Possession

  Done.

  But she double-checked anyway, capping the pen and returning it to its set before reviewing every inch of the two-foot-by-one-foot drawing. The puppy was in the process of sniffing at a bird, his tail in the air, his triangle ears pricked, his chubby legs ready to rear backward if the robin in front of him turned out to be foe rather than friend. The text was going to be mounted above his back, so she'd left a six-inch square blank space in the pale blue sky for the words.

  "Good," she said, as if she were her own student.

  Unfastening the four corners, she carefully took the sheet and carried it over to the six-foot-long portable tables she'd set up on the solid-wall side of the room. This was page twelve of the book, and she put it at the end of the lineup.

  Yup, this layout thing was a critical part of her process, she thought. It gave her a far more complete vision of the work--inevitably, she unconsciously reverted back to certain poses, spatial orientations, expressions, nuances. This way of measuring the project as a whole, all at once, helped her avoid repetitions that probably only she noticed, but which were defects nonetheless.

  God ... she loved children's books. The simplicity of the lessons, the clarity of the colors, the rhythms of the words ... there was something to be said for a child's binary grasp of the world. Good was good. Bad was bad. Things that were dangerous were stoves, open flames, and light sockets--all easily avoided. And the bogeyman in your closet was always your summer camp sleeping bag wedged into a corner--never, ever something that could really hurt you.

  From out of the corner of her eye, the messed-up copy of today's Caldwell Courier Journal loomed even though it was lying flat on her coffee table. She hadn't gone very far into it to find the information she'd been looking for--the article on Sissy Barten's funeral was below the fold on the first page. Services were at St. Patrick's Cathedral, with burial at Pine Grove Cemetery immediately following.

  She'd be there at the mass, of course.

  Pushing her hair behind her ears, she turned back to her workspace ... and took a moment to mourn the fact that Sissy would never enjoy another morning like this--and if her parents and family ever did again? It was a good decade away. At least.

  She'd met the mother and father at parents' weekend back in the fall, when Sissy had brought them to the art department's facility and showed them her wonderful pencil drawings.

  It was so eerie to think back to when Cait had shaken those hands and smiled and offered sincere praise. In that moment, if someone had told her the girl would be dead six months later? Inconceivable.

  But it had happened.

  When she'd gotten the call, it had been from the department head. He'd told her that Sissy had gone missing the night before, not returning from a quick errand out. Her parents had called her roommates on campus in case she'd gone there instead, and then the police had been brought in. They'd found the car she'd taken to the supermarket, but no trace of her.

  Vanished.

  Until she'd been found in the quarry.

  Cait had been the one to clean out her things from the locker and storage compartments Sissy had used in the art building. The duty had been done after hours, when the only people in the department had been the cleaners and the security guard.

  She had cried so hard that she'd needed to go to the bathroom for paper towels.

  After packing up all the supplies, drawings, and paintings, and then boxing up the sculptural pieces, Cait had taken everything to her own house and called the emergency contact number listed in Sissy's files--but she'd gotten voice mail and, after leaving a message, had never heard back.

  Then again, that family had so much more to worry about.

  She supposed at some point she was going to have to mail everything to the home address. She'd prefer to hand-deliver it all, but she didn't want to intrude--and knew for sure she wouldn't be able to hold herself together if she saw those parents again.

  She couldn't imagine what they were feeling. Having lost her brother at an early age, she knew something of the pain, but she had to imagine if it was your own child, it would be so much worse.

  Sitting back down at her drafting table, she rearranged her Prismacolor markers, and double-checked the points on her lead pencils, and made sure her watercolor brushes were super-clean.

  Such fragile things, all snappable, the tips easily ruined. In her hand, though, they were powerful instruments, capable of making something out of nothing. Without her guidance? Just inanimate objects collecting dust.

  That was the beauty of life, though. It created purpose and meaning in that which was otherwise void. In its absence, however...

