I sit, dread and fear and anticipation climbing in my throat.
Sully closes the door, and locks it.
The huge man stalks around the room, lighting a match to first one candle, then taking it to light the others. The room gradually grows lighter until a dozen of them are lit, and I can finally see more than a foot in front of me.
I rub my hands over my arms, because suddenly I realize that it is freezing in here, despite the roaring fire Sully has kept in the other room.
Deep, slow breathing pulls my attention back to the man.
He stands in one corner, before a solitary, lit candle. His back is turned to me, his hulking shoulders blocking out most of the light, casting him in an eerie glow. His long hair hangs around his face. He breathes, slow, deep. But there’s a quiver to it. Something unsteady.
I want to ask him if he’s okay. To ask what is the matter, because everything in me screams that there is.
But I’m too petrified to open my mouth.
A draft pushes through the edges of the covered window, sending the flames dancing atop the candles. A shiver works its way down my spine.
Sully suddenly steps back from the corner and drops down into the seat across from me. He holds his hands out.
“The watch,” he says nodding to his right hand. “Your hand.” He indicates the left.
I can’t stop shaking. I set the pocket watch in his hand, and trembling, I rest my hand in his other. He closes his fingers around mine, fully engulfing it with his size.
Sully’s eyes slide closed. I watch his face, seeing something come over it. Like he’s slipping underwater, preparing to hold his breath against certain death. His breathing becomes very light and shallow. His entire body becomes very still. The temperature of his hand drops.
The pain in my chest comes to a peak and I realize just how hard my heart is beating. My hands are slick with sweat. I lean forward in my seat, far too close to Sully’s face for comfort.
My breath is held.
“Jack,” Sully says, his voice low and deep. I jump when he speaks, startled, a bent twig on the verge of snapping. “I know you’ve moved on, but I have someone here who wishes to speak to you. If you want to speak to her, please show yourself.”
Sully is quiet for a long moment afterward, one that seems to roll into an eternity of anticipation.
“What’s happening?” I whisper, a cloud of breath billowing out from me.
Sully lets out a slow, long shh, his face suddenly going peaceful.
All the blood in my body drops into my feet.
“Iona,” Sully says. There’s something breathy in the way he says my name, something disbelieving and hopeful and so full of everything.
“Jack?” I breathe as tears spring into my eyes.
“Yes,” Sully says, and he suddenly opens his eyes. But they only meet mine for a moment. They shift off to the right, next to the window, by his shoulder.
Goosebumps flash onto my skin as my eyes follow Sully’s.
“Can you see him?” I whisper. I want to shy back, to put some distance between myself and the ghost only he can see. But I’m also dying inside, knowing he is hidden from my eyes.
“Yes,” Sully says, not looking away from that place in the corner. “He looks just like he did in the pictures you showed me. He seems very happy to see you.”
A laugh escapes my lips as tears break free onto my face. My lower lip quivers, in time with the rest of me.
“Jack,” I whisper, looking into that corner Sully indicates. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“I’ve missed you, too,” Sully communicates. It’s amazing. Every syllable, every enunciation is just how Jack sounded. Sully relays it with nearly perfect replication. “But what is happening? Why are you here? And who is this?”
I shake my head, biting my lower lip. “I couldn’t…” I try to speak, but my words catch in my throat. “It was all just too sudden. I needed to get more… I needed you and you were gone.”
“I know, baby,” he says through Sully. I close my eyes, smiling, my chest swelling at his pet name for me. “It got so crazy. I don’t even really remember what happened.”
My jaw clenches, hot acid rising in my blood. My fingers roll into fists, folded into my lap.
“What happened, Iona?”
I shake my head, the memories instantly sucking me back to that horrific night.
“Do you remember us being at your office?” I ask, looking up and staring into one of the flames, my eyes losing focus.
“Yes,” he responds. “You’d come to help me close up. We were going to go somewhere.”
I nod. “We were about to head to the movies. You’d worked an extra long day, had a client call in last minute who said he had a crisis, so you stayed to help him. I’d been waiting for you for over an hour, so finally I just showed up at your office.”
“You brought me dinner,” he recalls. “Fried chicken and cornbread.”
I smile, just a tiny and brief reflection of how happy he was when I walked through the door with food. “You ate it down like it was your last meal.” The dam breaks free as I realize the truth in my words.
It was indeed his last meal.
My eyes rise to Sully’s, and they tell me he didn’t miss what I said. The breath catches in my throat, the oddness to this situation so overwhelming. This stranger, this man who is shrouded in his own mystery, communicating with my dead fiancé, talking just like he’s Jack.
“We had just finished cleaning up dinner when the bell to the door rang,” I press on. I can feel Jack’s warm hands on my hips, feel the hard wall at my back as he took charge of my lips as a thank you for bringing him food. Feel myself jump in surprise at the unexpected noise.
Hear the footsteps walking into the reception area. The way it ripped through the otherwise silent night.
