I told him everything fake Dean had said before sending me through the cracked floor.
“Yup,” Randy said when I was done. “I’m definitely talkin’ to the others about this.”
There was a lull in our conversation as Randy looked at the liquor pooled on the ledge. A tiny wave of it rolled to the edge and tumbled off. He smiled at how he’d manipulated the booze into a new fall of drops and bent down to catch some.
“You do that so easily,” I said.
“What? Drink?”
“Well, that. But . . . manipulating. I’m not very good at it yet.”
“Ya will be. It takes practice. So do things like causin’ hallucinazions”—he continued his championship streak of word-screwing—“in humans and bein’ able to empathize with ’em.”
I was still back at the hallucination part. “We can make them see things?”
“Oh, sugar, ya don’t even know. Remember when I said I scare jerks?”
“Yeah.”
“I usually do it when I’m downtown, and some guy is handlin’ his girl in the wrong way. All it takes is a long touch and your imagination and, voilà, instant nightmare flashin’ in front of the jerk’s gaze. It never fails to make ’em behave from that minute on.”
Wow. I decided not to tell him about haunting Gavin because I wasn’t sure how Randy would judge that. But this news was bad to the bone.
Immediately, my thoughts started whirring with the possibilities.
“How about empathizing?” I asked. “How do you do that right?”
“A softer, less intense touch. Those are the ones I use on the dames.” He waggled his eyebrows.
Then it was as if a ticking clock had sounded an alarm in Randy, because he whipped his gaze toward the door and float-hopped over the bar.
“Sunrise,” he said. “There’s light enough for me to look for my gal’s letter.”
He must’ve forgotten that I’d told him I’d help, because he was under and out the door before I could remind him.
Drunk ghost ADD.
But honestly, I was excited about the information he’d given me, and I couldn’t wait to put this hallucination and empathy stuff in action.
I smiled, knowing exactly where I’d be going today—a possible murderer’s mind.
And maybe even beyond that.
7
Gavin wasn’t at the mansion.
For the first time, I felt an energy suck that had nothing to do with traveling too far or putting out too much effort. Sailor Randy hadn’t gotten around to explaining the fact that disappointment could also take a bit of the charge out of a ghost.
But Gavin had to be home sometime—I just hadn’t expected him to be gone shortly after dawn.
I’d already done a sweep of the property, and not only was his door open, but his bed was made. Most of all, I just couldn’t sense his life force—a warmth that always stood out from everyone else’s.
The first thing I wondered was if he’d run off because of last night. I highly doubted that, though, since he seemed the type to stand up to trouble, even if it came at him invisibly. Maybe he’d just gone in to work early, distracting himself from his fears by immersing himself in video game designing. What better way to escape this world than to invent your own?
The bummer was that I had no idea where he might have an office—I’d have to hit the Internet again for that. Or if he’d taken off on another of those business trips Noah and Wendy had been talking about yesterday.
Just on the off chance that he’d run out to get groceries or something—right, like Mr. Rich Pants wouldn’t have his housekeeping staff take care of that—I decided to pay a longer visit to his room before I left.
If I couldn’t try out some empathizing or hallucinations on him, maybe I could at least get to know my person of interest better by playing detective.
More bummerville, though. His bedroom turned out to be like a hotel: all expensive, starched sheets, closed closets, and anonymous vibes. He’d left nothing on the granite desk near the full-length window, and I wondered if he ever even worked in here. There wasn’t a damn thing that showed he had made this room his own and, unfortunately, when I tried to open drawers or cabinets, I didn’t have the skills.
Not yet, anyway.
Even the bathroom didn’t tell me much about Gavin. As I said, I couldn’t get into his cabinets to view even what kind of toothpaste he used, and knowing that he liked Paul Mitchell shampoo wasn’t exactly earthshaking information that convinced me of his murderous guilt. At least his walk-in closet was a little better—full of jeans and casual tops, a few business suits, a tux or two, plus what looked like hiking gear.
