Translucent (18 page)

Chapter 19

Tonight, Emory was
expecting me, Leona Hewitt. Instead, he would get his sister’s ghost.

A full moon beamed over the quiet neighborhoods on the Mesa, its rays seeping right through me. I had no shadow. As I walked away from my bike, the gravelly asphalt dug into the soles of my bare feet, but I felt no pain. A week of hiking along concrete sidewalks with no shoes had toughened them, and now I could probably walk over broken glass without flinching.

A thin sheen of sweat clung to my legs and torso, soaking in the night air and chilling me to the point of hypothermia. Even my bones felt frozen, like they were made of ice, thawing slowly and leeching cold water into my veins. Yet my face burned like I had a fever.

Could I really do this?

Could I really lead him to the grotesque secret I’d been hiding for three months?

My nerve-endings felt numb, deadened by the anxiety crackling through my limbs. A figure in a dark hoodie approached fast on the sidewalk, eyes downcast, shoulders hunched forward. A stranger’s presence always made me hyperaware of my nakedness. I stepped to the side and let him pass, resisting the instinct to cover myself. A tiny pebble skittered away from my toe.

He gave it the most fleeting of glances and hurried on his way.

It was strange how people reacted, the excuses they made. Out of nowhere, in a seemingly impossible incident, a pebble bounces across the pavement on its own, and the brain instantly has an explanation—he must have kicked it, or it’s a seed that fell from a tree, or it was dislodged by the rumble of a distant semi-truck, or a bird dropped it. Never does it occur to him that it was kicked by an invisible teenager not five feet away who’s on her way to confess to a murder.

The stranger made a beeline toward the hedge where I’d hidden my bike, threw a haphazard look behind him, and wrestled it out of the brush and rode off with it.

“Hey!” I yelled, running after him before I could stop myself.

He skidded to a stop, lay the bike clumsily on the ground, and took off running without a look backward.

Grumbling to myself, I hauled the bike back to the hedge and continued on my way.

Emory’s house reared up on my left, silhouetted against an ocean glittering in silver moonlight. The sight stilled my galloping heart. He would have taken me down to the beach to show me that sight. And then what? Would he have kissed me by the crashing surf until my toes curled in the sand?

My stomach gave a funny quiver.

It wasn’t too late. I could run back home and tear off the dark matter, dress cute instead, and come back as Leona Hewitt—just an innocent girl with a puppy crush on a hot senior. For one more night, just one more night, I could pretend.

A gnawing sensation blossomed in the pit of my stomach at the thought. I
couldn’t.
I couldn’t live like that anymore. If I didn’t do this right now, the terrible weight of my failure would crush down on my soul. I wouldn’t be able to make it through the night like that.

Standing in front of his house, I licked my lips and tasted the salt of my sweat. Inhaling, I took in the dewy sweet smell of moist soil. A wall of dark windows stared back at me. One lit upstairs. His bedroom.

My pulse climbed into the stratosphere.

Do it now.

I slipped around to the backdoor, unlocked, and slipped inside. I’d made friends with the Golden Retriever, and he greeted me in the laundry room, tail wagging. He couldn’t see me, but he could smell me and lick me and paw me and hear me, and apparently four out of five senses was more than enough for a dog.

I found Emory in the bathroom upstairs, brushing his teeth, humming a song to himself. Instantly, an ache spread through my heart and lungs. Helpless against the rush of emotions, I slumped against the doorframe and clamped my hand over my mouth to stifle a wave of shallow, frantic gasps. The adrenaline subsided, leaving only the desperate need to get it over with.

I have to do this
.

I have to show him.

A shaky breath filled my lungs. First I needed to get his attention, let him know I was here in such a way that he thought I was Ashley’s ghost.

For that I had an idea. 

I took hold of the door and eased it further into the bathroom. It shuddered on its hinges and creaked loudly. The sound made me cringe.

Emory’s shoulders tensed and his hand stopped brushing. Slowly, he pivoted at his hips to peer behind him.

Heart in my throat, I backed into the dark hallway, deliberately putting all my weight on my heel so the floor creaked. He continued to stare at me,
through
me, not an ounce of fear in his eyes. Curiosity, defiance, but not fear. Maybe when you’ve already lost the person you love the most, you don’t feel fear.

He continued brushing his teeth, though his eyes stayed alert.

He was watching me.

I had to do more.

I glanced around, an agitated tension rising in my throat. What would a ghost do? Something subtle, something spooky, like writing in a fogged up mirror. Hmm . . .

