The Afterlife of Holly Chase

  “Snookums.”

  “Sweetie.”

  “Sugar bum.”

  He exhaled in a breathy laugh. Then we sat there for what felt like hours, but was probably more like twenty minutes, trading pet names, holding hands. It was a familiar feeling, holding his hand, but it was also completely new. At one point I put my hand to his face like I was his adoring girlfriend, and he kissed my palm. Just like that.

  I could have passed out, seriously. It was so hot.

  “So?” he said after a while.

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you going to tell me your name? It seems weird that I don’t even know my girlfriend’s name.”

  “I’m H—” I stopped myself in the nick of time. I couldn’t give him my real name. What if he googled me?

  “What?” he said. “The suspense is killing me.”

  I was in way over my head. I sat up. “Do you know what time it is?”

  He smirked and pointed to the huge clock on the wall almost directly behind us. It was nearly six.

  “Dinnertime,” I said. “No wonder my stomach is rumbling.”

  “We could have dinner in the club,” Ethan suggested. “The chef here is one of the best in the city.”

  Oh my God, he was asking me out. I could have said yes—I wanted to, God, I wanted to, for both the food and the company—but then it would have become a real date, and the real date would have been in the real dining room. Which had Dave’s cameras watching over it. And Dave’s team would be expecting Ethan to leave soon. If I kept him much longer, they’d wonder.

  I shook my head. “My dad will be ready by now. I should go.”

  “Wait,” Ethan said. “Let me get your number at least.”

  “I don’t have a phone.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You. Don’t have a phone. Why don’t I believe that?”

  “I’m totally unplugged,” I said. “My dad confiscated my phone. I’m being punished.”

  His frown disappeared, replaced by a curious smile. “That’s too bad. Most girls I know would wither and die without their phones. How will I get in touch with you, then?”

  “Oh, you want to get in touch with me, do you?” I laughed nervously. “How about this—I’ll find you again. You’re a regular around here, right?”

  “Have you seen me here before? I thought you looked familiar,” he said.

  “Maybe I’ve seen you. In passing.”

  “I’ll be here tomorrow night,” he said. “You can find me then.”

  “I have plans tomorrow night.” This was true. I had to work from eight p.m. to two a.m. Which, incidentally, involved me sneaking into Ethan’s bedroom around midnight and trying to read his mind. How crazy was that? “It’s kind of hard for me to get here on weekdays. I have stuff, er, school-related stuff, you know. So how about this? When my dad brings me back here again some weekend, which he’ll do because that’s what he always does, I’ll look for you.”

  “Okay,” he agreed reluctantly. I could tell he didn’t love this plan. “You’re seriously not even going to tell me your name?”

  I leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Bye, baby.”

  “Sweet thing,” he murmured.

  God, I was crazy. I was reckless. I was dumb.

  But I was smiling as I walked away.

  TEN

  “HE’S OUT FOR THE NIGHT,” Grant announced. “Proceed, Miss Havisham.”

  Roughly thirty hours had gone by since I’d met Ethan in real life. I was back at work like this was a perfectly normal night shift at the office. Like yesterday at the pool had never happened.

  But it had.

  It shouldn’t have happened, I’d been telling myself for, like, the past twenty-nine hours. It can never happen again. But—sigh—it’d been fun while it lasted. That was the word for it: fun. It’d been so fun to talk to Ethan. More fun than I’d had in years.

  “Working more on the Fan this time, right, Holly?” Grant said in my ear as I sleepwalked through the first part of the sifting process.

  “Right.” But truthfully I didn’t have any desire to look into the death of Ethan’s dad tonight. I wanted to see Ethan again, not that brokenhearted little boy he’d become after his father died. Besides, I already had enough Fan material to work with on Christmas. Normally in this situation I might get a jump on next month’s assignment—the Fezziwig. The Fezziwig loved parties, so that could be a little more lighthearted, work-wise, but I wasn’t really feeling that, either. What I wanted, under everything, was to go back to that pool and talk to Ethan some more.

  Which I couldn’t do. Ever again.

  I sighed again.

