After Ever (21 page)

“You won’t be able to do it,” Craven gurgles.

I blink. Force myself to focus. “Do what?” I ask. The gun feels heavy and unnatural in my hands. I turn it over, careful to keep the dangerous end pointed away from me.

“You must shoot him,” Francesca says.

I spin clumsily to face her. “Shoot him? What the hell are you talking about?”

“That is the only way. A life for a life. A body for a body. This is how it is done here. When Craven dies he will return to where he came from, and Sam will be free to enter his body again,” she explains softly.

“It won’t make a difference now,” Craven grinds out.

I swing the gun back to him. It hovers even with his chest. My pointer finger curls around the trigger, then slides off. “What do you mean?” I ask uncertainly.

“Do not listen to him,” Francesca urges. “He will say anything to fill you with doubt. He is a
demonios
,” she spits, glaring so fiercely at Craven I’m surprised he doesn’t disintegrate on the spot. “They can never be trusted.”

“Ah, but you didn’t always feel that way, did you sweetheart?” Craven tries to smile. It comes off as more of a grimace. The fight has left him broken and bleeding. Even as I watch he starts to fall to the side, only to catch himself at the last minute and shake his head as if to wake up. “Sam is worse than dead now. He has been in my body for more than a day. Anything over an hour will drive a person insane.” Craven’s upper lip curls in a sneer. “I should know.”

“Shoot him, Winni
fredi
! Shoot him now!”

I bring the gun up again. Bite my lower lip. Start to squeeze the trigger… “I can’t,” I say abruptly. “I just can’t. I know it’s not Sam. I
know
it’s not but it looks just like him. Francesca, here.” I hold the gun out to her. “You do it.”

She links her arms behind her back. “I cannot do this for you. This is your decision, and yours alone. I am sorry.”

I exhale sharply.

I understand why Francesca won’t take the gun. I understand what I have to do. I even understand that I wouldn’t really be killing Craven, because he is already dead.

Craven is dead. Sam is dead. Francesca is dead. I am dead. It is so absurd that I begin to laugh. I laugh and laugh until tears run down my cheeks. When the laughter dries up, when it turns to dust in my mouth and floats out with my breath, I am filled with a quiet certainty. I know what I have to do.  

I point the gun at the middle of Craven’s chest. I am afraid if I aim for his face I will miss, and I know once I pull the trigger I won’t be able to do it again. The gun bobbles. I take a deep breath and use both hands to steady it. More tears burn the back of my eyelids, but I refuse to let them fall. I need to see clearly.

“Winnifred, don’t. Please,” Sam whimpers. His gray eyes swim in front of me, silently begging me not to shoot him in cold blood. Except it is not Sam. It’s not him. It’s not. It’s not. It’s NOT.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

For the second time I wake up with Sam hovering over me. This time I don’t handle it quite as smoothly.

“Get away from me!” I strike out with both hands and catch him off guard. He stumbles back and I sit up, looking wildly around.

“Win,” he says, holding both arms up, palms facing outward. “Win, it’s okay. You’re safe.”

My pounding heart says otherwise. “Where is Francesca?” I demand. “Who are you? WHO ARE YOU?”

“I’m me,” he says quickly. “Sam. We’re in your tree house. I brought you back here. Take a deep breath, okay? You’re safe. Look around. You know where you are. Just… just look around.”

My eyes linger on him suspiciously. I take in the clean blue polo shirt. The tan khakis. His face is smooth. His arm isn’t crooked anymore. He looks like Sam. He talks like Sam. But is he Sam? Did it work? By shooting Craven did I really switch them back? I have to be certain. “What is my brother’s name?” I ask.

“Brian,” he says immediately.

“How did I die?”

“You drowned.”

“What’s my favorite color?”

“You never told me your favorite color.”

Well, he has me there. “Fine. What’s your favorite article of clothing?”

Sam hesitates. My body tenses. I swing my legs off the old black and white checkered cot I was laying on and sit up straight, doing a swift perusal of my surroundings. One thing is certain. I am definitely back in my tree house, even though I have no idea how I got here.

“Well?” I say.

Sam mumbles something I can’t quite hear.

“What?”

“Sweater vest,” he says more clearly.

Relief washes over me. “It
is
you.”

“That was a stupid question,” he says, looking annoyed.

