“How are you doing this?” I asked, spreading my hand over the warmth of his chest. “Why are you doing this?”
With my face buried against his side, I could breathe him in. He smelled like he did before solange. A summer meadow with a storm on the horizon. The promise of rain, lightning, and thunder.
Before, he’d said these ghost train rides would save me.
“Finn?”
He looked down at me, his hazel and navy eyes solemn. “Did you kill Durst and Haddock?”
This wasn’t the same as times before. He wasn’t relaxed or happy. We weren’t kids this time. I wasn’t dressed in my black jeans and top like the first time. Instead, I was wearing a red satin dress with miles of tulle, a black lace overskirt, and black lace gloves. It looked vintage, like the wooden ghost train. Finn was wearing a classic black tuxedo with tails. His black hair was combed back, leaving his face stern and hard. He looked more like his dad. Like the Smith.
“Who?” I asked, pressing my hand to his heart.
The muscles in his jaw clenched. “Two Smiths. At The Other Place.”
I pushed upright. “No.”
“And Pole . . .” He swallowed painfully. “Did you torture?—?”
“No.”
He studied my expression, peering at me like he was trying to see inside me. “Can I believe you?”
“No,” I said for the third time. “You can’t. But I didn’t.”
“And Rockefeller? Was that you?”
I turned away from him and looked out the window. We were moving across the river, heading east. A century ago, this train never left the city, but now, it was floating along an elevated track, veering toward the shore.
The train had a long, padded bench seat, red floors, and lights lining the ceiling. The leather straps for passengers to hold onto swayed above us with the car’s rocking.
The train was empty except for us. The windows were closed. The clatter of the wheels was no longer soothing.
I searched the city lights. We were in Brooklyn now, racing south, Midtown and Rockefeller far behind us.
“So it was you,” Finn finally said. “People died, Mari.”
“No—” I shook my head. No one had died. We’d made certain . . .
My stomach dropped at the look on his face.
“How many?” I whispered.
“Too many.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Finn didn’t answer; he only watched me.
I didn’t know what to trust or what to think.
“Is this real? Or are we figments here? I don’t feel Jagger”—I pressed my hand to the lace over my heart—“when I’m here with you. Not so much. Usually, his presence suffocates and chokes me, but here, I can breathe.” I dropped my hand to my skirt. “I don’t think it’s real. In real life, you’re cruel. You want to kill me. You destroyed Hell Gate.”
Finn reached over and gripped my hand. “What if life is the illusion and this is what’s real?”
“Did you leave me a note?”
He bent his head and gave me a slow smile that worked a flush over my body. “A note?”