A dream date and an outdoorsman, huh?
Had Gavin done any serious walking near the beach on out-of-the-way trails, like the one Elizabeth’s remains had been found by?
Spurred on, I made my way downstairs before anyone in the house was up and about. I didn’t beat the cook to the kitchen, though—she was already laying out a buffet in the dining room.
Ultimately, I discovered a room off the garage that had all kinds of sporting equipment and accessories in it: a kayak, surfboards, wet suits. This gear was way better quality than any boards and suits Dean and I had ever used, but that wasn’t the point.
I’m not sure there was a point, because nothing gave me a clue about Gavin’s relationship with Elizabeth. Even the study I found on the first floor was as neat as a pin, in spite of the computer equipment riddling a few desktops in there.
Then again, had I expected to find, like, a bloody knife lying around? The murder had happened nearly three years ago.
I decided that I would continue my search later, because the cook was done with arranging the breakfast buffet, and that meant people were going to be coming downstairs and there’d be some good eavesdropping to be had.
I settled into a corner near the ceiling. The maid never even paid me the slightest bit of attention.
Farah appeared in the dining room first, her long, thick brown hair trailing down her back, her white silk robe wrapped around her. She smiled at the gray-uniformed maid, who nodded good morning.
“Noah hasn’t been down here for coffee yet?”
“No, Miss Farah.”
She blew out a breath and accepted a steaming porcelain cup of tea with a saucer from the woman. “I told him that he needs to be out of bed early today since Joseph is taking him to school for a newspaper staff meeting.”
Joseph must be their chauffeur or whatever. But . . . newspaper? Noah with the scruffy hair and attitude was a prep school reporter?
As Farah went to the massive buffet board and grabbed a plate from next to the eggs, fresh muffins, fruit, and cereals, I decided that the socialite wasn’t about to have a profound conversation with the maid, so I took the chimney route outside, to the pool, to see what was in the pool house back there.
A maintenance guy was already using a net to skim the water, and I slowed down as I passed him.
Something was niggling at me, and it had to do with that pool guy. I didn’t know why, because he looked presentable enough—late twenties, blond hair, an entrepreneur dressed in khakis and a polo top with his company’s logo on it.
But he kept glancing at an upper-story mansion window that overlooked the pool, like he was waiting to see something there. He also kept whistling a low tune that I didn’t recognize.
I couldn’t see what he was seeing, even when I flew up to the window to take a peek inside to find a girl’s bedroom, with a king-sized bed and comic-book artwork on the walls.
What was he waiting for?
Forget the pool house for now, I thought. My bad feeling told me that I should go to that room.
When I got to Wendy’s door, I shuddered. Bad feeling times a million.
I threaded under her door, hoping that she wasn’t on some schedule where she strutted around in a towel with her curtains wide-open every morning, cluelessly putting on a regular show for the pool guy.
But af
ter I eased into her room, I merely saw her near—not in front of—the wide expanse of glass, the sun streaming in behind her to light over her long, dark pink-streaked hair, which was still wet from the shower. She was wearing torn black sweats that slumped down one of her shoulders, ’eighties-like.
Behind her, hanging on the closet, was what looked to be her prep school uniform, all-plaid skirt, white linen shirt, and slim tie, and she was holding a clarinet in her hands, carefully cleaning it and then putting it into a case that rested on a window-side table.
Up close, I could see more about the artwork on the walls now: round-eyed comic book characters with big, sometimes spiky hair. Some of them even had schoolgirl outfits a lot sexier than hers.
As Wendy coughed a couple of times—she sounded only slightly sick—I inched over to the window, wanting to know if the pool guy was still watching.
Yup. He was near the guesthouse in a stealthy spot, cleaning his net, still looking up here every so often.
Did he have a thing for teenage Wendy? Young Asian girls? In life, my guy friends had joked about the last one every so often, confessing to certain fetishes, so I knew that it was a male fantasy for some. But wasn’t Wendy just fifteen?
