the ghost want anything?" Dad rested his wrist on the top of the steering wheel and stared at the open road stretched out in front of us.
"Ghost?"
"The kid who keeps showing up."
"Oh, him." I stared down at my freshly painted nails. A shimmery gray—my next to last bottle of polish. "No, he didn't." Does a kiss count?
"Guess he was just hanging out." Dad glanced at me sideways. "Probably wanted some company."
"Yeah, maybe. He seemed lonely." I'd discovered many ghosts were, and Aedan had always looked a little sad to me.
"Tell him he should hitch a ride with us. Maybe he's a rich ghost who could kick in some gas money."
He was joking, of course. Our truck didn't need gas. Dad had filled up when we pulled into town. He always did that it when it got any lower than three-quarters of a tank. After all, we never knew when we were going to have to drive really far, really fast.
"Did you finish your book? I saw you were up late draining the battery on my phone. I need to get you a flashlight."
"Don't bother. I'd probably still use your phone." I scrunched my nose at him when he pretended to pinch me. "Yeah, I finished it. I read the epilogue while I was waiting for you in the truck."
"Another scary one?"
"Not horror this time. Urban fantasy." I held up the paperback with its leather-clad, raven-haired, sword-wielding heroine on the cover. "Funny, scary, with a kick-butt heroine."
"She's like you."
Hardly. The only thing kick-butt about me was my book collection, and most of that was in my room back home. Or maybe it was more accurate to say, in my room at my old house, because it wasn't likely we'd be able to return to it. More and more, home felt like a luxury Dad and I couldn't afford.
"It's chilly." I shivered and tugged Toby close. His tiny, sausage-shaped body was warm and snuggly.
Dad flipped on the heater.
It was the early morning sort of dark out, the Arizona sky purpled with streaks of gold and violet and pink. I peered through the windshield of our old Ford and tried to recall the last time I'd been up this early.
Swim team. Right before freshman year.
I'd gotten up before dawn to practice my butterfly. It wasn't my best stroke, and it was the last day of tryouts, so I'd decided to jump the pool fence and get some extra practice.
I dove in and swam the length of the pool twenty times, but I could not find my rhythm. My dolphin kick looked more like the lethargic fin flaps of a beached porpoise, and I couldn't seem to coordinate my arms and legs.
This went on for another hour, but I ended up with the same result as when I started. I just could not nail that kick. There's no way I'd make the team without it. I'd be cut for sure.
My frustration mounted. It was stupid—even worse, it was dangerous—but I'd wanted to make the swim team so badly that I ignored the signs that things were about to go sideways, as Dad liked to say.
When the ground beneath the pool made a rumbling sound, I ignored it.
When the bottom of the pool erupted in hairline cracks, I ignored it.
But when the pool cratered open, water circling the crack like a cartoon whirlpool, I could not ignore it anymore. I gripped the cement lip and tried to climb out, but it was slippery, the current was strong, and I'd already been swimming for a long time. I was tired.
So tired.
I looked back at the water swirling around the ever-widening crack. Fist-sized chunks of cement bobbed in the frothy surface, then disappeared. A pool hook and my beach towel followed them down, both having shaken loose from the lifeguard chair with the force of the quaking. Now, I couldn't see anything but dark water. It eddied and churned hypnotically, calling to me.
Just let go, it said. Everything will be all right.
Who was I kidding? I wasn't ever going back to school. I was way too big a risk around other people. I'd never be a normal kid doing normal kid things. If I got angry, I'd be more than "that weird girl" with her nose stuck in a book, as I'd been called in middle school. I'd be "that dangerous monster" who made fissures and cracks and holes in the earth whenever my emotions got the best of me.
The stupid, lying thoughts were a swarm of angry bees, buzzing and stinging into my brain. I loosened my grip
on the edge, distracted by the turbulence of the twisting water, the grinding gnash of the disintegrating pool, and my own treacherous mind.
And then suddenly, I wasn't distracted. In fact, I was utterly focused on the temptation to simply let myself go, let the hole in the pool suck me into the earth, let the pain that my existence caused not only me, but the person I loved most in the world, simply disappear.
"Maria Guadalupe Flores Thompson, get your ass out of that pool." The flat horror in Dad's voice sank into my soul. How had he known I was here? What was he doing here?
"Don't you dare let go." His face was like a ghost’s. He'd seen the moment I'd considered letting the water take me away. I was certain of it.
I felt embarrassed and ashamed. Worse than the time he'd accidentally walked in on me going to the bathroom. Worse than when he'd taken me bra shopping. So much worse than when he'd held up a package of tampons at WalMart and yelled, "Are these good for you, Loops? They're on sale."
Dad had gone through so much to keep me safe, and he'd nearly watched me throw it all away in a weak, stupid moment. As I heaved myself out of that pool, I vowed that I would never let him down like that again.
And I hadn't.
Not like that, anyway.
Toby jumped on my lap and yipped, rescuing me from painful memories. Guess he needed the window so he could bark at all the exciting desert nothingness we were speeding past.