  So strange, the thoughts that occurred to her now. Her knack for making three dimensions out of two had been parlayed into a very nice living for herself. But she had never thought further than paying for her mortgage and her heat and food, had never considered the real implications of not having children ... had not, until this instant, confronted the idea that what she left behind on paper might be the extent of her contribution, such as it was, to the human race.

  Not exactly a groundbreaker, was it. Not very lasting, either--because without a doubt, people would eventually stop reading the books she'd illustrated, and her drawings would fade or fall apart, and she would be, as we all were, forgotten by the living and breathing.

  Children were the only immortality mortals got--and even then, two generations later, three at the most, no one knew you in person anymore.

  Strains of that song from last night at the cafe wound through her mind.

  G.B. might have a point about wanting to live forever.

  It certainly seemed more meaningful than the short time and game-over you got otherwise. And p.s., a seventy-five- or eighty-year-old situation was the best-case scenario.

  It wasn't what the Bartens were dealing with. It wasn't the violent, out of sequence, senselessly horrible death of a daughter--who'd been stolen from them by a madman--

  Cait stopped and pulled herself back from the depressing rabbit hole.

  She was going to feel badly about Sissy for a long time, and that was appropriate. But she still had to get her work done.

  Bringing over the next blank sheet, she tacked the drawing paper in place, checked the notes and text the author had provided ... and once again put pencil to page in the lovely morning sunlight.

  It was so much better than thinking; it truly was.

  Sissy Barten sat on the porch she'd woken up on the evening before. In front of her, rising through the still-spiny trees of spring, the sun was coming up, its rays gold and peach and potentially warm.

  She'd never expected to see this again.

  Pulling the blanket she'd brought down with her more tightly around her shoulders, she blinked as the light intensified. Behind her, the house was silent, those two men no doubt asleep in whatever beds they'd finally fallen onto. Through the course of the night, she'd heard them walking the floors for hours--either that or there were ghosts in the old place.

  It was when the pair had finally stopped, when there had been no more creaking, no more muttering, no further scent of cigarette smoke, that she had come out of the room she'd been given.

  The only thing on her mind had been seeing her family. And that was still true.

  She just wanted to go home, be home, stay home.

  The trouble was, she didn't know if she could trust this version of reality--and what if all this was just a cruel joke, a further facet of where she had been for an eternity, an illusion created specifically to increase suffering when it was stripped from her?

  Then screw that. She'd rather not go back to her parents' house.

  She wasn't going to give that woman, demon, whatever she was, the satisfaction--

  Sissy glanced over her shoulder. Standing in the open doorway, the man who had rescued her filled the jambs, looking like a harbinger of doom rather than anyone who'd protect somebody. His dark blond hair was standing straight up, as if he'd been pullin
g at it, and his brows were down so far, she couldn't see his eyes beneath the overhangs.

  Under other circumstances, she probably would have steered clear of him. But not now. Not here.

  It was a relief to see him.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  She looked back to the sun. "Is this real?" To emphasize the question, she knocked on the floorboards she was sitting on--then had to brush the paint chips off her knuckles. "Is any of this real?"

  "Yeah."

  "How much of it?"

  "All."

  For a moment, she wasn't sure she could trust him. But then images came to mind, the vivid horror of them giving him a credibility that no words or pledges could have ever done.

  "What am I?" she blurted.

  "You're ... you."

  She shook her head. "I need a better definition than that."

  There was a long silence. Then she heard his footfalls.

  He sat down beside her, his big, bare arms bunching up as he put his elbows on his knees. "I don't know what to tell you beyond that."

  "Am I a ghost?"

  "No."

  "Are you?"

  "No. Do you need a coat? It's cold out here."

  "I have my blanket. Or ... yours, I suppose. That's your bedroom, isn't it?" When he didn't answer, she shrugged. "It smells like you. Cigarette smoke and shaving cream."