  Wait. Or maybe I could. It suddenly occurred to me that I could go back to the pool with Ethan, because he had a memory of me now. I could relive it, at least.

  It took me all of two seconds to find it once I was back in Ethan’s mind. The pool. The girl sitting by the pool. It was so bizarre, seeing myself through someone else’s eyes, like watching a home movie I hadn’t been aware was being shot. That blond girl, reading a newspaper by the pool—unbelievably, crazy as it seemed—she was me.

  Ethan had seen her the minute she came into the room. He’d waited for her to shimmy out of her jeans and reveal a bathing suit, but instead she sat down on the chaise next to where he’d stashed his towel. Then she stole his copy of the New York Times. He considered right then that maybe he’d talk to her. It wasn’t every day that a girl like that came into the club. Not a beautiful girl like that.

  I’m serious, that was literally what he thought. I sucked in an excited breath. I suddenly realized I was doing what every single girl in the history of the human race would have killed to do right after meeting a cute guy—I was looking inside his mind and finding out exactly what he’d been thinking at the time.

  So far it was awesome. I couldn’t wait to see the rest.

  Ethan watched as the first man from the club hit on the girl. “Do you have a good lawyer?” God, that was hilarious. He’d had to turn his face in the other direction in the pool so he could laugh quietly in the water. She had an evil side, this girl. He could appreciate that. Then she said she was seventeen. It just so happened that Ethan was seventeen. Which felt to Ethan like a happy coincidence.

  Again he debated talking to her. He knew how to talk to women, or at least he thought he knew. Girls didn’t intimidate him, even beautiful girls, but he didn’t really seek them out for conversation. Still, a girl like that with her legs stretched out for miles might be worth a few minutes of his attention. He planned his approach as he took his final lap in the pool. He’d point out that the newspaper in her hands was technically his property? No. She might get defensive. He’d ask about what article she was reading? No. It’d seem like he was trying too hard. He didn’t want her to think he was trying at all. He’d ask her what time it was? No, because there was a giant clock right above her head—he’d look like a moron. He’d compliment her shoes. Yes. Girls loved when you noticed their shoes.

  He was pulling himself out of the water when he heard another guy say, “Hello, sweet thing. I like your shoes.”

  Ethan cursed under his breath. And who went up to a girl and called her “sweet thing” like that? Tool.

  I totally agreed.

  “Not interested,” replied the girl, with an annoyed edge to her voice.

  Ethan walked over to retrieve his towel. She kept reading. He took advantage of the closer proximity to get a better look at her. Nice. Even nicer up close. But a girl like that had a boyfriend, he told himself. She didn’t want to be bothered. She wasn’t interested.

  So he dried off briskly and turned to head back to the locker room.

  But then she said, “Wait.”

  He turned. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, her lips parted slightly, and something strange happened inside of Ethan’s chest, a little kick of excitement.

  “Can I ask you a question?” she asked. Which was a question, but he didn’t point that out. There was something fa
miliar about her voice, like he’d heard it before, but he knew better than to ask her if they’d ever met. He would have remembered a girl like that.

  She asked him to pretend to be her boyfriend, which was unexpected. This was a no-brainer to Ethan. He’d play along any day.

  So they talked. They joked. They flirted back and forth. She was smart, probably smarter than he was, which he found unsettling but cool.

  She was funny.

  She was gorgeous—he couldn’t imagine a girl he’d find more attractive if he’d Photoshopped her together. Her lively brown eyes were regarding him with open interest. His heart was starting to pound.

  He never had this kind of reaction to a girl, he thought. What was wrong with him? Or maybe it was something right with her. He felt like he’d known her for years, maybe, but then some part of him also felt like he’d been waiting for her to come along. Like he’d been expecting her, and now here she was.

  There had to be a catch. Ethan had learned over the years that no good thing came without a catch. A price. Something. He was probably dreaming, he thought. He’d had the strangest dreams lately, so vivid, and this felt exactly like one of those. Maybe she was a dream girl, and now he’d wake up.

