Pen Pal(78)

It was my own.

It all comes back in a rush. A locked iron door inside my mind flings itself open, and an icy black ocean of memory floods in.

I scream.

The windows explode outward into a million razor-sharp glinting shards of glass that are instantly sucked into the storm and carried off into the rainy night. A violent whirlwind rips the newspaper from my hand and sends it flying madly around the room, torn to pieces.

Fiona and Claire stand in the office doorway. A small barefoot figure in blue pajamas cowers behind them in terror, peeking out from around Fiona’s legs.

It’s the little blond boy I kept seeing on the lawn.

The boy who took one look at me and screamed in pure terror.

The boy who lives here with his parents, Sandy and David Wainwright, who bought this house a month after my husband ended my life.

Michael didn’t die.

Aidan did.

Michael killed him.

Right before he killed me.





II





Purgatorio





Even in the grave, all is not lost.

~ Edgar Allen Poe





37





Fiona





When I told Kayla that ghosts are simply souls with a story to tell, it was the truth. But the thing about ghosts is that they’re unreliable narrators. Especially when they’re telling a story to themselves.

Figuring out that you’re dead is complicated business.

A shout comes from behind me. I turn to find Sandy running down the hall toward us at top speed, her eyes wide and her face white. Clinging to my leg, Bennett bursts into tears when he sees his mother.

She scoops him up into her arms, hugs him tightly against her chest, and stares in horror into the room. Over the roar of the wind, she hollers, “He snuck out of bed. My God, what’s happening?”

“Take him back upstairs!” shouts Claire.

Paper flies past, lifted by the gale, twisting like broken birds in flight. The curtains beside the shattered windows flap and billow. Framed photographs tear themselves from the walls and smash against the floor. Books shoot out of the bookcase as if fired from a gun. A lightshow erupts from the exploding bulbs in the ceiling and lamps, showering the room in a spray of brilliant white sparks.

It’s a pageant of sound and fury. The visible chaos when an invisible heart breaks.

“I know, poor dear,” I murmur, watching the madness. “I’m so sorry.”

The spot where Kayla stood mere moments ago is now empty.

Sandy runs back the way she came, hurrying down the hall with Bennett in her arms. They’ll go back to David upstairs and wait for Claire and me to let them know if the spirit of Kayla Reece has finally left their house.

They might have to wait a while, however.

There’s still more of the story left to tell.





38





Aidan





I knew almost from the beginning that Kayla was it for me. Those eyes, you know? So pretty but so sad.

It would take a while to find out what she was so sad about. By then, I’d told her about my father, about how abusive he was. About what I did to protect my mother from his violent rages.

About how I’d spent time in prison for it.

The judge was lenient because I was underage. My mother’s testimony helped, too, as did all the other witnesses the defense called to prove we were living in hell with that man.

But still. Facts are facts. I was a convicted felon. It isn’t pretty when you say it out loud.

The amazing thing? Kayla never judged me for it. She never looked at me differently. She didn’t let it come between us, when she had every reason to say “Peace out” and walk away.

She’d already been through so much. She didn’t need all my shit on top of it.

They say her husband was a genius. Brilliant, as if that makes up for anything. Like it’s an explanation and an excuse all in one. He was some big shot mathematics professor at the university, brain like a supercomputer.

A supercomputer with a significant glitch.

Actually, two. Paranoid schizophrenia being the main one, and a king-size ego being the other.

You know what happens when you’re sick but too narcissistic to admit it?

You don’t take your fucking meds, that’s what.

Yeah. Then shit goes sideways.

Then you start doing things you might not normally do if you kept your shit under control. Say, for instance, taking a sledgehammer to every television in the house because you’re convinced the government is spying on you from behind the screens. Or maybe writing the same quadratic equation over and over in a notebook and telling your wife it’s the language of God that the refrigerator magnet that’s actually an angel in disguise has been dictating to you. Or possibly standing outside the local grocery store screaming at everyone going in that broccoli are aliens hiding among us and are plotting to take over the planet.

Michael and Kayla were married young. Before his illness got bad. Before the outbursts. Before the hospitalizations. Before all the money started going toward his care.

Before he kicked her so hard in the stomach, she miscarried their baby.

He thought she’d been impregnated by the alien broccoli. He thought he was saving her.