As Dead as It Gets (17 page)

Lydia took a step back from the door and disappeared.

I braced myself, then called out, “I’ll be back in a few minutes!” to my family.

And I slipped out the door—out of the frying pan…

Straight into the bonfire.

* * *

Just like I’d sensed that she was there to see me, Agent Hasan seemed to sense that I didn’t want my family to know she was there. So when I started walking down the sidewalk, away from the house, she followed me.

“Sorry to barge in.” The hint of amusement in her voice told me it was a lie. She enjoyed knowing that she had freaked me out. “It’s just that you didn’t answer my call.”

She must have already been in the neighborhood when she called. Which meant she’d gone to the trouble of coming all the way to Surrey—just to see me?

“What do you need?” I asked.

“I kept thinking about our conversation,” she said.

I held my breath.

She turned to look at me, squinting her eyes a bit. “About how interesting it was that you would call me and suggest that there was something out of the ordinary going on—when you had no concrete reason to think so.”

My lips were glued shut. If she thought she could trick me into incriminating myself, she was dead wrong.

“And I’m not a patient person,” she said. “So when something like that gets in my head, I don’t want to sit around and see if anything comes of it.”

It was a breezy night, and Silver Sage Acres is a wind tunnel. I stuck my hands in my pockets and raised my shoulders up to my ears, hunching my chin down to warm my neck.

“I’m sorry to waste your time,” I said. “You were right. I was just being paranoid.”

“That would definitely be the more satisfactory outcome.” She didn’t say more satisfactory than what—or for whom. “But I do appreciate that you called me. It shows that you understand my role. And it gives me a chance to show
you
how important it is to
me
to help you stay out of trouble.”

Right. Help me stay out of trouble. There was a threat in there, and you couldn’t even say it was a veiled threat. It was loud and clear:
I’m watching you
.

“All right,” I said. “Well, thanks.”

She stopped and looked down at me, smiling like she’d just won the lottery but wasn’t planning to tell anyone. “You’re so welcome.”

What had she seen? What did she know?

We started back toward my house.

You’re almost there,
I told myself.
Just stay cool for a few more minutes and you’ll be fine.

At last, we reached my front walk. I glanced up at the front window, anxious to get rid of Agent Hasan before my family noticed her presence.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m going.”

She made a half turn away from me, then spun back.

“By the way.” She reached into her pocket. “I think you dropped something.”

Her fingers uncurled, revealing my missing lens cap.

We both stared down at it for a moment, then she reached over and tucked it into the pocket of my jeans.

“You should really keep better track of your things, Alexis,” she said. “You never know where they might end up if you don’t.”

I wouldn’t let myself be scared speechless by her, so I forced out an abnormally loud “Thanks.”

“That, for instance, was found fifty-four feet from Ashleen Evans’s body.”

I didn’t answer. My throat tightened.

“But I’m sure you don’t know anything about it.”

I had to stay strong, or I’d crack into a million pieces. “No,” I said. “Sorry.”

“Well, good.” Agent Hasan wiped her hands on her jacket. “Because I would really hate to think that you were part of the problem.”

I started for the stairs.

“See you ’round, Alexis,” she called.

I walked inside, afraid to look back over my shoulder.

T
HE NEXT DAY
, I went to the
Wingspan
office before school started. Elliot was already there, wearing her prinCeTon sweatshirt.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“How many different college sweatshirts do you own?” I asked.

“Not sure. Fifteen?” She shrugged. “I’m nurturing my aspirational self.”

Um, okay.

She glanced up from the layout she was marking on. “You have the cheerleader shoot tomorrow morning, right?”

I nodded, looking at the intricate color-coded schedule on the whiteboard.

“Did you ever find the janitors to get the Dumpsters moved?”

“Oh, no.” I slapped a hand to my forehead and sat down. “I totally forgot.”

“Never mind,” Elliot said. “I’ll take care of it.”

“No, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry. I should have been more specific.”

“I can do it,” I said. “Their office is that little shed out by the field, right?”

She shrugged. “I don’t mind getting some fresh air.”

“Are you sure?”

“You know how most people say ‘no offense,’ but they secretly hope it does offend you? I swear I’m not doing that.” She capped her red pen and set it down. “No offense, Alexis, but you look terrible lately. I’d rather you just relax a little than start passing out during photo shoots.”

There was never any changing Elliot’s mind, so I nodded.

“So…Chad said you had a little ‘episode’ the other day.” From the way she went back to her layout and the carefully measured tone of her voice, it seemed like she was intent on not making a big deal out of it. “Of course, Chad’s a busybody, so I wouldn’t put it past him to exaggerate.”

I shook my head and let my finger trace the edge of a desk. “He probably didn’t exaggerate,” I said. “If having me on staff makes people uncomfortable, then I’ll quit.”