  She lifted her hand to his face, caressing his cheek, and his nerves lit up like fireworks. The inside of her wrist smelled amazing, like lavender and something sweet, like candy. He kissed her palm (my palm, this was me he was remembering, me he was lighting up for, how was this actually happening?) and she shivered and goose bumps rose up on the back of her arm.

  That’s when Ethan blew it. (Or at least he thought so.) Because then he asked her out.

  She immediately told him she had to go. She wouldn’t give him her number—she gave some unbelievable excuse about not having a cell phone. She wouldn’t agree to meet him again at any set time. She still wouldn’t even tell him her name. She kept saying she’d “look for him” later, whatever that meant. And she left.

  After she went he sat there by the pool kind of stunned, still smelling her perfume, for way longer than he should have. He wondered where exactly he’d gone wrong.

  She had a boyfriend, he concluded. A real one. Even if she didn’t, he wasn’t in the mood to get something started with the opposite sex. Girls were too much trouble. They were always demanding that you pay attention to every little thing they say, and they wanted you to hold their hand and buy them things. Yes, they were definitely expensive. They were time-consuming. They were needy.

  He’d be better off, Ethan decided, if he never saw that girl again.

  But he still got that excited feeling in his stomach when he pictured her. His hour with the mystery girl had been the most fun he’d had in a while. He hadn’t been bored. He hadn’t felt any pressure to be anyone but himself. He’d felt . . . alive. Which was something he hadn’t felt, he realized, for a really long time.

  After the sift I stayed late in my office. I couldn’t concentrate well enough to write my stupid report. Plus, I had to make the whole thing up, because I couldn’t exactly report on where I’d really been in Ethan’s mind. God, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. The thing that got to me the most was that he saw me, he really saw me, and though I hadn’t even been trying to look good, I’d been wearing no makeup and cheap shoes, he thought I was beautiful. I was more than just a ghost to him.

  I was a girl like that.

  It made me want to go back to the New York Athletic Club right this minute and talk to him. Prove to him that I wasn’t your typical girl. That I hadn’t blown him off. That I liked him, too. But he wouldn’t be there, of course. He was sleeping now.

  I had to go home. Figure some things out. I grabbed the Hoodie, put it on, more out of habit than anything else, and headed down the dark hall toward the elevator. I was passing by Boz’s office on the way out when I heard the voices.

  Raised voices.

  Naturally I stopped to find out what was up.

  “I don’t like it,” said a voice. “I’ve never approved of the idea. It’s insulting for you to ask us to do this. It’s just not how things are done here.”

  I recognized the hard edge of the voice right away. Blackpool. And what a shock—he didn’t like something? I’d never seen Blackpool like anything. Ever. But what were they referring to?

  “It’s too late to back out now, my friend,” said another voice, and I recognized this one too: Boz. “We’re committed. We’ll see it through.”

  “And it’s going to work,” came Dave’s voice. “Haven’t you seen that, Arthur? Can’t you feel it? I can.”

  I slid the hood of my Hoodie over my head so I’d go invisible. Something about this conversation was making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Blackpool grumbled.

  “I do,” said Boz.

  “You realize that you’re risking everything for this?” Blackpool asked him. “Everything we’ve done, everything we’ve accomplished—”

  “But isn’t that what we’re about here?” Dave interrupted softly. “Every single time we open a portal to a Scrooge’s bedroom, aren’t we taking risks? That’s what we do, Arthur. We risk everything. We put it all on the line.”

  Footsteps approached the door, and I took off as quietly as I could down the hall. It wasn’t until I was sitting on the subway again, veering toward home, that my heart finally began to slow.

  I didn’t know what they’d been talking about, but one thing was obvious: something weird was definitely going on at Project Scrooge. Something weirder than usual, I mean. Something out of the ordinary.

  But I had my own problems to worry about. I’d been telling myself that my afternoon with Ethan had to be a one-time thing, but seeing it through his eyes had changed my mind.

  I had to see him again.

  The question was, how?

  ELEVEN

  “ALL RIGHT, PEOPLE, LET’S GET started,” Boz said as we all gathered in Conference Room A for the August meeting. “Let’s hear more about our infamous Mr. Winters, shall we? Hopefully we’re making some progress. Havisham, you go first.”

