Shade

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  “I don’t have that power. If his family wins their case, he’ll move on. If not—”

  “If not, he’ll be what we consider an ‘at risk’ ghost. Too near to shading to allow his freedom.”

  I pictured Logan locked up in a BlackBoxed room or on a shelf in some DMP vault for years, maybe decades. Maybe forever. My own mind seemed to shade at the thought.

  “Please …,” I whispered. “Logan’s a good guy. He just gets a little excited sometimes.” I turned to the shorter agent. “What if he were your son? Or your brother? Wouldn’t you want to give him a chance?”

  “That’s what we’re doing with this visit,” Falk snapped. When I looked at him, he smoothed his hand over his throat and down the front of his black uniform. “So you can warn him. Encourage him.”

  “Why?” I twitched my shoulders, which prickled with fear and confusion. “Why not collect him now, if you think he’s a risk? And why help me keep his secret?”

  “Ah.” Falk closed the laptop. I wanted to grab it back to see Logan’s full-color photo again. The agent folded his hands on the computer’s silver lid. “The Keeley case has garnered a lot of media attention. Detaining him prior to his trial would create a public relations nightmare and throw a spotlight on our indefinite detention program. We can’t afford to look bad just as you post-Shifters are coming of age. Recruitment is the department’s number one priority, so that we can better understand ghosts.”

  “Better control them, you mean.”

  Falk spread his thumbs and shrugged, as if to say Whatever without actually saying Whatever.

  Not breaking eye contact, I reached out and slid my calculus textbook in front of me. “I need to study.”

  “Of course.” He placed the laptop back in its case and zipped it. “Best of luck with all of your endeavors, especially in the courtroom.” He joined his partner at the door. “And please give our regards to Logan, along with our message.”

  My brain felt jumbled with all the new information. “What message?”

  “Get out.” He tilted his head and offered a joyless smile. “Or we’ll take you out.”

  I spent the next half hour calling for Logan, but he wouldn’t appear. When my throat started to hurt, I phoned Dylan.

  He picked up on the second ring. “Hey, Aura.”

  “Tell Logan to leave.”

  “Why? When?”

  “Whenever. After the trial at the latest. If not, the Obsidians are going to lock him up for being a shade.”

  There was a long pause. “How do they know?”

  “His subpoena tag must have a detector on it. I’ve been trying to reach Logan, but he won’t answer me. So you have to warn him.” I hurried through a shortened version of Agent Falk’s spiel.

  When I was finished, Dylan said, “Um, what did these Obsidian guys look like? Black uniforms, haircuts like Moe from the Three Stooges?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “They just pulled up in front of our house.”

  My heart thumped. “Is Logan there?”

  “No. I’m by myself.”

  “Then let them in. They won’t hurt you, but don’t piss them off, okay?”

  “Got it.” His voice held a quiet strength, giving me a twinge of pride.

  “And please—tell Logan I love him.”

  Dylan hung up. I clicked off the phone, set it on the table, and stared at it, like I used to do while waiting for Logan to call me. Some nights he’d forget, consumed with his music, and I’d go to bed wondering if he would ever be all mine.

  Soon he would be no one’s.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I sat on the witness stand, resisting the urge to scratch the maddening itch under my knee bandage. I’d looked out at this courtroom from the adjacent translators’ seats countless times over the last few years.

  But this time I was speaking for myself.

  A red light above each door showed that the BlackBox had been deployed. Logan would stay away until it was his turn to testify. Then he would be summoned with the quartz disc connected to his subpoena “tag.” My toe slid over the notch on the floor where the disc would be inserted.

  Dylan had passed on the Obsidians’ warning to Logan, who apparently had fallen very quiet, then spent the rest of the night alone in his old room. He knew that as long as he was tagged, the Obsidians could detain him at any time.