My eyes gravitated to the picture frames lining the wall. Perfect. I tiptoed to the closest one and hooked a finger behind it, ready to dislodge a photo of Emory smiling sheepishly at a gas stove with a spatula in hand.

So he cooks
, I noted, tugging the frame.

Wait, wait, wait.

This had to be something symbolic. I moved to the next photo instead, a picture of Ashley grinning in a kayak, hair dripping wet. Yes, she would dislodge a picture of
herself
.

I nudged it off the hook. The frame dropped, bounced on the rug, and clattered against the wall. The sound resounded through the quiet house, jolting my already frazzled nerves. Surely that got his attention.

Silence in the bathroom. 

“Carter?” he called. “Carter, you up here?”

The dog didn’t answer.

I heard the sound of spitting, the ruffle of a towel, and then footsteps emerging from the bathroom, heading right toward me. I flattened myself against the opposite wall just in time. He emerged from the bathroom and came to a halt at the fallen picture, a foot in front of me. The breeze from his motion sent my hair swaying across my face, tickling my cheeks, my breasts, my heaving rib cage.

I held my breath.

He picked up the frame and went to hang it back on the hook, but then he saw the photo . . . saw
her . . .
and his arm stilled. For a long time he stared at it, and his other hand went to his face to squeeze his jaw. I used the opportunity to slip out from behind him and edge up the hall.

Toward her room.

He was still gazing at the picture when I reached for the knob. The latch clicked, and ever so slowly, I pushed the door into Ashley’s bedroom. He caught the motion in his periphery and glanced up, stared right at me. I pushed it open further, sweat slicking under my palm on the knob.

He glanced between her photo and her room, and awareness dawned on his face.

Now he understood.

Eyes locked on his, I backed into her bedroom, the floorboards creaking under the carpet with each step.

He took the bait. Hastily he set the picture back on the wall and followed my footsteps to her open bedroom. I retreated to the middle and stopped, hardly daring to breathe. Leaning inside, he scanned the empty bedroom, then flicked on the lights.

I flinched, fearing he’d seen me, but his gaze continued to pass over my body.

“Ashley?” Voice soft, he stepped inside the room and closed the door behind him. Then he came toward me, reaching out his hand.

Shut in the room with him.

No choice but to go forward with this.

I sidestepped him as he edged closer, now fully aware of the risk. Any sound could give me away. If he swept his arm to the right or spun toward me, he’d contact my body. My
naked
body, made of flesh and blood and bone and skin. Ghosts didn’t have bodies. One touch and the jig was up.

He passed in front of me, and I exhaled as quietly as I could. He heard. His entire body stiffened, neck muscles rigid. He glanced around. “Ashley? Is that you? Where . . . where are you?”

I stood on tiptoe and leaned over his shoulder, positioning my mouth next to his ear, so close I nearly choked on the spicy cologne rising off his neck and shoulders.

Cologne meant for me, I realized. Meant for tonight, for a walk along a moonlit beach with a girl named Leona Hewitt.

It was time to change our plans.

Tonight, he would be taking a walk into his worst nightmare with his sister’s murderer.

I whispered into his ear, “I can show you.”

He jumped at
my voice and spun toward me, eyes wide. I shrank back, but not fast enough. His palm came at my face like a freight train. I ducked to the side and twisted my body out of reach, but his fingers swiped through my hair and caught the end of a long lock, latching on like clamps. I froze.

Caught
.

But he let go, too shocked to hold on, and my hair slid the rest of the way through his fingers. Teetering off balance, I skirted away and fell. I softened the impact, landing like a cat on fingers and toes, not a sound. Dusty lint billowed up my nostrils, blood pounded in my ears.

My hair.

He’d touched my hair.

Hair was okay. A ghost could h
ave hair.

Emory seemed to realize he’d lost me, because his expression changed to sheer panic, and he barged forward, grasping at the air. His feet thumped the carpet next to me, and I leapt out of the way just in time, whipped my hair behind me so it didn’t touch him. My shoulder bumped the bed frame, wobbling the double bunks.

He veered toward the sound, and I rolled away from him again, then scuttled backward like a crab, my heart nearly leaping out of my chest.

I had to stay under control, had to
look
under control. Like everything was intentional. My back hit the door with a sickening crunch. He jerked upright.

I rose trembling to my feet and opened the door, then walked into the hallway, willing myself to stay calm. My footsteps moved toward the landing.

