Last Girl Ghosted(102)

Mentally, Bailey wills Sabrina to move the phone so he can see the other man better.

“Not at all, really,” says Sabrina with a laugh.

Finally, she shifts the phone just a bit. There he is. He looks huge, ghostly pale, big jaw and intense dark eyes. His nose his large, crooked. Not handsome. Not the kind of man you would think could lure women away from their lives. But maybe it’s not about looks. Maybe he offers them something else, something they crave but don’t even know it.

“So why Torch?” asks the ghost.

“My friend, she thought it was time for me to meet someone. And this is the way everyone’s doing it these days. Right?”

The music is a little too loud. Bailey strains to hear.

“Seems so. Don’t meet people at work?”

“No,” she says. “It’s kind of a small place. And that can get messy, right? Dating people you work with—not the best idea?”

“Researcher.”

“Hmm?”

“That was your job description.”

“That’s right. I do research for authors. And you’re in IT.”

“Right.”

The conversation is flat, uninteresting.

“He doesn’t like her,” says Jax. “She’s not damaged enough. He can sense it. Men like that, predators, they have a sense.”

“He doesn’t need to like her. He needs to leave so that we can follow.”

The drinks come, the conversation drones on. Where he lives, where he’s from. All lies probably. Sabrina is laughing too much, obviously nervous.

“Family?”

Sabrina bows her head, makes a not very convincing stab at looking sad. “All gone.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I—try not to dwell on the past. It’s gone. I’m all about the moment.”

It comes off too light, the throwaway sentiment of a person who’s read too many memes but hasn’t done the work.

“I see,” he says. “That’s wise.”

“Is that a scar?” she asks. “There on your throat?”

Bailey watches his eyes darken, his hand go to his neck.

“I don’t like to talk about the past either,” he says.

“I get that.”

“Then let’s talk about the future,” he says. “Should we get out of here?”

“Where to?”

“Just walk awhile. I love a snowy city night. Find another place that looks good.”

“Sure,” she says.

“What is she doing?” hisses Jax, gripping the dash.

“I have no idea,” says Bailey.

He puts a fifty on the table, then helps Sabrina into her coat. The connection falters as Sabrina sticks the phone in her pocket. Their voices become muffled.

“Shit.”

Then they’re on the street, moving uptown, the ghost with his arm around Sabrina’s shoulders.

“Can you drive?” Bailey asks.

“Of course I can drive,” says Jax, annoyed. “What am I, twelve?”

“Follow me.”

“Wait! What?”

Bailey exits the car to follow the couple on foot, jogging across the street and catching them just as they turn onto St. Marks. The connection on the phone is still live, but he can’t hear anything, just the city noise, the siren of the ambulance that passes them by, a shout, some music from a bar.

The couple comes to an abrupt stop and Bailey ducks into a doorway, but not before the ghost turns and their eyes meet, a shock of recognition passing between them.

The moment blurs and warps, as Bailey watches, then breaks into a run. The ghost pulls Sabrina close, a tight embrace, then pushes her away and backs up, his gaze still on Bailey, a slight cold smile playing at his lips.

Bailey just gets to Sabrina as she falls, legs buckling, head tilting back. He’s there to keep her from hitting the concrete, catching her soft weight in his arms. He sinks with her to the ground. When he looks into the faceted depths of her blue eyes, he sees pain, and fear; a terrible gush of blood from her mouth as she tries to say his name.

“Oh, God. Sabrina, please.”

She’s too young. Pleasepleaseplease.

He takes his phone from his pocket and dials 911 as Jax brings the SUV to a screeching halt beside them, leaves it in the street to run to them. Horns start blaring at the blockage; drivers roll down their windows to yell.

“What happened?” Jax’s voice is a shriek of despair. “Oh, my God, where is he?”

When he looks up from Sabrina’s terrified gaze, the ghost is gone again.



fifty


My father is an old man now, wizened and thin with a white beard and drawn cheeks. His eyes have a hollow look; it’s not sadness exactly. It’s too much seeing.

“I made mistakes, Robin. Too many. I was wrong about so much.”

We sit on an outcropping of rock, bare feet dangling over the rushing creek. I can’t breathe, my chest heavy, the air too thin. I want to tell him but I have no voice.

It’s an old conversation, one I can’t have right now. There’s something I need to do. I’m just not sure what it is. Panic flutters in my chest.

“You should have killed me when you had the chance.”