Elliot practically threw her pen down. Her eyes were fiery and her voice was almost a growl. “Did he say that to you?”

“What? Chad? No, no—he was pretty nice, actually. Weirdly nice.”

She sat back and relaxed.

“It’s my own idea,” I said. “I know a lot of people at school know things about me—or think they do—and I don’t want it to be uncomfortable for you.”

“Alexis, can I give you some unsolicited advice?”

“If I say yes, that would make it solicited, right?”

She grinned. “Smart. Yes. So listen. You’re a fantastic photographer.”

“Thanks.”

She waved me off. “You’re talented. You’re smart. You’re funny. You can put up with Chad. Therefore, you are a good person.”

“Well, I—”

“Hush. I didn’t start my advice yet. Here it is: Find the people who treat you the way you deserve to be treated. Tell everyone else to go to hell. And don’t look back.”

I sighed.

“Do you believe in God? I believe in God. And I think God makes people exactly who He wants them to be.”

I blinked. “I—I don’t know if I believe or not—”

Elliot shook her head. “You’re missing the point.”

No doubt. “Which is…?”

“Which is, get over it. Forgive yourself. Stop assuming that you deserve the worst of everything.”

I dragged my finger in a circle on the desk. “Easier said than done.”

“Easy?” she repeated, raising her eyebrows. “Who wants easy? Easy’s boring. Now, I have to get back to work. You go take a nap in the library or something.”

I sighed again. “Thanks. I think maybe—”

“Don’t think, grasshopper,” she said. “Gut, remember?”

I’d promised Jared I would come over after school, but I made a detour first—to the small brick house near Redmond High.

I parked on the street, a few houses away, and got out of the car, my camera hanging around my neck. I tweaked the exposure way down and started taking pictures, expecting to see the girl in the purple dress.

The white light did hold a quivering, jittering figure—but not the girl.

It was a man. A boy, actually—a football player.

Held tightly in his left hand was a trophy. I couldn’t—and wouldn’t—get close enough to see what it said, but I zoomed in on the figurine on top of the gold pedestal: a football player cradling a ball under one arm.

The ghost was carrying something—just like the girl with her roses.

A
second
superghost?

He hovered about a foot over the sidewalk, looking in the direction of the high school, with an expression of pure rage on his face—forehead furrowed, teeth gritted. He had short, slicked-back hair, and his uniform looked oddly old-fashioned. His shoes were simple no-name black cleats. If I had to guess, I’d say he died in the 1960s.

At least he had eyes.

And this guy, unlike the girl in the purple dress, didn’t seem to notice me. His entire focus was directed toward the school. I cringed as another couple walked by. This time, the boy started hopping on one foot and saying, “Ow! Cramp! Ow, ow, ow, cramp!” as they passed the spot where the superghost stood.

I went closer and fired off a few more frames. Then I looked at my camera. Across the back of the boy’s jersey, I could make out his last name: CorCoran.

“Five minutes,” I said. “Ten. Then we can hang out.”

“Can’t you do this at home?” Jared asked.

I was sitting on his couch with his laptop balanced on my legs. “Mom’s laptop is the only computer in the house that gets internet. And she guards it like a junk-yard dog. But I’ll only be a minute. This is important.”

He tried to remove my hand from the keyboard. I shook him off and went back to typing. In the web browser, I searched for
corcoran + redmond street
.

It pulled up an address listing:
RANDALL CORCORAN
.

When I went on to search for Randall Corcoran, what came up was his prison record. His most recent jail time had ended less than two years ago—it was fairly safe to assume that he was the drunk guy Lydia had seen passed out inside the house. So he wasn’t dead.

Then who was the ghost? His football uniform had accents of green and yellow, like the girl’s cheerleading uniform. So I tried
Corcoran dead Redmond high school
.

And found: “Redmond High Holds Memorial Assembly for State Champ Quarterback Phil Corcoran.”

The article was dated 1965, and it was published in the
Los Angeles Times
, a much bigger newspaper than our local Surrey paper. Presumably this was a high-profile story because of Phil’s triumphant performance at the state championship. He’d been a senior, the star quarterback of the football team, when he died of injuries sustained in a car accident.

But something didn’t add up:

“We take tremendous comfort from the fact that Father Lopez was able to administer the Last Rites to Philip before he died,” the boy’s mother, Mrs. Joseph Corcoran, told the assem
bled students. “He died in a state of deep peace. He knew he was going to a better place.”

Impossible.

Because people who die in a state of deep peace don’t become angry ghosts.

They just don’t.

“What are you looking at?” Jared asked, leaning over to look.

“Nothing,” I said.

He hovered at my shoulder, scanning the article. “I wonder if that’s the same Father Lopez from my school.”

He lifted the computer off my lap and went to his school’s website, clicking through a few screens to the headmaster’s bio page.

