The Ghost and the Goth (9 page)

His mother frowned, confused. She stared at the bed, probably trying to remember if it’d been broken the last time she’d been up here. “When did this happen? I don’t like the idea of girls visiting your room—”

“Now, Julia, peer interaction is good. Let’s just try to keep it to the living room, okay, Will?” Miller reached down and patted Killian’s leg in what he thought, gag, would be a fatherly gesture. Then he paused dramatically, and I flinched in advance. Four years of therapy with Dr. Andrews, king of the chin-rubbers, had taught me what to expect next. Show some tiny little spark of happiness, something that might lead you away from your regular weekly appointments, and watch out.

“What do you think Lily would make of this?” Miller asked casually.

Killian’s smile disappeared like the doctor had reached over and ripped it off.

“Who’s Lily?” I asked.

“She would want me to be happy. We were friends once,” Killian said defensively.

“No.” I stood up, alarmed. “Calm down. You’re giving him an opening.” Hadn’t Killian been paying attention at all in therapy? Guys like Miller lived for this stuff.

“You’re right. That’s good. She wouldn’t want you to feel guilty. She would want you to live your life happily. It wasn’t your fault that you didn’t answer the phone.” Miller’s words and tone managed to convey opposite things. It was a shrink thing. No idea how they did it, but it was their secret weapon.

“She knew I didn’t always answer my phone. I can’t hear it if I’ve got my headphones on. She could have called Joonie, her parents, anyone for help.” The unspoken phrase that hung in the air was
But she called me
.

I watched Killian pull back into himself, tucking his arms beneath the covers. Great. At this rate, he was going to be too depressed to get out of bed, let alone help me. I didn’t know who this Lily chick was, but she was screwing everything up.

“Come on.” I moved to stand on the other side of Killian’s bed with an exasperated sigh.

His mother frowned. “Did you hear that?” she asked the doctor. “It sounded like footsteps.”

Killian shot me a warning look. Oops.

Dr. Miller gave her an overly patient look. “No, Julia.”

I took advantage of their distraction. “Miller is messing with your head,” I whispered to Killian, just in case, though it didn’t seem like anyone else could hear my voice, or they’d have been freaking out a long time ago. “He wants you to feel bad because when you feel bad, he gets paid.” I thought about it for a second, and then added, “Indirectly. But you get the idea. Snap out of it.”

“No, he’s right. Lily deserved better than what she got. She deserved better friends.”

I sucked in a breath, watching Dr. Miller’s face change as he recognized that Killian was not speaking to him. Was that greed that flashed so lightning quick?

“Smooth move, Killian,” I snapped. “He’s on to you.”

Killian stiffened, and without a glance in my direction, he pushed himself upright again in bed. “I’m sorry. I meant, you’re right, Dr. Miller.”

“William, what happened to that girl … that was not your fault.” His mother’s voice held only the faintest quaver.

Ooooh. Now in spite of everything, I was intrigued. “Why? What happened to her? Did you get her pregnant? Shove her down a flight of stairs? Help her evil twin abduct her and take her to Mexico for some kind of face-altering plastic surgery?” Hmmm. My addiction to daytime television—thank you, TiVo, gift to people with lives everywhere—might have been showing through a bit there.

Everyone, including Killian, ignored me. Surprise, surprise.

“I know,” Killian said, but the words rang hollow. He didn’t believe it, and he didn’t expect them to, either.

“You should get some rest,” Dr. Miller said in that same patronizingly gentle voice. “A night at Ivythorne—”

“No,” Killian and his mother said simultaneously.

Miller frowned. “Julia, I strongly encourage you to—”

Killian’s mother hesitated for a long moment.

“Mom,” Killian whispered, and I could see the fear in his face. She was all that stood between him and a life in lockdown.

Then she straightened her shoulders and met Dr. Miller’s gaze straight on, and I saw the woman she must have been before all this tragedy rained down on her life. In that second, I envied Killian a little. My mother would have been fighting me for the opportunity to go to Ivythorne, probably hoping it would finally gain her some attention from my dad.

