“Because last time you saw a dead person, I called you a liar.”
She goes very still. “Dylan?—”
“I was sixteen and hurting and you told me you saw my dad and I—” I can’t finish. Can’t say those words again. “I’m sorry. I’ve been sorry for eleven years. But I can’t—I can’t do ghosts, Alex. I can’t.”
“This isn’t about your dad,” she says quietly. “This is about a woman who was murdered. Who needs help. Who chose you.”
“Maybe she chose wrong.”
“Or maybe she chose the only person who actually gives a shit. The only person who’s been trying to find out what happened to her. The only person who wears her ring and calls her Dahlia and refuses to let her disappear. Because that’s whatwomen do when the system fails—we haunt each other until someone finally listens.”
The ring burns against my chest.
“I don’t know how to help her,” I whisper.
“Then learn.” Alex’s voice cracks. “Because she’s not going away, Dylan. And neither am I. But I can’t keep watching you shut down every time the world doesn’t make sense. Sometimes things are just... inexplicable. And you have to trust that anyway.”
“I’m trying.”
“Maybe you should listenfor once.” She turns away. Lies down. Faces the wall. “I’m sleeping now.”
The words land. Hard.
For once.
Like I’ve been ignoring her for years. Like this isn’t the first time she’s tried to tell me. Like every joke and deflection has been building to this moment.
“Alex—” I start.
“I’m sleeping.” Flat. Final.
“Don’t do that.” My voice cracks. “Don’t shut me out.”
“I’m not shutting you out.” She doesn’t turn around. “I’m just done talking to someone who won’t listen.”
That one hurts. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” Now she does turn. Just her head. Just enough that I can see her face in the bathroom light. “I saw your dad, Dylan. When we were sixteen. And you called me a liar.”
My throat closes. “I didn’t mean?—”
“You did.” Her voice breaks. “You said I was using your grief for attention. Do you remember that?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” She’s crying now. “Because you didn’t just call me a liar. You made me doubt myself. Made me think I was crazy for eleven years. And now it’s happening again—I’m seeing things,feeling things, and you’re making me question whether I can trust my own instincts.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy?—”
“Then what?” She sits up fully now. Faces me. “What is it, Dylan? Because I’ve been patient. I’ve let you avoid this for eleven years. But she’s here. In your room. Trying to tell you something. And you won’t even try to listen.”
“I can’t.” The words rip out of me. Raw. Honest. “I can’t, Alex. Because if ghosts are real, then my dad is really dead. Not heaven-dead. Not watching-over-me dead. Just... gone. An echo. And I can’t—” My voice breaks. “I can’t handle that.”
Neither of us speaks.
“Okay,” she says finally. Softer. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