“Yeah,” he said. “Look. He was ordained in 1962 and served at Saint Viviana’s on the east side of Surrey. That’s right by Redmond High.”

Gears started turning in my head.

“But why are you looking at this?” Jared asked. “It’s pretty morbid.”

“I…” I didn’t have the faintest clue what to say. “One of my teachers was talking about this guy.”

“And now you know who he is. So do the rest later,” Jared said, head-butting my arm gently. “Spend time with me.”

“Come on,” I said. “Three more minutes.”

“No more minutes.” He wandered away. “Look, I’m going to go through your stuff. I’ll totally rearranging your obsessively organized book bag.…”

That actually sounded fine, if it would distract him. One of the perks of being obsessively organized is that chances to reorganize things are like little treats.

“I’m looking at your science book.…” He took it out and set it on the floor. “I’m going to read your English journal.…”

That was just a reading journal where we summarized what we were reading for class.

“Go ahead,” I said, turning back to the computer.

He was quiet for a minute—he really was looking through my stuff. I should have stopped him, but I needed the time for research.

“What is this?” Jared asked. He was staring at a piece of paper—the one with my drawing of the purple dress.

“Nothing,” I said, reaching out to take it back.

He whipped it away, holding me back with his other arm.

“Seriously, Jared, it’s just a stupid sketch.”

He finally took his eyes off of it. “Why did you draw this?”

“No reason. Just give it back, please.”

He smiled—but it was one of his fake smiles—and moved the paper a tiny bit closer to me. “I’ll trade it for a kiss.”

“Jared—”

He handed me the page, and when I’d folded it and slipped it back inside my bag, I felt hands on my ribs.

As soon as I turned back to him, our lips were pressed together.

Usually, kissing was a way to wipe the slate clean, to forget our petty arguments. But in that moment, a thought barged into my head like an uninvited guest:
If Lydia showed up now, what would she say?

She would say he was distracting me. Trying to keep me from being mad about his jerkish, immature behavior.

I’m not going to lie. Kissing Jared could drive a girl to distraction in the best of circumstances. But when I was irritated, or thrown off guard, or made to feel dumb by his little I’m-going-through-your-stuff antics, I was extra susceptible.

And I couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew it.

Jared stood up and pulled me with him. He walked me into the foyer and pressed up against me, his breath coming in hot puffs against my neck. I found myself backed against the wall. Then I felt the soft touch of his hands on the skin of my stomach, his fingers trailing around to my back, leaving thin lines of sparking energy behind them.

“Want to go to my room?” he whispered.

To his room?

“No,” I said, dipping my head to escape his kisses. “I really need to do some more work right now.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said, nibbling lightly on my neck.

Don’t
worry
about it? I tried to picture myself and Carter together—me telling Carter I had work to do and him telling me not to worry about it. And not in a cutesy way, either—in a way that meant that he really expected me to stop worrying or thinking about anything but standing there, making out with him—because it was what
he
wanted.

But what about what
I
wanted? What about the things that were important to
me?

Suddenly, what I wanted was not to even be in that house.

“Wait,” I said, turning my head and setting my hands on his shoulders—firmly, but not quite pushing him away. “No.”

He stopped and looked at me questioningly.

“I’m going to go,” I said. “I really have a lot of work to do, and I’m not getting it done here.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “You’re leaving? Because I don’t feel like watching you sit and use
my
computer and ignore me?”

Okay, yeah, it
was
his computer. But if he couldn’t find something else to do for a half hour while I worked on something that I’d made it really clear was important to me—

I mean, I could put up with it. I’d been putting up with it for nearly two months.

But why
should
I?

“Alexis,” Jared said sharply. “You’re acting like a child.”

Everything in my body that had been warm and tingly turned cold when I heard the edge in his voice.

I gave him a sideways glance. He was looking at me as if I were crazy.

“You know what I mean,” he said, softening. “Don’t overreact.”

I heard Elliot’s words in my head:
Find the people who treat you the way you deserve to be treated. Tell everyone else to go to hell.

Forget this. I reached for my camera. “I’m not overreacting, Jared. I’m leaving.”

“Please don’t.”

“I have to.” I knelt to put the scattered books in my bag. “I’ll give you a call later…or tomorrow.”

But when I turned for the door, I found him standing squarely in my way.

A moment passed between us.

“Excuse me,” I said.

“Can’t we behave like grown-ups?” His jaw trembled, like he was losing patience with me. “I don’t understand. Things were completely fine two minutes ago.”

Yeah, fine for him. Not for me.

“I
am
behaving like a grown-up,” I said. “I’m going to go get some work done. Like a grown-up.”

“You know what? Fine. Do it here. I don’t care. I’ll just find something else to do.” But he didn’t say it like he meant it. He said it like he wanted me to hear, in every word, how irrational I was being and how wrong I was.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, reaching behind him and putting my hand on the doorknob. “I’ll go to the library.”