“I’m sure you would agree that this is an isolated incident triggered by Principal Brewster bullying my son,” Killian’s mom said. “He’s a full-grown man who should know better than to torture a troubled boy.”

Miller shook his head. “I know that you would like to believe …”

“Max, I said no.”

“Good for you. Finally, somebody in this family with a little spine,” I said.

“All right.” Miller held his hands up, surrendering less than graciously. “It’s your decision, of course. I brought something else to help, just in case.” He reached into his suit coat pocket to produce a capped syringe. “It’s a mild sedative,” Miller went on. “Just so you can get a good night’s sleep tonight.”

“And halfway into the next century,” I protested. “Tell him no. You promised to help me.”

Killian ignored me and looked to his mother. “I don’t need it.”

Her mouth curved in distaste when she looked at the syringe, but she nodded at him. “You need the rest.”

“A sedative on top of a head injury?” I said. Any first-year watcher of
House
could tell you that was a mistake. “You people
are
crazy.” Granted, his mother didn’t know about the bump to his head, but still …

Killian offered up his arm reluctantly.

I lunged to yank his arm down, but the bed was in the way, and Miller, after years of doping up patients, moved faster than I did. The needle was in Killian’s arm before I could reach him.

I straightened up. “You’re such a coward. I take back all the nice things I thought about your chest.”

“You’re right,” Killian said. Then he looked up at me with a frown. “What?”

“I said, I want you to get some sleep,” Miller repeated, a little louder. He removed the syringe from Killian’s arm, recapped it, and dropped it in his pocket.

Killian’s glazed eyes found mine. “What nice things did you think?” he asked, already sounding muzzy.

“Oh, forget it,” I snapped.

Miller backed away, clucking his tongue. He nodded at Killian’s mom, and the two of them stepped out into the hallway. I followed, narrowly escaping before Mrs. Killian closed the door.

“Now, Julia, I don’t want to alarm you, but with your family history …”

She flinched.

He took her by the shoulders, enfolding her in a much-closer-than-professional embrace.

“A skeevy chin-rubber. Even better.” I wrinkled my nose, imagining the dusty smell of his tweed jacket and the lingering odor of pipe smoke.

“It may be nothing at all, but any sudden change in behavior is something we should keep an eye on.” He hesitated dramatically, setting her away from him but still keeping his surprisingly fat and stubby fingers on her shoulders. “With this latest incident, we should consider hospitalization again—”

“He’s doing better,” she said firmly, as if she could make it true by the force of her words.

Oh, God, I couldn’t even stand to watch this. The chin-rubber would have Killian in restraints within a week, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

“I know, I know, and you may be right, this could be an isolated event, but the last eight or nine months … I care, Julia. So I’m worried.” He hugged her again, his bulkier body nearly swallowing her smaller one whole.

“Skeevy bastards, that’s what they all are. Wake up, Julia,” I shouted right at her.

Disgusted, I pressed against the wall to scoot past them. Seriously, what was I supposed to do now? My one and only brilliant idea was currently gorked out of his brain and probably drooling on his pillow. And the information he’d given me? Not so much of a help.

I stomped soundlessly down the hall through the kitchen and into the living room to flop onto the plaid couch. As eye-piercingly ugly as it was, it felt pretty comfortable. Maybe that’s why they’d ignored all good sense and kept it around.

I needed a plan. Killian was out of the game, probably indefinitely. Bargain or no bargain, he wasn’t going to risk helping me, not with his freedom on the line. I almost couldn’t blame him. Unfortunately, the other dead people I’d met didn’t seem to have any clue about how to get out of here or else they’d have already done it, so I was on my own. No biggie—I’d been going it alone pretty much since I was thirteen. Though, paying the bills and keeping my mother sober enough to attend parent-teacher conferences once a semester didn’t quite equal determining the fate of my eternal soul, but whatever. I could do it. I always got what I wanted, one way or another, right? You just had to keep pushing until someone or something gives in. She who quits last, wins. I used to have a cheerleading camp T-shirt that said that.

First things first. I needed a pen and some paper. Things always look more manageable when they’re written out. I didn’t win homecoming queen three times without a little effort and planning, you know. Kicking my legs out, I let the momentum pull me off the couch and to my feet. In the process, one of my ankles passed through a beat-up brown leather briefcase leaning partially against the side of the sofa.

