Chapter 44

I fill every room inthe house with candles, from cellar to attic, though I can't light them or I'll have a house fire on my hands in minutes. Then I retrieve my art supplies and begin to paint. I've been working on a custom set of tarot cards for weeks now. Over time, the theme has morphed from an idyllic nature setting to one specific to the lake house. Right now I can't get that night out of my head. I start with the lake in rich, sapphire blue, the boat on top framed by a velvet sky. Anxiety begins to build up in my chest as I look for a place to paint Ryan. Because I don't know where he was. I add Kennedy and try to imagine once more, but my mother is right about me. I see nothing. I paint thick, ruby red over the water in turbulent waves, add violent stitches into the sky, all the unfairness of not knowing, of the worst that could be. And then I paint a card for Chelsea—who didn't go out on the boat either, but came back with the others—on the dock, watching. She came back with the others. I scrawl an inscription at the bottom of each and set them neatly in a corner to dry, then wait up in the attic for the others in a circle of candles, Mila's lighter in my pocket, a single candle lit to light the rest. After everyone has gathered in the circle, I walk the perimeter and light each one.

"Should we join hands?" Mila asks. She snaps her gum. Nerves maybe. Or maybe she's just bored.

Kennedy glares at her, a scolding, motherly look.

"Yes. Unbroken circle." I've placed myself between Kennedy and Chelsea so that I don't have to deal with Chase. I can't even wrap my head around the fact that we just slept together and he has a date here with him. He's been avoiding my eyes. I think that's the worst part. He owes me a real explanation. More than that. But at the very least he owes me the truth.

I try to wipe it all out of my head. This is more important.

"So, what's next? We chant or burn a goat or what?" Mila bounces her knees up and down.

I remember hating her, but I don't remember her being this obnoxious. "No, we don't burn a fucking goat. Do you see any goats?"

She shrugs. "I don't see any ghosts, either."

This close. I'm this close to punching her. But I don't. "Why don't you start?"

That wipes the smirk off her face. "What?"

"Call to Ryan. Ask him to come back and speak to us."

She pulls her knees into her chest. "I didn't really know him." Her voice is small now; she is small.

"But you saw him the night he disappeared. If he died, you saw him closer to his last moments than I did. Right?" I hand my candle to her.

"He didn't die." The words snap off Chase's tongue like a rubber band. Reflexive. That doesn't mean much.

Mila stares down at the flame, and her face lights up and darkens in the flickering glow. "Ryan, will you please come talk to us?" she mumbles. She shoves the candle into Chase's hand.

He holds it far away from his body like a stick of dynamite in a cartoon. "Hey, buddy. I'm here. Speak up if you want to. We all miss you."

He nudges Kennedy with his elbow and she takes the candle, holding one hand underneath to catch any dripping wax. "Ryan, sweetie, we're all here waiting for you to come back. Whenever you're ready, you know the door is open." She passes the candle to me, then casts her eyes down to the floor.

"Ryan, I know you're out there. I feel it. At home, at school, everywhere I go. I feel it stronger in this house, and I won't leave until I hear from you. Talk to me." I wait. But nothing happens. I reluctantly hand the candle to Chelsea.

She heaves a big sigh and concentrates on the flames. She is so fake. Chelsea and her sight. Instead of saying anything coherent, though, she whispers something so softly it's impossible to make out, her lips barely moving, her eyes narrowed, so focused on the candle it looks like she's intent on moving it with her mind or something. I try to read her lips, but I can't.

"Share it with the class," Mila finally says.

Chelsea startles. "Sorry. I can't really think of anything good." She hands the candle back to me.

She did, though. She thought of something good. It just wasn't something she felt like sharing. Just like Chelsea to keep her precious little Ryan secrets from me, even now, after she's played her part in silencing him, maybe forever.

I place the candle back in the center of the circle, and we join hands again.

"Now what?" Chase whispers.

"We wait. Open your mind and wait." I know that if the worst did happen, Ryan will speak to me. I may not have been the favorite in life. Chelsea may have been his chosen one while I was left to gather clues and put on a show of knowing, of twin closeness. But it's my turn now. I'm all he has left.