I’d been so focused on Pool Guy that I hadn’t noticed Wendy had her arms crossed over her chest and was looking around.
She’d already felt me.
I backed off from her, but I couldn’t just let her be a sitting duck for the pool guy’s eyes, and when the air kicked on, I decided to do her a favor and pass the curtain, very casually, fluttering it enough so that it came loose from the teak holder that held it back, and drawing her attention to the window.
She must’ve thought I was the air, because she went to the curtain, like she was going to put it back in place, then peered down at the pool.
She made a small, impatient sound and tugged the curtains shut without any more fanfare.
Did the pool guy see her up here every day? Had she caught on to his peeping?
Just then, her newfangled phone dinged from where it sat on the bed, the screen lighting up.
She rushed to it, clearly forgetting all about the cold spot in her room. Even so, I tried to keep my distance as I looked over her shoulder while she accessed what Amanda Lee had once told me was a “text message.”
I’ll call school to clear your absence. Had early business. See you later, though. Bringing home chicken soup from deli that you like.
The name at the top of the small screen said GAVIN, and I noticed that there were previous texts from Wendy telling him that she wouldn’t be going to her classes today.
I could feel energy leak out of her as her shoulders slumped. She plopped down on the bed, sadness pulling down on her mouth. She rubbed her arms, still cold, then typed into her phone with her thumbs, coughing more as I positioned myself to see again.
I hoped u’d wrk hre and hang out with me, she’d answered.
When Amanda Lee had told me about texts, she’d also mentioned that they were the downfall of the English language. I was starting to believe her, because Wendy seemed much smarter than her spelling.
Amanda Lee. I was thinking about her too much. Wondering when I should go back.
Wondering if I wanted to.
Gavin had responded by now.
Meetings with game script writers and staff. Dinner this weekend instead?
Wendy made like she was going to throw her phone, but she pulled back and hatefully typed Whatevr. No huge thng.
Then she did toss it away, giving in to a moment of teenage drama and falling back on the bed, where she coughed once more and then closed her eyes.
Well. At least I knew that Gavin had gone in to work. She didn’t move from the bed, even when her phone dinged again with a message from Gavin, telling her to get well. And when another message came a few minutes later, she only kicked the phone away and crawled up to her pillows, burying her face there.
Like a nosy-nose, I looked at the last message. It was from Farah.
Gavin told me ur sick. Constanza will check in on you.
And that was it from big sis.
I marveled at that. Farah was just downstairs and she couldn’t be bothered to come up and tell Wendy this in person? Wow, they were really close.
Soon enough, Wendy gave in and glanced at the phone, seeming totally unimpressed with the messages. She only grabbed a remote from a wicker nightstand and flicked on her huge space-age TV, arriving at a channel that was playing cartoons that had characters just like the ones in her wall art.
It occurred to me that I had an opportunity to actually study my poltergeist agent, if I chose to go that route. So I stayed, even when the maid showed up to bring Wendy a tray of breakfast food and ruffle her hair. Even when, after wolfing down her grub, Wendy got some shut-eye.
I took advantage of the situation and poked around her room—everywhere from her open closet filled with holey, edgy clothing and enough boots to make me think she was obsessed with them, to a gaped desk drawer with art materials stuffed into it. Her bathroom was just as boring as Gavin’s, except Wendy had some beauty aids that caught my eye and made me want to be a girl again. I might’ve looked like a slob in my last moments on the earth, but I’d had a weakness for body splashes and lotions just like any other chick.
Hours went by as I also inspected the house again, finding nothing majorly interesting.
It was only when afternoon rolled around that things got good.
I was back in Wendy’s room when a “laptop” computer that sat on a low table near a bamboo-framed couch made a ringing sound.
Sickness forgotten, Wendy bounded out of bed and over to the machine, pressing a key while she sat down.
“Hey,” she said to the screen while she sprawled over the couch cushions.