“Wait . . . wait!” he said, bounding after me. “Ashley . . .
wait!
”

I descended the stairs, wood creaking underfoot. Wild, exhilarated breaths tore through my lungs. Yes, he was following me. At the bottom, Carter jumped to his feet and bounded toward me, tongue flapping.

Uh-oh.

Ghosts could not be licked by dogs.

I ran toward him and hurdled him like a track runner—he passed underneath me—and landed on my toes, cushioning the impact as I sprinted through the foyer. Behind me, the dog cocked his head, confused.

“It’s okay, boy,” said Emory. “It’s her . . . it’s Ashley!”

At the front door, my hand fumbled with the latch, unlocked it. When Emory wandered into view, glancing side to side—he thought he’d lost me again—I pulled it open and slipped out into the cold night.

“Ashley, wait!” He ran after me.

I veered down the driveway and knelt in the street to wait for him, gasping to catch my breath. But he’d stopped on the porch, gazing out in wonderment. He thought the ghost encounter was over.

“C’monnn,” I muttered.

I clomped my feet on the pavement to get his attention, but outside, he couldn’t hear my footsteps and I only ended up bruising my heels. He just stood there, a little smile on his face as he scratched Carter’s ears. Then he turned around and reached for the handle.

My heart lurched.

No! He was going back inside!

Without thinking, I sprinted back up the driveway. My toes burned from the friction on the concrete, and wind rushed past my ears and lashed my hair across my neck.

Emory pushed the door open, and Carter slipped inside. I flew past him and yanked the door shut, nearly crushing his fingers.

He flinched and stared at the door for a second, dazed.

I leaned into his personal space and hissed, “Follow me.”

Then I walked very obviously across the lawn, leaving footprints of trampled grass.

This time he followed.

No wonder ghosts got so pissed off. They were just trying to communicate. I trudged through the landscaping, shaking the fronds of a baby palm, and stepped off the curb into the street.

Emory stopped in the middle of the lawn, confused.

This was going to be
way
harder than I’d thought.

At the neighbor’s lot, I thrust my arm into a hedge and gave it a good shake.

An arch formed in his furrowed eyebrows.

“Oh, come on,” I whispered to myself, stripping one of the branches of its leaves, which I then scattered on the ground in the shape of a big fat arrow pointing up the street.

He wandered over and studied the arrow for a long,
looong
time. At last his eyes brightened with understanding. He nodded smugly to himself, as if he’d just cracked a tough clue—he was adorable—and began walking in the direction of the arrow.

But now I hesitated, my plan beginning to unravel. It was a several mile walk across town. There was no way I was going to lead him like this across the busy commercial district and into the hills. I couldn’t be shaking hedges and drawing arrows in the leaves and making footprints around other people. Even if no one saw us, he would probably get tired and return home.

Growing anxious, I scanned the street for inspiration, for an idea. My eyes zeroed in on his black convertible, top still down.

Change of plans.

I jogged up next to Emory—still walking purposely up the street—and leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Go to the Rattlesnake Canyon trailhead.”

He halted midstride, face frozen. “Rattlesnake Canyon,” he muttered, as if he’d had the thought himself.

I nodded vigorously, even though he couldn’t see me.

He dug through his pockets and pulled out a smartphone. Over his shoulder, I saw him open a new text message to a girl named Leona—
me
, I realized belatedly—and tap out,
Gotta cancel tonight. Something came up.

My own phone was sitting at home in my bedroom, unreachable. Too bad. A text message back from me would have been the perfect alibi.

His text would go unanswered.

Next he typed
Rattlesnake Canyon
into a search bar. Looking up directions. He would realize it was too far to walk. While he was occupied, I sprinted back to his car and scrambled into the backseat, wedging myself in the hollow behind the seatbacks.

A moment later, his footsteps jogged up to the car, and the door opened and slammed. He fumbled with keys. The engine roared and we pulled away, sloshing my insides sickeningly. At once, icy gusts battered my bare skin and set my teeth chattering, while every bump in the road dug the center hump into my hip. Wincing, I curled up into a ball and suffered the twenty minute drive to the Rattlesnake Canyon trailhead in shivering agony.

From the base
of an old stone bridge, Rattlesnake Canyon Trail plunged into a dense, shadowy tunnel of oak and sycamore trees. Emory careened over the bridge, saw on his GPS he’d overshot the trailhead, and slammed on the brakes, squashing me into the seatbacks. He reversed his convertible into a rocky turnout, tires skidding and kicking up dust.