He wasn't the perfect brother. The favorite child doesn't have to be. He can think mostly of himself and his wants, and Ryan had many, and toss around little kindnesses like favors. I was always running after him for approval somehow, ever since we were little, because if he approved, so did Mom and Dad. It was the opposite with our friends. I was the one everyone liked. It was a confusing balancing act. The portrait of the unbreakable bond for all our friends, because if I faltered, he would be alone. And if I lost his approval, my parents would be relentless. Why couldn't I be practical like Ryan? Play sports. Focus on school instead of art. Stop dressing like a hooker and talking like a truck driver. Be a lady. They were such hypocrites. They hated the Hartfords, but they wanted us to become them.

But I'm getting distracted.

Clear my mind. Clear as crystal. I picture running water. Pure, untainted, fresh water. It pools and stills and I see Ryan reflected in it, underneath the surface. Eyes open, mouth open, smiling. Speaking.

"Come out," I whisper.

He looks at me, then looks away. The moonlight washes over him. He begins to fade.

"No," I say sharply. I feel Chelsea squeezing my hand.

"He's so close," she says in a breathy voice. Bitch. Bitch. She's faking. Taking him. Even now.

"Shut up." I yank my hand out of hers and squeeze my eyes tighter, trying to conjure him back. His image slowly reappears beneath the water, and I float to him until I'm hovering just above, gazing at him like he's on the other side of a mirror. Where are you? I ask him silently.

"He's here," Chelsea says. "Kennedy, do you feel it?"

"No," Kennedy says softly. With pity.

Ryan shakes his head and I understand.

She doesn't see him because he doesn't want her to.

"Do this for me." Chelsea's voice is distant. Barely a whisper. Not meant for my ears. But I don't have time for her pity or Kennedy's stubbornness. Because it is real. He is here. And I don't need my friends to play along anymore. We're not reading cards for luck or romance. I'm tracking my brother's killer.

Ryan just gazes at me. What happened to you? I ask in my mind, my lips forming the words soundlessly.

"We should stop," Chelsea says. I feel her climbing to her feet, and I grab her hand and yank her back down.

Ryan points to the side. To Chelsea.

"Chelsea?" I say aloud.

"What?"

Careful. No sound. Lips motionless. Chelsea did this? Chelsea killed you?

He shrugs and grins.

"I don't want to do this anymore." Chelsea rushes past me and down the attic stairs.

I open an eye. Kennedy, Chase, and Mila are still sitting, looking uncomfortable.

"Is that enough?" Kennedy asks.

"Almost." I take Mila's hand reluctantly. Chelsea killed you?

He waves his hand around the circle.

Mila, Chase, Kennedy?

He nods at every name. All of them. He continues nodding, his head bobbing all the way back and all the way down, unnaturally far. Smooth, current-like motion.

Where is your body?

He spreads his arms wide.

What am I supposed to do?

He points to me. It's your turn. Bubbles erupt out of his mouth, and his voice echoes in my ears, snapping and popping like lava.

A chill runs down my spine. My turn?

You're next. They know you know. That's why you're here. You're a goner, Emily.

I look around the circle. Kennedy is watching me carefully, her expression unreadable. Chase is digging his fingernails into his palms. Mila is biting her lips, suppressing a yawn. She winks and I turn away. She's at the heart of it too. She and Chelsea. Mila was the instigator. The new element. She fell into our happy little family like a lit match onto a short fuse. You can't blame the match entirely, but that fuse would have been fine for a long time.

"We're done," I say abruptly.

Kennedy blinks. "Are you sure? No rush. We have all day."

"Nonsense." I blow the candles out, leaving only the dim light from the single window on the other side of the ladder. "I have to clean up, you have to make dinner, Chase and Mila probably want to spend some time alone together."

Chase clears his throat, but Mila grabs his hand and pulls him up.

"She has a point. Sorry Ryan didn't show up. Well. Not sorry." Mila squints for a moment, as if there's something in her eye. "I mean because he's going to be okay, Emily," she says quickly. "Just try not to think about it too much."

"Yeah. Good advice."

She shakes her head and climbs down the stairs. Chase jumps down after her without a word to me.

