The image on the camera’s screen showed up in different shades of green, like in a leaked sex tape or army video. “Spotting what?”
He glanced at me. “Ghosts, of course.”
“What do ghosts look like?”
“You’ll know one when you see it.”
“You’re just trying to distract me from your story.”
“Is it going to work?”
I shook my head.
He puffed out his cheeks with air and then exhaled. “There’s really not much since you left. Graduated, started at the U in cinematography part-time, moved in with my brother in a trailer on the Kim family ranch. And now of course I am part of the fledgling Coralee Gold media empire.”
“Your fortune’s made,” I said. I was watching the scenery we were passing flash by on the green screen of the camera, but I didn’t see anything even slightly spectral.
“Yeah. Fortune and my reputation. I can’t wait to be the king of the webisode.” He hugged the steering wheel with his left arm and leaned over, peering from the road to the screen on the back of the camera. “Ghosts can be tricky, especially on pavement and—there, look!” He swerved manically to the curb. “We got one!”
He was grinning from ear to ear and pointing at what appeared to me to be a completely blank cinderblock wall.
“Where?”
He nudged me with the camera, and when I looked at the wall through it, I could suddenly see something that looked like a gum drop with two round eyes and a scalloped bottom painted about a foot from the ground. “No way!”
“That’s a ghost,” Grant explained. “The designated Haunters paint the ghosts on in light sensitive paint, and then the Hunters—that’s us—have to find them and eradicate them.”
“Eradicate how?”
“Watch and learn.” He hopped out of the truck and went around behind it. When he reappeared on the sidewalk, he was holding a bucket, a roller, and a tube of paper. He dipped the roller into the bucket, smoothed the piece of paper over the wall, and turned to me. “Is it over the ghost?”
I laughed. The paper had a large yellow PAC-MAN printed on it. “About four inches to the left,” I told him. When it was right, he rolled over it, applying paste so it stuck to the wall.
“Now we take a picture and submit it to the game master and—ta da. One point for us. We got a late start, but I’m feeling lucky.”
We hunted ghosts all around the flats of Tucson. While we were pasting our fifth one, a sneaky partial on the side of a bus bench, I asked, “Who taught you to talk to ghosts the way you did at the séance?”
“That is all because of crazy Aunt Rosalie.” He chuckled to himself as he added more paste to the roller. “She was a gypsy, or anyway that’s what she said, and my dad confirmed it every time he was mad at my mom by calling her a gypsy bitch. So it must have been true, right?” I was kneeling to hold the poster on, and he was bent over so his face was upside down to my face. He glanced over and gave me a little smile that made my heart rate pick up slightly, and I was struck by how easy it was to be Aurora around Grant. He brought out the Aurora in me.
He stood up and went on. “Aunt Rosie used to take me on her rounds. She was kind of a spiritual doctor to a lot of people. I guess I learned from watching her. She said I had a good way with troubled spirits. The tocco luces she called it, the touch of light. I think she made it up just for me, to make me feel important, but I don’t care. I like the phrase.”
“You certainly had it tonight.”
“I don’t know what that was tonight. Weird.”
“Do you know who Jay was? The guy talking to Bain?”
“No idea. There wasn’t anyone named Jay at the party three years—” He stopped talking and got a confused look on his face.
“What is it? What do you remember?”
“Did Bain say ‘J.J.’ at one point?”
I searched my memory. “I think he might have. Why?”
“There was a guy named Jimmy. He was a handyman at the country club. Everyone called him J or J.J. But he wasn’t at the party.” He looked thoughtful for a moment then, like he was shaking something off, and smiled at me. “Probably unrelated. Anyway that’s what it is, the tocco luces. You saw it in action tonight. It’s also the title of my first movie.”
“How many movies have you made?”
“That’s—” he began, then looked up with alarm and whispered, “It’s the law.” Without another word, he took my arm and dragged me behind the bench.
We crouched there, waiting, listening for the sound of tires or sirens, but there was nothing. No police car went by either. I looked at him kneeling next to me. “Did you just do that to avoid answering my questions?”
His face was very close to mine. “Yes,” he said, grinning. “Come on, we’re not even contenders yet.”
After that we saw more and more PAC-MEN already up, so our work became more focused. We had to race another team for our eighth one and almost lost our roller hanging off the side of an overpass on No. 10. I didn’t get to ask him about his movies again until we were driving around looking for No. 11.
“Did I say first movie? I should have said only. It was a student film I did at the university.”
“What’s it about?
“What everyone’s first movie is about: myself. It’s kind of autobiographical, except to be subtle I changed all the male roles, me and my brother, to be played by girls. Xandra, Bain’s ex-girlfriend, was in it. And so was Victoria Lawson, Liza’s older sister. Liza even had a cameo, although that was pretty much by accident.”
“What do you mean?”
“Victoria and Liza got in a fight while we were shooting, and I caught it on tape and edited it into the movie.”
This was a chance for me to see Liza alive. The real Liza. “Can I see it?” I asked.
“Uh, no.” He glanced at me. “Why would you want to do a crazy thing like that?”
“Because I want to see what Liza was like,” I blurted before I realized what I’d said.