  It was a nice scent, actually. The only thing she'd liked about the room.

  Sissy pushed her hair over her shoulder, feeling it shift across the baggy button-down shirt he'd given her. "Is she the devil?"

  When he didn't answer, she glanced over. His eyes had a killing light in them as he stared out at her sunrise. "Is she?"

  "Yeah."

  "So that makes you ... an angel?"

  "Don't know about that sometimes. But it's part of the job description."

  "You don't have wings." When he just shrugged, she felt her eyes well up with tears. "If you're an angel, you can't lie, right?"

  "Not to you, at least."

  "So if this is real, and not an illusion ... I want to see my family. Can you take me to them?"

  Without hesitation, he looked at her and nodded. Almost as if that had been part of the plan--get her out, take her home.

  He reached over and brushed a tear from her cheek. "Whenever you want, we go. Besides, I promised your mother I would bring you back to her."

  "You've seen her?" she whispered.

  "I went to her, yeah."

  "Is she ... all right?" Dumb question. None of them were okay. "I mean ... so I can live with them? I can go back and--"

  "That I don't know."

  Bullshit, she thought. She could tell by the set of those massive shoulders, and the fact that he wasn't meeting her in the eye anymore--there was no going home in the conventional sense.

  Sissy resumed watching the sunrise, her brief flare of optimism snuffing out. "I feel like I'm losing my mind."

  "Been there. Done that. This is ... hard."

  The idea that there was somebody who understood a fraction of what she was dealing with helped. But ... "Are you sure the devil can't come after me and take me back."

  "Over my dead body." His eyes shot to hers. "You got that?"

  God, she hoped he was as tough as he looked, because that demon from Hell was a nightmare. "If you're an angel, doesn't that mean you've already died?"

  "You don't need to worry about that. Just remember--she's not going to get you."

  Sissy frowned and rubbed her forehead, wishing, not for the first time, that she hadn't ended up where she was, sitting on this porch, halfway between the living and the dead, with an enemy she didn't understand and a savior who clearly wasn't happy about his job.

  "I can't remember what happened," she muttered. "I don't remember how I got stuck in the down below. Do you know?"

  When he remained quiet, she turned to face him. "Please."

  Before he could answer, a ten-year-old Honda drove up to the front of the house. From out of the open window, a bagged newspaper went flying--but the aim was off. Instead of landing anywhere near Sissy, it went right into the bushes by the side of the house.

  The car screeched to a halt, and as the driver's-side door got shoved wide, the man beside her stiffened and shifted subtly, one of his hands going to the small of his back.

  There was a weapon there, she thought.

  Except as a sixteen-year-old got out of the car and trudged up the front lawn, Jim relaxed--

  "Chillie!" Sissy jumped up. "Oh, my God, Chillie!"

  Chillie, a.k.a. Charles Brownary, didn't look over. Or stop in shock. Or ... show any response at all. Her best friend's little brother just kept going over to the scrubby bushes, cursing under his breath, shrugging into his Red Wings hoodie like he was beyond done with winter.

  "Chillie," she said dully, as he picked up the CCJ and turned to the porch.

  The second attempt worked like a charm. The paper flew right past Sissy, nearly clipping her in the arm.

  "Chillie...?"

  As he turned away and headed back to the car, everything hit her hard: the terror from down below, the confusion and fear up here, the pain of losing her family, the horrible amnesia...

  Sissy opened her mouth and screamed as loud as she could--and she kept screaming, the sound exploding in her head, rising to a concert level, flushing the birds from the trees at both ends of the house.

  Chillie's feet slowed, then stopped. With a twist of his upper body, he looked behind him--but his eyes were focused on the house, roaming around the windows as if he were expecting to find someone staring out of them. Shuddering like the place had Norman Bates'd him, he scurried for his car and hit the gas as if chased.