“Yeah,” I agree, “but only you would know the answer.”

“Sweater vests are cool.”

My eyebrows lift. “Sweater vests are
not
cool, were never cool, and will never be cool.”

His mouth curves. “So says the girl with the awesome holes in her face.”

“Shut up.”

Sam runs his thumb and pointer finger across his lips to zip them closed. It is a childish gesture, and so completely
Sam
that any lingering doubts I may have had as to if it is really him standing in front of me instead of Craven vanish in an instant.

“It worked,” I say quietly.

“It worked.” He sits in the rocking chair. Looks down at his feet. Back up at me. “Thank you, Win, for coming after me and–”

“Oh no,” I interject, holding up one hand. “No, no, no. Don’t start with that crap.” The last thing in the world I want right now is for Sam to thank me. It was my fault he got left behind. My fault Craven caught up with us. My fault he even came after us to begin with. If it wasn’t for me and my fresh dead stink, he never would have been drawn to Sam. I am to blame for everything. Even in death, I can’t help but hurt those I love.

“Where is Francesca?” I ask, hoping to change the subject. Unfortunately, Sam is not so easily deterred.

“You saved me,” he says firmly. “No, don’t shake your head. You did.
You saved me
, Winnifred Coleman. And for that I get to thank you, whether you like it or not.”

I stare hard at the plywood floor. It is marked up from crayons and markers and whatever else was handy when I used to go on one of my drawing fits. I was never much of an artist – stick figures were my specialty – but I would spend hours up here when I was younger painting the walls, drawing on the floor, and cutting out magazine picture to paste on every flat surface I could reach. The tree house was my own private haven. No one ever came up here, not even Brian.

It says something about Sam that of all the places he could have chosen to take me, he picked this one. It says he is kind and good. He is thoughtful and honest. He is everything I am not and everything I can never be, because I am dead. This is it. My bell has rung. The fat lady sang. I will be forever remembered as That Girl.

“That Girl had so much potential. It’s too bad she died so young. Her poor brother. And her father! He’s suffered so much.”

“Oh, you mean That Girl? The one who fell apart when her mother died? I met her once.”

“That Girl was totally weird. Do you remember what she did to her hair? And her face?! Gross.”

“Win? Are you okay?” Sam’s voice mirrors the concern on his face. He leans towards me until in the tiny space our knees almost bump. Almost, but not quite.

I glance up at him. Manage a smile. “I’m fine. What about you? Your arm? Is it better?” My own injuries have disappeared. I don’t even have so much as a sore muscle. The memory of the pain is still there, though. Memories, I have discovered, have a nasty habit of sticking around whether you’re alive or dead.

Sam extends the arm I all but cleaved in two with the bowling pin. He turns it left and right. Makes a fist. “Good as new. I didn’t feel a thing. Francesca says you beat me up pretty bad. You’re a regular Jet Li.”

“Who?”

He grimaces. “I forgot. You only watch lame movies. Never mind. Francesca was here, by the way. She had to go visit someone, but she’ll be back.”

I like the idea of Francesca sticking around. I’ve made my first friend in the After. It’s quite an accomplishment, all things considered. “And Craven?” I ask. “What about him?”

Sam goes unnaturally still. “He’s… gone. For now.”

“Gone? What do you mean gone? Where did he go? Can he come back?”

“Win, I don’t…” Sam trails off. Too late I notice all the color has drained from his face. “I don’t want to talk about it right now,” he manages to say.

I feel like kicking myself. What did I think, that Sam would want to regale me with stories of how awesome it was to be stuck in the body of a murderer? I remember Craven’s body – the slashed face, the rotting hole of a mouth, the swinging arm – and barely suppress a shudder. “So who is Francesca going to see?” I ask, infusing my voice with false cheer.

“I’m not, uh, sure,” he says. “So how did you find Francesca at Carlitos? You couldn’t have used a Jump Door to get there.”

I can tell Sam is lying about not knowing who Francesca has gone to visit, but I don’t call him out on it. He’s been through enough without me badgering him and I can always ask Francesca when she gets back, although I have a sneaking suspicion I already know the answer. “How did you know what the bar was called?” I ask instead.

“It’s kind of infamous in the After. Francesca told you what happened?”

I nod. “Crazy guy burned the place down. But why is everyone trapped inside?”