  “Why do I always have to go first?” I asked.

  Boz seemed taken aback. “It’s the natural order of things to go past, present, and then future, wouldn’t you say? It’s the way we always—”

  “Yes, yes, it’s the way we’ve always done it, so we always have to do it that way.” I rolled my eyes. “Can’t we just change things up a little? Start with Blackpool for once?”

  Boz frowned, but then he nodded. “Very well. Blackpool. Report on Mr. Winters, please.”

  Blackpool glared at me. I smiled back at him. He glared some more.

  “I’ve seen the Scrooge’s death,” he intoned finally. “That is all.”

  O-kay. Way to contribute absolutely nothing, Blackpool. I wondered if he was still upset about whatever it was that he and Boz and Dave had been arguing about. All week I’d noticed a kind of tension in the air between Blackpool and Boz. Like they were in a silent but serious argument.

  “All right; if that’s how it is, I won’t push you.” Boz frowned and turned away from Blackpool. “How about you, Copperfield?”

  But Dave wasn’t ready, either. He rustled through his notes like he’d forgotten how to read. “Well—” He cleared his throat. “Um, yes. We’ve got Ethan’s schedule down—we understand his patterns fairly well by now. He goes to school, goes to the gym, goes home. He gets a phone call from his mother on Tuesday evenings. Plays indoor soccer on Wednesdays, that kind of thing. He goes to the occasional party on Saturday nights, usually with a different girl each time—no one steady.”

  I was trying to subtly take notes on Ethan’s schedule. Indoor soccer—Wednesdays. Phone call—Tuesday night. Parties—Saturdays. But these were all places the company would be monitoring. All of that useful information about Ethan’s life—the exact whens and wheres I was missing—was locked away inside of Dave’s office. Which I didn’t have access to.
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  “No girlfriend?” Boz said. “I assume there’s a Belle lurking around somewhere in his life?”

  “Not one that I’ve seen,” Dave said. “But that’s not really my department.”

  They looked at me. I shrugged. “I don’t do the Belle until October.”

  “True enough,” Boz said. “All in due time.”

  The Belle was the Scrooge’s ex, the long-lost love, the happiness-that-could-have-been. I’d never seen Ethan goo-goo-eyed with a girl. In all the memory sifts I’d done, no girl ever stood out, but then, it didn’t necessarily have to be a romantic connection with the Belle. My own Belle had been Ro.

  My throat tightened, thinking about Ro all grown up, oblivious and happy with her life. The very definition of the words alive and well.

  “Last time, Copperfield, you reported that you and your team had identified the Portlies as that homeless man on Sixth,” Boz recalled.

  “Yes, we have. That’s all set,” Dave said.

  “So this month, have you worked out the details with the Fred?” Boz asked.

  Dave scratched his beard. “We’ve been looking into the sister, Jack. She’s family, and that’s promising, but she doesn’t seem interested in making any connection with her brother at this point. But that could change, I guess. Or it could be the mother, or the maternal grandmother. Both of them invite Ethan to family events fairly regularly. Of course, he never attends. But they keep asking.”

  It sounded like Dave had no idea who the Fred was.

  “Hmm, I see. Keep watching it,” Boz directed. He turned to me again. “Are you willing to share with us now, Havisham?”

  “Of course,” I said. Except I still didn’t have anything meaningful to share. I’d been what you might call preoccupied for the past week. I’d been trying to figure out how to see Ethan again without anyone at Project Scrooge knowing about it. So far I’d totally failed. I couldn’t meet him at his apartment or at his school—Dave’s team was watching both places practically every second. So I assumed my best option would be to go back to the New York Athletic Club—in fact, I’d already gone back and sat there stupidly by the pool waiting for, like, hours to see if he would randomly show, but he never did. I just didn’t know when Ethan was going to be where. I’d been trying to piece it together from Ethan’s memories, but that was also complicated, because we don’t recall our schedules the same way we remember specific moments in our lives, and we don’t exactly go into every memory thinking, Oh yeah, this is Tuesday, at 10:53 a.m.