  Gina approached the stand in her periwinkle suit, her eyes bearing the usual kind chill. The judge and jury knew I was her niece, so she had to be careful not to look like she was coddling me. I’d seen her compassionate-crusader courtroom routine many times, but had never been the source of her ammunition.

  “Let’s begin with the events early in the evening of Friday, October eighteenth. Did you see Logan Keeley immediately after the concert?”

  I took a deep breath, trying not to think about the reporters and bloggers in the packed courtroom. I vowed not to look at the smug CEO of Warrant Records, sitting at the defense table in an expensive suit.

  “Yes,” I told her in a clear voice. “I saw him go backstage with Mickey to meet with the A and R reps from the two record companies.”

  “When did you see him again?”

  “About half an hour later.” I folded my hands in my lap to keep them from fidgeting with my blouse.

  “And then where did you go?”

  “Back to the Keeleys’ house for a party. It was his seventeenth birthday.” Aunt Gina had asked me to mention that fact, to add sympathy. A murmur from the jury box confirmed that this had been a good ploy.

  “How would you describe Logan’s demeanor at the party?”

  “I’d never seen him happier.”

  Gina bowed her head for a moment to let my statement sink in. A soft blond curl fell over her cheek.

  “How much alcohol did you see him consume?”

  “I saw him drink three pints of Guinness, plus part of a fourth pint. Then he had about half of a mixed drink called Liquid Stupid.”

  The crowd reacted to this with scattered titters.

  “Your Honor, a sample of Liquid Stupid was left on the deceased’s nightstand.” My aunt retrieved a sheet of paper from her table. “A previous witness, a forensic expert, has authenticated this exhibit, already admitted into evidence. The Liquid Stupid substance was estimated to be one hundred eighty proof. Ninety percent alcohol, more than ten times the strength of beer. There were also traces of codeine found in the solution. The forensic expert concluded that this concoction would have severely impaired the judgment of a one-hundred-fifty-pound man such as the deceased, especially one who had already consumed more than fifty ounces of beer.”

  The judge peered through his reading glasses at the sheet of paper. “Yes, this has been admitted already. Please continue.”

  Gina asked me, “What did Logan do after he drank the Liquid Stupid?”

  “We went to his room.”

  Her voice was gentle but firm. “For what purpose?”

  My stomach fluttered, and I took another deep breath. “For the purpose of sex.”

  I heard a tongue click. One of the jurors, an older woman, shook her head. For the most part, though, the crowd seemed unsurprised.

  Gina was unfazed by my semi-smart-ass response. “And did you achieve this purpose?”

  “No.” I tried not to sound defensive.

  “Why not?”

  I hesitated, hoping that the roof would cave in or aliens would vaporize the courthouse in their effort to conquer the planet. Anything to keep from saying it.

  “Aura? Tell us what stopped you from consummating your relationship.”

  “The alcohol had made him … um … He couldn’t.”

  The snickers spread throughout the courtroom. I gritted my teeth, hating Mr. and Mrs. Keeley for making me tell the world. Instead of being famous for his music, Logan would go down in pop culture history as the Ghost of the Guy Who Couldn’t Get It Up.

  “Then what happened?”

  My gaze drop
ped to the floor. “I was mad at him. I told him he was stupid.”

  Gina upped the urgency in her tone. “How did he respond?”

  “He almost passed out, but then he said he knew how to fix it. He said he was going to take a shower and wake up.” The words came fast now, tumbling over one another. “So he went to his dresser and got a package of something he said was shampoo. And then he left, and the next time I saw him, he was—he was a ghost.” My voice halted. “He was dead.”

  I hadn’t cried during any of our rehearsals, though Gina had told me that tears would be a nice touch. I’d obsessed over choosing the right words and emphasizing the right syllables. In rehearsals, this testimony had been a performance.

  But now it was real. Logan was gone. And I was standing in his bedroom all over again, with my shirt backward and inside out, seeing him in violet, feeling my world shatter into so many pieces that seventy-six days later, I was still picking them up.