Kennedy begins to pick up the candles.

"Leave them."

She hesitates, her fingers wrapped around one. "It gets so hot up here."

"I know. I'll get them later. I just—I'm not completely sure I'm done. Can we leave them up for now?"

She raises her eyebrows. "Around the entire house? Until when?"

I sigh. "I just don't feel like this was the right time. It doesn't work if there's a single nonbeliever in the group."

Her gaze doesn't waver. "Who's the nonbeliever?"

"All of you."

She laughs. Actually laughs. At me. Nervous laughter, maybe, laughter of disbelief, but it slices through me just the same. "Because we choose to hold on to hope?"

I feel the last remnants of friendliness slide off my face. "No. I don't think you do. I think you know just as well as I do that he's dead. But you won't admit it. That's the difference."

Kennedy's hand goes right to her mouth, like I knew it would. She has no more nails to bite. That's how I know shedid it. Every one of them has a sign, a tell. It's like playing poker with the devil.

It suddenly occurs to me that I must have a tell too. That every moment I spend with them, they're figuring out what I know. That maybe I did reach Ryan. Maybe it wasn't wishful thinking. A warning. A sign. Don't let them know you see. You're next. A goner.

"Do you really think he's dead?" Kennedy says. Her eyes cut through me.

"You know what I know," I say.

"I know that the dead don't wait for rituals and they don't care about believers," she says. "If he was gone, and he wanted you to know, he'd have done it by now." Kennedy closes her eyes. "Sorry. Emily, I'm so sorry."

I stare at her, speechless, then escape down the stairs, my heart pounding.

Kennedy. Chelsea. Chase. Mila. It's not that I blame one more than the others.

All of them are at fault. They share the blame.

Perhaps if any of them had stayed home last year, it would never have happened.

But no one ever stays home. They always come.

Nothing keeps them away.

Not even an inconvenient little death.

I creep down the hallway to the master bedroom and push the door gently open. Chelsea is lying on the bed with the lights off and the shades drawn, a damp washcloth over her eyes. She gets migraines now. It's one of her vague, unspecific symptoms. Migraines, nausea, insomnia. Exhaustion, paranoia, depression.

"What did you see?" she asks in a dull voice.

I step softly into the room. "What did you see?"

She presses her palms into the cloth, but she doesn't answer me.

"I don't have the sight," I remind her. The words sting my throat, my tongue, my lips.

She slowly peels the washcloth off her face, but her eyes remain closed. "I saw myself."

"Bullshit."

Chelsea opens her eyes. Bloodshot, rimmed with red. "When you do a tarot reading, you tell us that we see a reflection of what's inside us. I think this is the same. We see what we believe. That's why it doesn't work for nonbelievers. They don't expect to see anything, so they don't."

No. "He was here."

"He's still out there, Em."

I feel uncertain for a moment. Just a split second. Because she looks like she believes it. "Not like us."

Chelsea hugs her knees to her chest. "Well, what do we know? Maybe no one ever does leave. Every night we go to sleep and dream. Our minds untangle the parts of our waking lives our brains can't make sense of. Maybe that's the part that goes on when we die. Or maybe some people get caught in the transition, like the falling between wake and sleep. The lucid in-between. Maybe they stay forever where—"

"Where they died?"

She's silent for a moment. "I was going to say where they were happiest. But I do believe he's still out there, Emily. We will see him again."

Liar. I turn to leave, and she collapses back onto the bed.

The waiting.

The waiting is the trick.

I waited a year for this moment.

I waited to gather with my friends, murderers all.

The awful thing about waiting is that if you wait too long, you start to disappear.

I thought if I waited long enough, there would be some dramatic moment when one of them would scream, "I can't take it anymore! I killed Ryan!" A telltale-heart type of revelation. I was almost certain it would be Chelsea. But it never happened. There was just the phantom illness and the vague little hint in the note, and now she's kind of semi-Chelsea. I still keep thinking if I do or say the right thing to freak her out, I'll get some kind of confession. Chelsea plays the best innocence game, but she knows.

If she didn't kill him herself, she watched him die, and she didn't lift a finger to save him.

I won't let them do it twice.