“I just saw a ghost in my room?—”
“Allegedly.”
“ALEX.”
“Okay, okay.” She holds up her hands. “Tell me what happened.”
“Seriously, Alex.” I turn to face her fully, my hands still gripping her shoulders. “I woke up with words in my head. Someone else’s words. A woman’s voice sayingThat’s not what happenedand I don’t remember the dream but I remember the voice and—” My voice is climbing. Getting higher. More panicked. “Am I crazy? Would you even know? Would you tell me if I was losing my mind or would you just... let me?”
She grabs my shoulders. Forces me to look at her. “Breathe. Dylan. Breathe.”
I try. It comes out shaky. Broken.
“You aren’t crazy,” she says firmly. “I promise you. You’re not crazy.”
“How do you know?”
“Because if you were crazy, you’d think the ghost was telling you to reorganize your closet by color. Not investigate a murder.”
“That’s not—that doesn’t even make sense.”
“Exactly. Your hallucinations would be way more boring if you were actually losing it. You’d be hearing elevator music, not cryptic warnings from dead women.”
A sob-laugh hybrid escapes me. “That’s the worst logic I’ve ever heard.”
“And yet it worked. You’re breathing again.”
She’s right. I am.
“That makes it worse.” The sob rips out of me. All my emotions—the fear, the exhaustion, the weeks of pretending everything is fine, the impending meeting with Marcus, the Instagram follow, the murder board, the ring around my neck, all of it—building to a release that explodes out of me in the most dramatic sob ever.
It’s not a good look for me.
Snot everywhere. Ugly crying. The works.
Alex laughs. Can’t help herself. And honestly, I would too. I really don’t blame her.
“Let me check.” She says it softly. Gently. Like she’s talking to a scared animal.
Which, fair.
She leans over to turn on her lamp—not the overhead, but the salt lamp on her nightstand. Warm pink light spills acrossthe room. Himalayan salt, she told me once. Cleanses negative energy. I thought she was being ridiculous.
I’m not thinking that anymore.
“I swear, Alex—” I start.
“Stay here. I’ll be right back.” She stands, grabs her glasses from the nightstand—black frames, slightly crooked—and slides them on.
“Wait—you’re just going to walk in there? Alone?”
“Would you prefer we both walk in there?”
“I would prefer we call an exorcist.”
“Pretty sure exorcists don’t make house calls at—” she checks her phone, “—3:47 a.m. Not even in Philly, where you can get a cheesesteak at 4 a.m. but apparently not a priest.”
“We could google it.”