  Even now, each eye released only a single tear. They dribbled down my cheeks, so slowly they seemed to be having a reverse race, seeing which could take longer to fall.

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  “Your witness,” the judge said to the defense attorney.

  Harriet Stone approached from my right, spiked heels clicking on the hardwood floor. Twice before I’d translated for cases involving Stone’s clients. She didn’t even try to hide her disdain for ghosts, which meant translators got a dose of it too.

  I wiped my cheeks and faced her with my last bit of strength.

  “Thank you for testifying, Ms. Salvatore.” She glanced at my aunt, then at the jury, as if to remind them I was related to the plaintiff’s attorney. “The death of your boyfriend must have been a difficult ordeal.”

  I said nothing, since it technically wasn’t a question.

  Stone buttoned her suit jacket, a scarlet that brought out the blush on her sharp, pale cheeks. She was from that older generation of women who thought wearing red—and shoulder pads—made them look masculine and therefore powerful. At least tomorrow she’d have to put on another color, since Logan would be in the room.

  “Prior to the night in question,” Stone asked, “had Logan Keeley ever consumed alcohol to the point of unconsciousness in your presence?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many times?”

  I cringed inside at the hurt this would cause his parents. “Four times.”

  “What were his last words to you?”

  I gripped the smooth wooden arms of the witness chair. That memory belonged to me and Logan, and this woman wanted to steal it. Taint it. And what would it prove?

  Then I remembered something Aunt Gina had once told me: A good lawyer never asks a question she doesn’t already know the answer to. Logan must have been asked this same question during his deposition.

  “Ms. Salvatore? What did Logan say to you just before he walked off to the bathroom?”

  I spoke to the far wall of the courtroom. “He said, ‘Wait for me, Aura.’”

  Stone crossed her arms and tapped her pen against her side as she paced. “And have you?”

  My pulse surged. I hadn’t expected these questions. “Have I what?”

  “Have you waited for him? Have you been involved with Logan since his death?”

  “In what way?”

  She stopped pacing. “Have you spent time with him in your bedroom?”

  “Yes.” I was not getting into specifics.

  Stone approached the witness stand, close enough that I could smell the hair spray keeping her black bun sleek against her scalp. “What did you do with him on these visits?”

  Blood rushed to my face. Logan, you didn’t. Not that he would’ve had a choice. Ghosts can’t lie.

  I opened and closed my mouth, then said, “We talked. Listened to music.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Sometimes we would read.”

  Gina stood. “Objection, Your Honor. I fail to see the purpose in this line of questioning.”

  Stone spoke directly to the judge. “I’m trying to establish the fact that the so-called victim has led anything but a tragic existence since his death. According to Logan Keeley’s deposition, he has walked the streets of Dublin, attended numerous concerts for free, and spent many a night indulging in sexual play with his living, breathing girlfriend.”

  The crowd gasped. Even Megan put her hand to her wide-open mouth. I couldn’t look at Logan’s parents.

  “Please continue,” the judge said, speaking loudly to restore order.

  “Isn’t this true, Ms. Salvatore?” the lawyer asked me, arms folded in what looked like triumph.

  My hands had gone cold and my face red-hot. I steadied my breath and slowly drew my palms over my cheekbones to cool them. They could try to humiliate me, they could try to sully my memory of Logan, they could try to turn what we had into something sleazy.

  But I wouldn’t let them.

  “That’s correct,” I said in a strong, steady voice. Before she could ask for details, I threw them at her. “I took off my clothes and I touched myself. We spoke to each other, we pretended, we made it as real as it could be.”

  The lawyer unfolded her arms and tugged down her jacket as she strutted away from the witness stand. “Thank you. No further questions.”

  “Logan’s not suing you,” I blurted out. “His family is, so even if he’s having a good time—and you might want to ask him about that—”

  Stone turned quickly. “Your Honor—”

  “—they’re in more pain than you can imagine.”