“She was your best friend. You know what she was like.” His tone was a little sharper than I would have expected.
“Yes, but—” I stammered. “I mean, it might help me remember, watching her move and hearing her voice and everything. And—I miss her.”
He shook his head a little and said, “The answer is still no.”
“Please?”
“Maybe. Never.”
“Why?”
“It’s embarrassing.”
I decided I’d try a more roundabout approach. “What’s Vicky like? Liza’s sister?”
“It’s Vic-TORY-a,” he said, giving each syllable its own breath. “She hates nicknames.”
“Right. I think I remember Liza telling me that,” I lied.
“You mean E-LIZ-abeth.” He pronounced her name with a slightly sing-songy British accent.
“She sounds like Bridgette.”
“I guess she is a little. Very strong views on what was right and wrong. But fair. She demanded more of herself than of others. Good to work with. I haven’t seen her in ages since… well… since Liza. Now more hunting and less chatting,” he said, tapping the camera.
I propped it on my knee and watched predawn Tucson go by. “How do you think they got along with their dad?”
“Victoria and Liza? I know Victoria worried about Liza a lot. She felt like Liza was her responsibility, since she was the oldest and their mother was dead.” He glanced over at me quickly. “I don’t know if it’s appropriate to say this, but the fight I caught? It was about you.”
My throat went dry. “What about me?”
“Victoria told Liza she didn’t think you were a good influence on her. That she should spend less time with you.”
“Why?”
He looked at me incredulously. “Maybe she didn’t want her sister sneaking out in the middle of the night to go to fraternity parties?”
Had Aurora done that? It sounded possible. I tried to keep my tone
neutral. “Oh. Sure.”
I think he misunderstood my not knowing for being upset because he said, “Look, I shouldn’t have said it. I’m sure you weren’t a bad influence. Whatever Liza did, it was her choice. She wasn’t the innocent—” He stepped suddenly on the gas, pointing wildly. “A block up. On the left.”
We swerved across the street, and Grant brought us to a stop at the same moment another team pulled up.
Ghost No.12 was my introduction to paste wars and also the end of the game for me. By the time we were done, we were filthy, and it was starting to get light.
“I’d better get you home,” he said. He gave me a quick, sheepish glance. “We should probably not mention that we were out doing this together. Coralee doesn’t like the crew mixing with the talent.”
“I’m not sure I qualify as either.”
“You’re on the call sheet for nine A.M., tomorrow, but she thinks it would be fun to wake you up before that.”
“Kind of hint to her that you’ve heard I sleep with a shotgun.”
“I am afraid that won’t daunt her.”
As I typed in the security code for the big gates with the double S’s, I asked him the question I’d meant to ask first.
“What do you remember about the party the night Liza died?”
“I don’t remember much,” he said, pulling through. “I left pretty early. You were still there when I took off.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. I only showed up because your texts sounded so hysterical, but when I saw you were okay, I—”
“My texts?” I asked. “I invited you to the party?”
“Sort of. It was more like some combination of begging and ordering. By the thirteenth one you were threatening that if I didn’t come, you couldn’t be responsible for your actions.”
“I’m so embarrassed.”
“What? It’s not like that was the first time you’d done that. You must remember.”
I kept my head in my hands. “It’s still embarrassing,” I said, not answering.
“Don’t be. I thought it was cute, most of the time.”
I made a face at him. “Did I mention why I was so miserable this time?”
“I didn’t really get to talk to you. You were pretty drunk, so you slurred on me for a while and then wandered off. I had a date, so I took off too.”
“A date? Are you still seeing her?” I asked quickly, and I realized I was feeling a pinprick of envy.
He laughed. “For awhile there with all the contrition and the fact that you weren’t trying to kiss me every half hour, I had started to doubt you were Aurora Silverton. But you’ve restored my faith.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No, I’m not still seeing her. She moved.”
“Oh.” We rode in silence then, and I watched his profile as he navigated the long driveway. When he pulled up in front of the steps of Silverton House, I said, “That was really fun tonight. If only all ghosts were that easy to eradicate. Some paper and wheat paste.”
“They are. You just have to figure out what they want, and they’ll go away.”
“You don’t believe that, do you?”
“That’s what my aunt used to say. It could be true. Of course she also said that writing a bully’s name on an egg and cracking it into the sink would rid them of their power, and as a late bloomer I can tell you that was not the most effective use of eggs.”
I glanced at his broad shoulders and square jaw. “Well, you look more athlete than mathlete to me now,” I said. “So maybe it just took some time to kick in.”
He laughed. “Could be. Anyway, it’s worth a try. And as a fellow ghost buster, I pledge to help you in whatever way I can.”
“Thank you,” I said, meaning it.
“I had a really good time with you, Aurora.”
“I had a really good time with you too.”
I tilted my head to one side to look at him. Aurora would have tried to kiss him, and he knew it. And if he let her, I would have been okay with that. I leaned forward slightly, and my eyes began to close.
“Well, goodnight,” he said abruptly, hitting the button to unlock the doors.
The sound jolted me. Beneath it I heard Stuart’s voice hissing, “filthy slut,” and I realized there had been no way he’d kiss me. Not after what he must think of me. What everyone at the party must have thought of me.