  A strong hand grabbed her arm, and that was her only clue that she was listing forward. As her legs buckled out from underneath her, the last thing she remembered was the way Chillie had looked, silhouetted against the gathering light, his short hair pushed back by the cold wind as he had stared right through her.

  And then she lost consciousness.

  Chapter

  Ten

  G.B. rolled over in bed and patted around the cardboard box he used as a table for his phone. He found the TV remote, the base of his garage sale lamp, that dust-covered Nietzsche book--

  Bingo.

  Fumbling to light the cell up, he groaned when he saw the time. Eleven o'clock. Considering he went to bed at five a.m., this might as well be the middle of the night--not that he could see daylight. Thanks to his blackout drapes and the fact that he'd put a washcloth over the front of his cable box, there was no illumination around him at all.

  It was like he was floating in air, and he loved the weightless feeling as he reclined against his pillows and stared up at a ceiling he couldn't see.

  His erection was of the pleasant variety, nothing that demanded attention--more like a suggestion in the event his right palm was bored. He was a little hungover--not bad, though. After he'd left the cafe, he'd met up with a couple of buddies and they'd ended the night talking about songwriting in the back of a friend's dive of a sports bar.

  G.B. glanced at his phone's digital readout again.

  That children's book illustrator had to be up by now. She'd gone home early so she could work in the morning.

  Should he wait until the afternoon, though? Look less desperate?

  As he considered his options, he smiled. Usually with women, he was a real straight shooter--no games, no overthinking, no drama. Then again, he couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten turned down by one, so it wasn't as if he needed game.

  Like, last night hadn't exactly ended at the sports bar--which was why his cock was a little less than insistent at the moment. The sex hadn't meant a thing to him, though.

  On that note, he pulled up Cait's contact.

  He'd put her into his phone by her first name, because he still didn't know what her last one was, and he hesitated before hitting her number with his thumb. The fact that he was naked
under his sheets and in the dark and already aroused made this a little tacky--in contrast to the chick he'd done at four a.m., who'd had her tits out and all but put up a billboard that she wanted some grind, Cait was no doubt working quietly.

  His illustrator was ... well, it sounded trite to put it like this, but she was a good girl.

  He let the pad of his thumb go down to the screen and initiate the call. Then he put the iPhone to his ear and listened to the ringing. If it went to voice mail, he was going to keep it short and--

  "Hello?"

  He smiled so wide his front teeth felt a chill. "Hi. Do you know who this is?"

  God, he hoped so. It would suck to be any less unforgettable than he thought he was.

  "You called," she said with a laugh. "You actually called."

  "I told you I would." Pulling the covers up higher on his chest, he put one arm behind his head. "I keep my promises."

  Man, that throaty laugh of hers made him flex his pelvis. But he put a lockdown on that motion.

  "How are you?" she asked.

  He made no bones about trying to hide his yawn. "I'm still in bed, can you believe it?"

  Actually, he wanted her to know where he was, wanted her to wonder what, if anything, he had on.

  "Musicians probably don't keep bankers' hours, do they."

  "Definitely not. I went out after you left--nothing crazy, though." For some reason, he got off on the fact that reassuring her felt right. "Just with some colleagues, I guess you'd call them. Did you go straight home?"

  "I did. And got right into bed."

  Mmmm. "Did you sleep well or were you distracted by dreams of a soulful singer who managed to get your digits?"

  Yup, her laugh was the goal to reach for--he loved the sound of it. "Yes, that was what kept me up. How did you know?"

  "Maybe he was dreaming of you, too." He followed that up with a quick, "How's work going? Your puppy and you having a good time of it?"

  "Actually, I've done three pages, which is awesome."

  As a text came through to him, he winced at the beeping notification in his ear. "How long do you have until the book's due?"

  "I've got another week, but you don't want to take any chances. Better to finish early than find yourself squeezed for time and rushing things. The good news is I'm on track--I have about eight more pages to go, and I got lucky today. Sometimes the flow is just right there, you know?"