  “Your Honor, I ask that these remarks be stricken from the record as nonresponsive.”

  The judge banged his gavel. “The witness may step down.”

  Using the edge of the witness box, I dragged myself to stand. Then I pointed to the Warrant CEO. “You took him from us! Ghost or not, he’s still dead.”

  “Step down now, miss,” the judge barked. “You are released.”

  I almost scoffed at his choice of words. Released into what? A deeper level of hell?

  Instead I straightened my suit and said, “Thank you,” before retrieving my crutches.

  “Furthermore,” the judge said, “the jury will disregard those remarks.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” said the defense attorney, with a fake sweetness that almost made me choke.

  As I hobbled away from the witness stand, I held my chin straight and high, meeting no one’s gaze—not Gina’s, not even Megan’s.

  I was truly alone now, so I might as well get used to it.

  By the end of the day, the news and rumors had spread to every corner of the Internet, or so it seemed. I thought about checking a few Japanese websites to see how they translated the phrase “ghost fucker.”

  “By the time school starts again next week,” my aunt said on the drive home, “they’ll have forgotten all about it. There’ll be some new scandal, you’ll see.”

  I looked out the side window at the heavy white clouds and prayed for a nationwide blizzard that would knock out all power and phone lines. Or at least close school for another two weeks.

  Then I sent a text message to Zachary.

  ALL OUT OF PATIENCE YET?

  “I’m proud of you, kid,” Gina said. “For the way you stood up for yourself. And the way you told the truth. I’m sure it wasn’t easy.”

  “You knew, didn’t you? Both sides get to look at the same evidence, right?”

  “I read Logan’s deposition. I never imagined they would use”—she waved her hand like she was swatting a gnat—“that part of it.”

  “Any other surprises I should know about before the defense starts their side tomorrow?”

  “I don’t think so. You don’t have to come. Your part is over.”

  “I want to hear Logan speak.” I ran my finger along the rubber seal of the window. “It might be my last chance.”

  “God willing,” she said under her breath.

  I pretended
I didn’t hear her as my phone vibrated with a new message from Zachary. I opened it, my pulse skittering.

  NOT EVEN CLOSE.

  That night I lay on the couch, staring at the darkened Christmas tree. Aunt Gina always insisted on leaving it up until Epiphany on January 6, but we never turned the lights on after New Year’s Eve, so it might as well not have been there. It looked sad, with all its decorations slightly off balance. Even its plastic branches looked wilted.

  I was finally drifting off to sleep when a violet glow filled the room.

  I kept my eyes closed to see how long he would stay. His light grew brighter as he came nearer, until it enveloped my entire world.

  “I don’t know if you can hear me,” Logan whispered, “but I came to give you something. Something I shouldn’t have kept.”

  I almost opened my eyes then, but he shifted to my right, kneeling or sitting on the floor by my side.

  He took a deep breath, which still sounded so real I could almost believe he was alive. “Here goes. It’s called ‘Forever.’”

  Logan began to sing, a lilting tune I didn’t recognize. At first I wondered if we’d seen the band in concert together or had listened to it on one of our first dates.

  Then he reached the chorus, and the words were us.

  All my insecurities, all his excesses, all the ways we fought and pushed and pulled. And how it all didn’t matter. Those things that tore us apart were no match for forever.

  Tears flowed from beneath my closed lids and tickled as they trickled down my cheeks. Logan must have seen them, but he didn’t let on. He just kept singing his last encore—his grand finale, all for me.

  I’d been so wrong about us. If he’d lived, we would’ve been happy. Not every day, but over the span of time that made up forever.

  But he hadn’t lived.

  A hole opened up inside me, so raw I had to curl up on my side away from his light, pulling my good knee to my chest to ease the ache. The hole gaped so big it seemed like I could crawl inside, let the darkness swallow all thoughts of the future that once stretched before us. We had lost forever.