Miller’s. It had to be. It hadn’t been in here when I’d first come in … well, fallen in. The main zipper pocket strained around a massive number of manila file folders and black-and-white composition notebooks, all jammed in unevenly and at odd angles. The nylon carrying strap had broken off on both sides, and the remaining bits of strap had sprouted tufts of brown fuzz. The briefcase looked like some kind of strange creature caught in midchew.

I grinned. Perfect. No good chin-rubber would ever be caught without a notebook and a multitude of pens. With just a bit of concentration …

Bending down, I focused on the briefcase, imagining the worn leather under my fingertips and the cool metal of the zipper teeth.

The briefcase creature flopped on its side and promptly barfed up its contents. Pens, the thick expensive kind, rolled free, along with a multitude of files. I grabbed for the least battered-looking composition notebook … and my hand passed through it.

“Dammit.”

I tried again with the same results. This time, concentrating on making the notebook solid, I reached for it and my hand touched the corner of it, but only for a split second.

“Oh, forget it.” If it was this hard to pick up a notebook without Killian right next to me with his personal voodoo or whatever, how would I manage to hold a pen, let alone write? “This sucks,” I said aloud to no one in particular.

All right, so no pen and paper. I could still work strategy in my head. I sat down on the floor, crossing my legs. Killian said this was about unfinished business, issues I needed to resolve. Actually, he’d said I didn’t have any issues. Showed what he knew.

But how was anyone in my
condition
supposed to resolve anything? No one could see or hear me, other than Killian, and I didn’t seem to have gained any sort of afterlife-related super powers, like haunting people’s dreams or whatever. I did have the whole passing-through-solid-objects thing working for me, but that seemed decidedly less than useful at the moment.

I drew my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around my legs, blinking back the sudden and unwelcome sting of tears. It seemed kind of an unfair test. Sure, you can move on to heaven if you can do the impossible. Otherwise, you’re stuck here … forever. Alone.

No. I shook my head and straightened up. I wouldn’t let this beat me. There had to be a way to win. I
always
won.

Thinking, I chewed on the side of my thumbnail for a second before catching myself. Dead or not, ragged and spit-covered nails are unacceptable.

If Killian hadn’t been unconscious, I could have given him messages to deliver for me. I imagined him walking up to Chris and passing along the fact that his dead girlfriend was not so happy with him these days. Yeah, Killian would really need a stay in the hospital after that.

Staring down at Miller’s tipped-over bag and the mess of files, folders, and papers on the floor in front of me, I got an idea. Maybe I was thinking too literally. Communication from the great beyond, even if it was actually not-so-great and not-so-beyond, should be subtle.

Concentrating on the topmost file, I gave it a shove, and it slid down the mountain of paperwork before settling on the carpeting. From there, moving it across the carpet and into position with little jabs was actually pretty easy. I figured I’d need about five or six more files to make my point.

Fortunately, Miller was the long-winded type—no surprise there. They’d started down the hall toward the kitchen a while ago, but he’d stopped there to schmooze further, and I could hear bits and pieces of their conversation as I worked.

“… Encourage you to reconsider, Julia.”

“I appreciate that, Max, I do. But he’s my son and …”

“What if he’d been driving during this last attack? Have you considered that?”

Julia’s response was a low and seemingly angry murmur that I couldn’t hear. Good for her. Therapists aren’t the be-all and end-all of knowledge. Sometimes they’re just another way to lose money.

Out of breath from the effort required, I shoved the last composition book into place—I’d mixed it up a little between notebooks and folders for effect—and stepped back to admire my work. Very nice, but maybe a little more was needed? A little artistry perhaps?

Kneeling down again, I pushed at another folder. Only this one, much heavier and thicker with more paper than the others, spilled its contents instead of sliding across the floor. The uppermost document looked like a letter and the rest were … chapters? Neatly typed pages with dialogue and headings …

I leaned closer for a better look. The letter on top was from Page Seven Books and addressed to Dr. Miller.

Dear Dr. Miller,