“This is a first for me too, you know,” Sloane says.
“You’re freaking her out,” Aisha says. To me, “You’re Jo, right?”
I nod blankly. “Just Jo,” I say. An instinctive hand snakes out for a shake, and I pull it back. Sloane’s lips twitch upward.
“This isn’t happening,” I say.
“Unfortunately, it is,” Sloane says.
“Are you…You’re not going to hurt me, are you?” The ridiculousness of such a question isn’t lost on me.
“What? No. Of course not.”Sloane clears her throat. Wiggles her fingers. “But even if we were, it would be more trouble than it’s worth. The lack of consistent fingers makes doing much of anything difficult.”
“You sure don’t seem to have trouble with them when you’re moving stuff around or hiding it. Or leaving creepy messages on my fridge,” I say.
Sloane scrunches her nose, suppressing a grin.“Guilty. For moving stuff. The fridge is all Finn. As for the hiding—”
“I swear I’ll put the books back,” Aisha says sheepishly.
The pair stands on the edge of the porch, waiting for something. The protocol for this is nonexistent, and I waver between wanting to pinch myself until these hallucinations vanish or call for my sister or family to verify that I am, in fact, losing my mind.
“We’d have introduced ourselves if we knew you could see us,” Aisha says.
“Yeah, we’re overdue for new company. Like, way overdue,” says Sloane. She inclines her head.“Are you…You should probably breathe.”
I’m staring, open-mouthed, and I’m not breathing. I inhale, bringing relief to my stinging lungs.
“I’m sorry. This is all so—”
All I wanted when we moved here was to be left alone. Apparently, the universe has a taste for irony. Escaping my family is one thing, but escaping a trio—I hope it’s only a trio and I’m not destined to find new faces in each room—of ghosts is another altogether.
“Weird?” Aisha asks.
“Freaky?” asks Sloane.“Impossible?”
“All of the above.”
“If you want us to go, we can,” Aisha says, but there’s so much sadness in her words, I bite back my agreement.
“No, it’s okay. You can stay.”
The girls settle on the porch steps. Sloane sprawls across the top step, long legs stretched out, boots hanging off the edge of the stairs. Aisha sits at the bottom, knees drawn up, following my muddy hands intently.
“I have a garden back home,” she says, voice quiet. “I’d just planted squash and radishes. I didn’t have any seeds for the peppers. Mom was going to take me to the nursery, but—”She stops. Gives me a plastic smile through glittering eyes.“Mom could kill a succulent. And Dad didn’t even know that everything has a season. Those poor squash. I bet they never got water.”
Sloane leans over, taps Aisha on the shoulder. Her smile for the younger girl is gentle. It reminds me of how Margot and I used to know each other’s moods like our own. A phantom ache pulses in my chest.
“You don’t know that. Maybe the garden is overflowing. More radishes than a person could want,” Sloane says, gesturing with her hands. Her nails are painted black, chipping around the edges.
Aisha smiles, but it falls as fast as it comes.
“Aisha,” I say, drawing her attention before the grief unfurling in her eyes swallows me whole, too. “Is there a better way to do this? I feel like my hacking-at-the-ground technique is probably not effective.”
Aisha hesitates, then comes to kneel at my side. It’s easy enough to get her talking again, and while I can’t say I’m all that interested in gardening strategies, within minutes, her stricken expression starts to fade.
She’s deep into a story about a tomato-planting disaster whenthe air shifts. My skin begins to tingle and my limbs go stiff. I feel more than hear or see the person approaching behind me. Boots scuff over the concrete sidewalk, up to where I’m kneeling in front of the porch.
I turn and find Oliver Holden standing above me. The shovel falls from my fingers, hand flying to my chest.