“You walked out of your office, stepped out to the secretary’s desk.” My words feel so cold as I say them. “I followed you. There was a man there. Dressed just like he was about to head into the grocery store or out for a casual drive. But his face.” I shake my head, squeezing my eyes closed, recalling every tiny detail. “He was so angry.”
“He had a gun,” Jack says.
I nod. “Only a second could have passed since I walked out to see what was going on. He had it ready, pointed. He pulled the trigger.”
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Three quick shots to the chest.
The screams that poured from my chest must have been heard across town. I lunged forward, catching Jack as he fell back. But his weight was too much, and instead we both fell to the ground. Blood instantly coated my hands, my lap, the floor. Everywhere.
Jack took a labored breath, but as he exhaled, blood spilled onto his lips.
His eyes wide, they searched wildly, landing on the intruder.
“I had to stop it,” the man had said, shaking his head. The look in his eyes turned from angry and crazed to peaceful and accomplished. “I couldn’t let him keep doing what he did to her. You’ll thank me someday.”
“He killed you in cold blood,” I say, pulling back into the present. “The sick thing was that he waited outside on the sidewalk until the police arrived. Calm and so…” I struggle for words. “Composed. He confessed to everything, even as the paramedics were loading you into the back of the ambulance.”
My hand trembles where it’s held tightly in Sully’s massive one. I can smell the scent of Jack’s blood as I climbed into the ambulance behind him and the paramedics. Watched in panic as they hooked all kinds of things up to him, pressing so hard into his chest to stop the bleeding I was sure they’d crush his ribcage.
I reached for his hand, squeezing it tight, praying that everything would be okay.
But only two minutes into that ride, Jack’s hand went limp.
“You died on the way to the hospital,” I breathe, feeling myself go slack, as well. I slump back into the chair. My connection to Sully only remains because he holds on tig
ht.
“Iona,” Jack whispers. “I’m so sorry you had to witness that.”
I shake my head, the anger once again rising in me. “The sick thing is that he never gave a real reason why he did it. He’s only ever insisted that you had to be stopped. Jack, why? I don’t understand why he would do what he did?”
My head falls, and sobs consume me.
It’s quiet for a moment as my brain shuts out everything. The pain and the grief roll through me like a tidal wave. Just like the night he died. Just like the days of pain and confusion that followed.
A hand rests on my shoulder before gently moving to run down my hair. “He says he wishes he could hold you right now.” Sully’s voice is guarded, unsure. “He’s kneeling beside you.”
The sob rips harder from my lungs as I look to my side, so clearly able to picture Jack kneeling there. His beautiful face broken with pain. Those soulful eyes locked on my face. His strong hands pulling me to his chest.
I recall every impression of his body, so acutely aware of every way my body fits against his.
But I’ll never touch him again.
“I need you back, Jack,” I whisper as my eyes squeeze closed. “I can’t live without you.”
“I’m always with you, baby,” Sully translates. “You might not be able to see me anymore, but I’m always with you. Always within you. I would never leave you abandoned.”
I cry harder. “It hurts too bad,” I’m nearly frantic. “I’m consumed in pain, every second. Every day. I can’t function. I can’t breathe. I can’t do this without you, Jack.”
“I’m right here,” Jack whispers. “Always.”
Something shifts in the air, and suddenly the room feels ten degrees warmer. I feel the change as a physical thing, my body instantly reacting. I sit up straighter, filled with panic, looking around the room.
“He’s gone,” Sully says. He lets go of my hand, setting the pocket watch on the floor, and slumping back into his chair.
“What do you mean, he’s gone?” I ask, panicked. “I wasn’t finished. I need so much more!”
His eyes narrow at me, annoyed at my frantic state. But they shift away as he brings his hands up to rub his eyes. “It takes time to condition the dead to stay present in the world of the living again. They can’t handle staying long. The first talk is always short.”
My insides quake, like a drug-addicted leech, craving its next fix. “How soon until we can speak to him again?”
“Maybe tonight,” he says, leaning his head back in the chair, letting his eyes slide closed. He suddenly looks exhausted. “But he might not be able to return again until tomorrow. We will find out later.”
I feel a bit like I did the night Jack was shot. Like everything happened too fast and I’m left searching for answers to what happened.
But it’s just done. Like that.
A soft snore sounds from Sully not a minute later.
Chapter Eighteen
SULLY
Screams and shouts and gunfire ring through the night. A full moon casts a hazy glow on the bloody site. Women and children cower in half-destroyed homes. Slaughtered men lie in the streets.
Who’s innocent and who’s right is a matter of debate with no clear answers.
A pool of blood lies on the ground, saturating into Whitmore ground that never really belonged to us.
John. Patrick. Nicholas. Neal. Steven. Lee. Aaron.
Their faces flash before me. Always followed by black.
I bolt upright with a gasp, my hands reaching for something in the dark.
But it’s pitch black, and I’m alone.
A single candle burns near the door. I’m still in the Sunday School room, still resting in the chair. But the night feels cooler, day clearly long past.
Pushing my hair out of my face, I rise and walk out of the room. I find a fire still glowing in the wood stove, though it’s burned down. Iona lies on the couch, her eyes closed, her expression peaceful in sleep.