“Yeah, sure,” I said, fumbling for the door.
The house was quiet when I got inside. I ran to my room, stripped off my clothes, and got into the shower. I made it as hot as I could bear and stood under it, letting the water scald me. No matter how high I turned it on, I couldn’t get it to drown out the sound of Stuart’s voice—filthy slut—and get it to stop pinging around my mind like a silver pinball, bouncing off of unimagined markers—dirty tease—in the missing parts of my memory—Tom Yaw—that sent it careening back to me as though telling me—who would believe a little whore like you—hinting that I had done so much worse. Been so much worse.
Just let it go, I heard Bridgette say.
I washed my hair three times and scrubbed my skin until it was red and raw, and shaved my legs twice each. When I was done, I took the towels and mopped down the inside of the shower, wiping away any last trace, any last particle of me that had touched him. It still didn’t feel clean, so I got out the Q-tips and used them on the grout and around the drain. I took them and the towels and the cardigan I’d been wearing and carried them downstairs to the trash.
When I got back to my room, my phone was ringing. My heartbeat quickened as I looked down to see: “UNKNOWN NUMBER.” I stared at it, not sure what to do. Then, just like that, it stopped.
I slept.
CHAPTER 29
SUNDAY
I’m standing in the middle of a maze of payphones, hundreds of them in neat, orderly rows. As I glance around in search of the exit, one of the phones begins to ring.
I know instinctively I have to answer it; it’s a matter of life or death. I hold my breath to try and gauge which phone it is, or at least which direction. I think I’ve got it and start moving that way, but stop, unsure. I turn around, retrace my steps.
Ring-a-ling.
Now it sounds like it’s to the left, now to the right.
Ring-a-ling.
I’m starting to panic. A matter of life and death, my mind repeats, the words matching themselves almost playfully to the ringing, life and death, ring-a-ling, lifeanddeath, lizasdeath, Liza’s death.
It’s a matter of Liza’s death.
The breath catches in my throat and my pulse accelerates with new urgency. I race down one row and up the next, always convinced the right phone is just up ahead. Or behind me. To the left. Diagonally down. The ring keeps going, unrelenting, becoming more like a tapping, a summons. I’m going to be too late, I think as I move from phone to phone.
“Coming,” I try to shout, but discover my mouth won’t work. The words are like boulders having to be heaved from the rigidly locked interior of my jaw. “Trying,” I grunt, my jaw aching from the effort. “Won’t… let them hurt… Will find… I’ll—
My eyes opened, and I realized the tapping wasn’t in the dream. It was real. And it wasn’t exactly tapping. It was more like the sound of doors opening and closing. Doors along the corridor outside my bedroom.
A tendril of fear began to skitter crab-like up and down my spine as the sound got closer. This wasn’t the wind. This wasn’t my imagination.
The sound approached, now the door two down from mine. Hoping to stop it, I yelled, “Who is that? Who’s there?”
Silence fell, full and heavy for a moment. Had I done it? Scared them aw—
My door began to shake wildly, straining against the lock and the hinges.
I was frozen in bed, my breathing coming in huge gasps, tears stinging my eyes. I heard grunting, as though whatever was shaking it was exerting a lot of effort. And then, beneath the shaking, I heard a voice whisper “A
urora.”
Tears pricked at my eyes, and my stomach flopped. “Who are you?” I cried.
“Aurora,” the voice whispered again. “Want… Aurora.”
“Go away!” I shouted. “You can’t get in here.”
“Can’t get in,” the voice chanted softly, and let out a thin giggle. “Get in, get in!”
There was a scraping noise along the side of the door near the lock, like it was clawing at the wood looking for a point of weakness.
You should have answered the phone, I thought. She is coming for you because you didn’t answer the phone.
“I’m sorry,” I said to the door. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer.”
Abruptly the noise stopped. Was that it? Was that all I’d had to—
The scraping started up again, this time along the bottom of the door, as though whatever was out there was going to burrow its way in.
I sat in bed transfixed, taking in strange details, the sky turning from black to blue outside my window as dawn approached, the pain in my palm from my fingernails digging into it, the gaping shadowy space at the bottom of the door. It was going to come through at any moment. Every muscle in my body was rigid, and I could barely breathe.
And then from one moment to the next, in the span of a finger snap, it was over. The door went still, the noises vanished, and silence fell like a heavy blanket. It was as though nothing had ever happened.
But it had. It had.
With my knees tucked beneath my chin under the blankets, I found it harder and harder to believe. It wasn’t possible. There are no ghosts. It wasn’t possible.
I must have dozed off because I woke up to a room flooded with daylight and the sound of my phone on the night table ringing.
I grabbed for it as quickly as I could. “Hello?”
“Did you have a nice time with Grant?” Bridgette’s voice asked. She sounded perky, like she had been awake for hours, and also tense.
“I did have a nice time with Grant,” I told her, copying her phrasing. “Is that okay? Why?”
“Yes, Grant is okay. Can you hear me clearly?”
“Yes,” I said hesitantly, wondering what she was getting at.