Twenty-Five

TWENTY-FIVE

Jin hovers over me after that. He insists I sit down, and he has Shania pull on her nurse hat to walk me through signs of a concussion. Jin doesn't question that it was an accident, though. I got overexcited and tripped. No need to end the séances. No need to whisk me back into the protective custody of my brother.

I tell the others that I'm going to bed, and I reach the top of the stairs before Cirillo comes after me. He waves me into his room, and I almost walk into my own and shut the door, but at the last second, I follow him.

"Did you really accidentally topple the chair?" he asks once he's shut the door.

"Are you concerned for my safety? Or worried about missing a potential physical manifestation for your funding application?"

His lips press into a sour line.

"I don't expect you to be concerned for my well-being, Dr. Cirillo," I say. "But I am concerned about how your data is going to be used, so don't expect me to be completely forthcoming."

"Something toppled the chair."

I don't answer. Sure, I feel a little childish, but whatever's happening here is about me, and I don't really care how it affects this stranger's livelihood.

He moves closer, voice lowering. "If we are dealing with a being that can move objects in the physical world, that is a safety concern."

"We already knew that, between the stairs and the bath mat."

"Which were centered on you. As was this one. Yes, I care about my work, but if you are in danger, we need to take action."

"Okay. I'm in danger. Now what?"

He hesitates, as if he still expected me to deny it. It's so much easier when you can just warn someone of danger and then wash your hands of the consequences.

"Should we leave?" I say. "I've been targeted three times. If I told Jin—"

"I don't think that's wise."

Yeah, I'm sure you don't.

He continues, "We have unleashed something here, Nicola. If we leave, we risk inflicting that on others. You need to be aware of your responsibility. We aren't investigating a haunted house. You brought the ghosts with you. You can't leave them behind."

When I don't answer, he presses on, "One of them is your husband. I'm sure of that. We all heard him. He's here, but when we brought him in, something tagged along, something dark."

"You sense two entities?"

He peers at me, but I keep my expression only mildly curious.

"What else could it be?" he asks.

I shrug. "You tell me. You're the expert."

"We clearly heard Anton in the living room, and at the same time, another entity knocked over your chair."

That's one way of looking at it. The other way is that Anton lured them out to target me, but I'm sure as hell not mentioning that to someone who'll put it on a grant application.

"If it's a second ghost," I say, "then you can contact it, right?"

"I can try, but as I've said this doesn't feel like a true ghost. ‘Entity' is a better word. A dark entity." He straightens. "I will still try to make contact tomorrow, during our final séance. For now, I just need you to be careful. You're sharing the twin-bed room with Shania tonight?"

"I am."

"Good, then everything should be fine."

No, Doctor, your grudging precautions are not going to stop anything in this house that actually wants to hurt me, but at least you'll get your damn funding.

I can grumble, but I'm not exactly packing my bags, am I?

He's right that if we summoned something dark, I can't walk out and leave it for unsuspecting strangers to deal with. But I also need answers, and I'm not leaving until I get them.

I'm dreaming of Anton. We've flown to Banff for the weekend and hiked up Sulphur Mountain. That wasn't nearly as easy as it'd been when I was young—with less battle-scarred lungs—but I did it, and I'm damn proud of myself.

We've found a quiet spot to rest and enjoy the view, and we're celebrating with a mini bottle of champagne.

"You know what I love about climbing mountains?" Anton says. "The sense of accomplishment. I could have taken the gondola up for this view, but I did it the hard way."

"Uh-huh."

"Okay, it was harder for you. Which means you get this first."

He passes over the champagne, and I drink straight from the bottle.

"Also, if we took the gondola," he says, "we'd be enjoying this view with a hundred total strangers."

"And security guards telling us we can't drink."

"True." He stretches out his legs. "I think I'm going to keep you, Nic."

I snort. "Good to know. Do I have a say in that?"

"I suppose you should."

"Uh-huh."

He twists to face me. "Any chance you'd be interested in making it official?"

I lift my brows.

"Marry me, Nic."

I stare at him. Then I laugh. "I'd blame the champagne, but you haven't had any. The altitude then?"

He puts out his fist and opens it. On his palm is a band studded with diamonds.

"Shit," I say.

"Uh… not quite the response I hoped for."

I set down the bottle and face him. "You know marriage isn't an option, Anton."

"Why? Because of the three other husbands you have tucked away? I'm good at sharing, and they seem the quiet sort."

I sigh.

"You mean because of the CF," he says.

"Yes, because of the CF. I won't be climbing mountains in a few years."

"So? I don't need to climb mountains. I need to be with you."

I turn to face him. "Wait until I'm bedridden, praying for a transplant that might not even work. And that's if I get one, which I probably won't because it should go to someone younger."

He meets my gaze. "I. Don't. Care."

I open my mouth to protest, but he leans toward me, locking eyes.

"If you're in that bed, Nic, I want to be sitting beside it. No, I want to be on my feet, advocating for you, and when it's too late for that, I'll be holding your hand until the end."

My eyes prickle. "That sounds very romantic, but the reality—"

"The reality is that I know what I'm getting into. I've done my research, and I understand."

"We've talked about moving in together."