Lying half on her chest, half on the couch, is the photo album. Held loosely in one hand is Jack’s watch.
Her angle is slightly awkward, and the shoulder of her shirt has been pulled down, exposing her rail thin shoulder.
She has a tattoo almost to her shoulder, just to the left of her heart. It’s some kind of symbol, an infinity sign of some sort. I wouldn’t have pegged her as the type to go under the needle.
Her hair is a mess and her face seems puffy, as if she’s been crying. I wonder if she’ll stop until she gets her closure here and leaves.
I restock the fire and head down the hall. The clock on the wall reads 3:49. Dawn is still far off, but there will be no more sleep for me, not after sleeping most of yesterday away. The floorboards creek slightly as I cross them, heading into my bedroom.
I light a candle, and silently, I sink onto my bed, facing the wall across.
The oversized sorting unit lines most of the wall, composed of over a hundred little drawers, each containing some little trinket. Some personal possession of someone who once lived in this town.
On the wall above the unit, hangs a calendar.
Today is circled in red pen. February fourth.
I stand, pulling open three drawers, removing their contents.
“Happy birthday, son,” a sweet voice says just moments after I sit back on the bed.
“You’re getting so old.”
I try to smile for Cheyenne’s sake, but I don’t think I do it very successfully. I look up to see my family, all standing there, watching me. My sister with a twinkle in her eye, a mischievous smile. My mother wears a sad smile, trying so very hard to act like everything is okay.
But the look in my father’s eye tells the truth.
He knows what this day means.
“Think that pretty girl out there will make you a cake when she finds out it’s your birthday?” my sister says when no one seems to know what to say on this heavy morning.
“I doubt it,” I say, actually managing to crack half a smile. “I don’t think I’ve been nice enough to her for that.”
“I’m proud of you, though,” Mother says, walking forward. She sits on the bed beside me, but doesn’t depress it one millimeter. “You’re helping her be able to move on.”
I shrug. “I don’t think she’ll leave until I Speak for her. It’s an act of convenience.”
“Don’t do that, Sully,” she says. She moves as if to push my hair back, but remembers last second. “Don’t harden yourself. You used to be happy. Can’t you find just a small grain of that again?”
“Leave him be, Marian,” Father cuts in. I look up at him and the agony on his face is undeniable.
“There’s still time, though,” Mother says, the hope and wishful thinking so evident in her voice. “He still has three months and three days. Why not make the fullest of it?” She looks back at me, and I turn to meet her eyes. A soft brown, matching her hair, which is tied up in a bun at the back of her head. “Who says you have to finish out these days in misery and loneliness? You deserve to have some happiness, Sully.”
“I tried that once,” I say. My chest aches. I want to say words that will make her happy, give her hope. But this day destroys all of that. “But Roselock is in our blood. What happened here is almost over, Mother. I just want to get through it.”
I look over at Cheyenne. Tears brim in her eyes and she bites her lower lip.
“What?” I ask, wishing I could reach out and comfort her. “You can’t mourn this. You’ve always known it was coming.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not about that,” she breathes. “It’s just…I’m going to miss you. I’ve been gone for so long, but once the time comes, I won’t see you anymore. You’re the only reason we get to be together as a family anymore. I’m not ready for that to be over.”
“There’s still time,” I say as the weight on my chest grows by a thousand pounds. “Three months, three days.”
Chapter Nineteen
IONA
/> The quiet voice down the hall pulls me from sleep. Sitting up, the photo album hits the pillow on the floor. I rub my eyes, searching for Sully. But his voice drifts down from his bedroom.
I pull the blanket around my shoulders, glancing at the clock as I pass. 5:03. Quietly, I walk toward his voice.
The door sits most of the way closed, only a thin sliver still opened, just enough for me to see through.
Sully sits on the edge of his bed, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. He holds something in his hands, though I can’t tell what.
“I see no point in ever leaving again,” he suddenly says. I jump, hard. His eyes are turned to just the side of him, fixed on one certain point. “I tried that once. Roselock called me back in a very unpleasant way.”
He says nothing for a long minute, his eyes still fixed on one certain point. They then flick to the right, and he remains quiet.
He’s talking to the dead. More than just one person if I had to guess.
“Can we please stop having this argument?” he says, sounding worn out. “Words change nothing. They don’t turn back the clock.”
Sully suddenly stands and walks out of my view.
“I think you know that in this family we have never celebrated on a birthday,” he says grimly. “Certainly never on mine.”
I hear something clank, a soft sound, repeated twice more. And then it is silent.
Only for three seconds, before the door is pulled open, and I find myself nose to chest with a very startled Sully.
“What are you doing?” he demands, sucking in a deep breath and taking a step back from me. His eyes narrow and his lips form into a thin line that disappear into his beard.
“I…” I scramble, my heart hammering in my chest, stepping out of his doorway, as if I can run and hide my embarrassment. “I heard your voice, it…it woke me up.”
He looks down at me again, studying my expression as if to see if I am lying.
“It’s your birthday?” I ask timidly.