“It’s kind of complicated.”

“Did I, or did I not, rescue you from an Unknown?” My eyebrows lift. “I think I can handle complicated.”

Sam’s cheeks flood with color. “Right,” he mutters. “Uh, well, sometimes when a large group of people die in a violent way –”

“Like burning to death.”

“Still interrupting I see.”

My shoulders lift in a careless shrug. “It’s my one bad habit.”

“One?” he says incredulously. “What about making reckless decisions and having a short temper and –”

“Okay, okay. I get it. I won’t interrupt anymore.” Outwardly I scowl, but on the inside I am grinning from ear to ear. I missed this easy banter with Sam. The natural back and forth. The simple ebb and flow. He understands my sense of humor better than anyone ever has. He understands
me
better than anyone ever has. It’s a nice feeling, to know that someone gets you. That they know why you tick. Maybe if Sam and I had met under different circumstances…
Stop it right there Winnifred Coleman
, I tell myself sternly.
You’re dead, remember? You don’t
get
different circumstances
.   

“So as I was
saying
, sometimes when a large group of people die in a violent way their souls become trapped. They don’t recognize anything outside of where they are. As far as I know, Francesca is the first one to ever be able to leave without having to bargain with an Unknown to get out.” Sam levels those gray eyes at me and my belly does a little answering quiver. “How did you get there? You couldn’t have used a Jump Door.”

I lean back against the wall and cross my legs, pretzel style. My hair swings forward, obscuring my vision, and as I tuck it behind my ears I notice absently that one of my dreads has begun to unravel at the end. “I didn’t. When I went through that weird red glowing door – which I am never doing again, by the way – I got dropped into some sort of solar, uh… No, that’s not it. Signal? No… Hold on, let me think…” My forehead creases as I struggle to remember the name of the white washed room. It is right on the tip of my tongue, but for some reason I can’t quite –

“Solace Room?” Sam’s eyes go wide behind his glasses. “Are you actually saying you were in a Solace Room?”

“Yeah,” I say, just a little disgruntled that Sam guessed it before me. “One of those. And there was this woman there. Definitely weird. Her name was…” For the second time in a row I draw a complete blank. “It begins with an E,” I say vaguely.

“
Elysia
?” Sam says, looking on the verge of passing out.  

“She said to call her Ellie.”

“Elysia – said – Ellie – call,” he sputters, raking a hand back through his hair. “
Elysia
. This isn’t… That couldn’t… No,” he says flatly. “No, you are mistaken.”

“Uh, pretty sure I’m not. Tall lady? Dark skin, short hair, looks like a model? Crazy as a loon? I definitely met her.”

Sam leans forward and rests his forearms on his knees. Expression earnest, he says, “If you’re messing around, Winnie, or trying to be funny…”

“I’m not! Scouts honor.”

“You were never in the Girl Scouts.”

“Maybe I was.” 

“No,” he says, “you weren’t.”

I make a face. “Okay, maybe not, but I really
did
meet Ellie. I swear!” I cry when he looks at me doubtfully. “She just showed up in the Solace Room and created a door that took me to Carlitos. She said it was where I would find you. How could I make this up?” I say, exasperated. “And how else would I have gotten to the bar? Or even known her name? I swear Sam, for a smart guy you can be really dumb sometimes.” 

He sits back in the rocker and begins to move it with the toe of one penny loafer. I glance down, studying his shoes. I distinctly remember them being stained with blood. Now they are shiny and new. The same as his glasses. Were they somehow cleaned, or replaced?

Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I shove the questions aside. It’s incredibly frustrating, trying to figure out the game when you don’t know the rules. Just when I think I have a handle of how the After works, I realize I don’t even have a clue.

“So who is Ellie?” I ask.

Sam’s eyes dart around the room. I have never seen him so uncomfortable, and that’s saying something seeing as we’ve been in some pretty uncomfortable situations. “She’s, ah, well… She’s an elder,” he says, fidgeting with the hem of his new shirt. “No one knows for certain, but records indicate the After didn’t just
appear
. It had to be built. Elysia, along with a handful of others, is rumored to be one of the ones who created it. No one I know has ever seen her.
Ever
. I’ve never even
heard
of anyone seeing her. I mean, I believe you Winnie… But it’s just… It’s just…”