"Sharing a condo says I'm just hanging around until the first sign of trouble. That isn't what I want." He lifts the ring. "In sickness and in health."

"I…"

"If you don't want to marry me, say so. I'll survive. Maybe. Hopefully."

He gives me puppy-dog eyes, and I knock my shoulder against his.

"Can we talk about it?" I say. "I want to be sure you really do understand everything that's going to happen to me. This can't be a grand romantic gesture, Anton. Proving your love by caring for a woman with a terminal condition."

"If you felt, for one second, like I was martyring myself, you'd pack my bags and kick my ass out, no matter how sick you were."

"I would."

"This isn't a grand gesture, Nic. It's a hope." His face comes to mine. "A hope that you'll grant my wish, and let me have you for as long as I can, right down to the last second."

I lean in and kiss him, and relief floods me. A relief that comes from my current self, reliving that dream.

In it, I look at Anton, and I am absolutely certain I am not misremembering. No smooth-talking con artist proposed to me that day. It was my Anton, as sweet and awkward and goofy as he'd been as a teenager.

I know people can do horrible things and their loved ones never have a clue. But in my gut, I cannot look back on this Anton and see a boy who murdered a teenage girl.

Does that mean he couldn't have done it? Not unless he wasn't in his right mind. Not unless he had literally been possessed, and was left only with the most subconscious awareness that he had a reason to feel guilty about Patrice and Heather.

Is that the answer? I don't know. What I do know is that it's not just my gut that believes him, but my brain.

What reason would a sociopathic Anton have to marry me? He had his own money. He wasn't getting any of mine even after I died, and he made sure of that himself.

I brought nothing to the marriage except my cantankerous self and a whole lotta baggage, and he gave me the best years of my life.

Tonight something toppled that chair. In my dreams last night, Anton did that to me in the cafeteria. That should mean it was him… except he'd never done anything like that even in play. Oh, some guys could. They'd pull a jerk move like that and then claim they were just goofing around, like they would with their friends. But that had never been Anton's style. Not tipping chairs, not poking at me on a staircase, not moving a bath mat under me.

Did I do it to myself? Echoing the dream?

Something nudges at me. Someone who did once topple a chair I was in. Goofing around. Acting like it'd been a mistake. Saying they only meant to startle me.

Who did that? I tug at the memory, but nothing comes and instead the proposal dream returns, Anton and me in that forest. I let myself drift, enjoying the peace of the mountainside and the relief of knowing—

I freeze.

This isn't the mountain forest.

It's the forest where Heather died.

No, I don't want to be here. Take me back to—

A twig cracks. As I turn, I glimpse Heather's body through the trees. She's on her back, with her stomach split open, guts snaking out.

I turn away sharply.

Wake up. I want to wake—

Another twig crack. I glance over to see a figure slipping through the trees.

The figure is a bit taller than me. Slender, dressed in jeans and a corduroy jacket with sherpa lining. Work boots.

I force my gaze up, over the open jacket and the Nirvana T-shirt, up to the curling dark hair and the Roman nose and the green eyes.

Anton stands there, staring at me. My gaze drops to his hand. He's clutching a knife, the blade slick with blood.

No.

That is not what happened.

Yes, twice that night I heard something and saw a shadowy figure, but it wasn't even enough to make out size or shape. I did not see Anton.

The dream rewinds, and this time, it's correct. I only catch movement and think I spot a shadow in the forest.

The scene replays, and I grit my teeth. Fine, I'll play the memory through. That's obviously what my subconscious wants.

I head for the path, moving as carefully as I did that night, not wanting to alert whoever I'd seen in the forest. I make it into the woods. I'm walking, so slow and measured—

The rustle of undergrowth.

I wheel. The figure is right there.

That's not what happened. Keep going.

I can't move. I'm transfixed by that figure. My feet turn against my will, and I take a step and then another. The dark shape stays where it is.

I just need to get closer. See who it is.

Another step. Another—

The figure lunges, and a face flies from the darkness. The same face I saw in the online photograph earlier.

Roddy Silva.

His eyes meet mine, and his lips twitch in a quarter smile. "I will cut you open, and I will gut you."

I turn and I run, even as the grown-up part of my brain screams that this is a dream. I never saw Roddy. Roddy never chased me.

Only he's chasing me now, and I'm running for my life, and I can't breathe. I can't breathe.

I try to go faster, but my lungs are on fire, and his pounding footfalls are getting closer, and I can feel him there. Right behind me, and I'm going to die. He's going to stab me because I can't run any faster. My lungs will burst, and I will fall, and he will rip me open, and I won't even be dead when he does it.

Heather had been alive when I found her. She'd been alive when someone gutted her—

There's something ahead. Someone on the path.

Patrice! Yes, Patrice is here.

Oh, thank God.

I give one final burst of speed. Here is my salvation. Get to Patrice.

She isn't lying on the ground, though. She's sitting in a chair, head forward as if she'd fallen asleep there.

She lifts her head weakly, her eyes struggling to focus.

"Janica?" she says. "W-what are you—?"

I find one last burst of energy, running full out… and I grab the back of the chair, yank it over, and keep going. Behind me, Roddy snarls in victory and Patrice screams the most bloodcurdling scream and then…

And then I can breathe again.

Roddy is killing Patrice, and I am safe.