“Hey,” came an answer from the computer.
Amanda Lee’s computer hadn’t held conversations. I had to see this.
I got nearer, pasting myself up against the wall in back of Wendy, checking out Exhibit A in Tomorrowland.
A girl with big hazel eyes, mousy brown hair, freckles, and the same prep school uniform that hung on Wendy’s closet was on the screen. “You’re sick?” she asked.
“I was, but I’m way better now. I slammed NyQuil and slept all day.”
“I was going to bring you some goodies, like those chewy red cough drops and ice cream. Still want?”
“Thanks, but that’s okay, Torrey. Gavin’s got the sick-girl food covered when he gets here tonight.”
“Got it. He didn’t work from home?”
“No, and I thought he’d be able to swing it.” Wendy huffed out a sigh, her gaze straying from the computer. For a second, her shoulders lifted, like a little of my coldness had traveled down from the wall to the back of her neck. But then she returned her focus to the screen. “He promised he’d try to be home more . . .”
“Wen, you and your abandonment issues, I swear. He’s not your dad, you know.”
Note to Jensen: Do a computer search on Daddy-O. Amanda Lee had said he was still alive and that he was constantly on trips away from home, but that’s all I really knew about him.
“Don’t tell me—I’ve got issues,” Wendy said, sinking into the couch.
“You’re such a nerd.” Torrey laughed, taking off a headband while she talked into the lens. In the background, I could see a bedroom, pink and frilly. “You’ve always said that your family’s nutty and thank God you were only adopted into it. Why you keep getting depressed when one of them is gone is beyond me.”
“You like Gavin as much as I do.”
“Because he’s hot.”
Oh, little girl, I thought. Look deeper than that.
Wendy was gagging at her friend’s comment.
“Anyway,” Torrey continued, “when we graduate, you can get out of that house, room with me, and Gavin can visit all you want. That way, you won’t have to ever see Farah or Noah or deal with your cuckoo family dynamics ever again.”
My ghost ears perked.
“Nobody’s cuckoo here,” Wendy said.
Except for maybe your brother.
Wendy added, “It’s just that I feel like they’re one family and I’m another. Except for Gavin. I’m not sure I know Dad well enough to include him.”
A touch of energy seemed to spin out of me, extending toward Wendy.
Lonely. A kindred soul. She wasn’t as glamorous as her older sister or as cool as Gavin or as seemingly party-popular as Noah.
They were one set of Edgetts; she was another. What a way to live.
A voice off-camera on Torrey’s side made her look away from Wendy. Then she turned back to her.
“The tutor’s here,” she said. “See you tomorrow?”
“I suppose.”
They signed off, but Wendy just sat there on the couch, like she didn’t know where to go now.
So it seemed that Wendy did have a few adolescent issues to work with, poltergeist-wise. Bottled anger at Gavin for not being around when he’d promised to be. Anger at Farah and Noah for not accepting her. Anger at the dad, wherever he was.
I felt so bad for Wendy that I even started to think dumb things—ways to show her that I was already sorry for the haunting that’d be taking place.
Empathy. Hallucinations.
I’d been so fixated on haunting Gavin this whole time that I hadn’t extended my thoughts beyond that. But with these powers Sailor Randy had told me about, couldn’t I do more than just scare someone?
Rashly, I floated away from the wall and touched Wendy on the cheek.
It’s okay, I thought.
A tiny lightning flash struck me, and it must’ve done the same to her, because she flinched. But she didn’t pull away.
And in that fleeting second, I got a peek into Wendy Edgett’s mind.
Looking up at the grand staircase of this house, a feeling of absolute anxiety splitting down the middle as a beautiful woman with long blond hair and clear blue eyes bent down, smiling, saying, “Welcome to your new home, Wendy.”
Then a grave marker shaped as a marble angel.
Then yelling from a room down the hallway, a girl’s voice . . .
Only the Good Die Young Page 9
