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“The coffee, Liz,” she prompted gently. “It’s getting cold.”
My mother nodded, looking embarrassed. “Of course. Sorry.”
She hadn’t removed her hand from the edge of the door, and now she began to push it shut as she and the blond woman stepped back into the house. In the seconds before the door closed completely, I caught a final glimpse of the younger woman’s face. For just a second her blue eyes seemed to lock on to mine, and I felt that strange, dizzying sense of familiarity again.
The feeling only intensified when I heard the last bit of my mother’s voice before the door shut.
“Sorry again, Serena. Must have been the wind.”
Chapter TWO (#ulink_1d8aafa9-94ff-5e17-84df-3013dc0bf492)
Serena Taylor, the girl who murdered you, was having coffee with your mom?”
Joshua sounded like he still didn’t quite be-lieve me.
I lifted one shoulder and let it drop carelessly. That was the biggest shrug I could make, given the circumstances.
“That’s not exactly accurate,” I mumbled. “At least, not completely accurate.”
In my peripheral vision, I saw Joshua raise one skeptical eyebrow. Instead of elaborating, I flopped backward into the pile of lush pillows behind us.
At the moment, Joshua and I were in his parents’ gazebo. His mother, Rebecca, had recently redesigned its interior, transforming the space into something hidden and exotic. The thick curtains that enclosed its outer walls were now masked on the inside by yards of white gauzy drapes. Glittering, star-shaped lanterns hung from the ceiling, and flowering plants filled every inch not occupied by the enormous, pillow-covered daybed.
But despite the gorgeous setting, Joshua and I were tensed up on the daybed, not touching.
Not that that’s anything new, I reminded myself. Not since New Orleans, where I lost my ability to touch the living.
After what felt like an appropriately weighted pause, I propped myself up on my elbows and turned to Joshua.
“To be fair to Serena,” I said, “she didn’t mean to murder me. She was under the influence of Eli and his wraiths.”
When Joshua started to roll his eyes, I added, “Just like your friends when they tried to kill your little sister.”
A dark look passed over his face, and I could read it perfectly. Joshua was remembering the night his sister, Jillian, nearly died, at the hands of his own friends and a malevolent ghost named Eli Rowland. Joshua shook his head, and the dark look shook away too, replaced by the thoughtful frown he’d been wearing since we left my mother’s house.
“I don’t know, Amelia. After what happened to you—after the part Serena played in your death—why would she still hang around your mom? I mean, shouldn’t she be . . . ?”
As he searched for the right phrase, I snorted softly. “What you mean, Joshua, is shouldn’t she be curled up in a corner somewhere, racked with guilt for what happened over a decade ago? Keeping in mind that she probably doesn’t even remember what happened?”
He gave me that half grin, the one that made me ache to touch his lips, just once. “Exactly.” He shifted into the pillows next to me, keeping between us the few inches that had become a permanent fixture since New Orleans—inches that represented what we could no longer do: touch.
“Besides,” Joshua went on, “how do you even know this woman is your Serena Taylor? Just because she’s blond and named Serena—”
“And about the right age for someone born in the eighties,” I interrupted. “And she was having coffee with my mom, in one of the smallest towns on earth.”
Joshua considered this, frowning again. But when his eyebrows unknitted and his mouth softened, I could see I’d won the argument.
“Fair enough,” he conceded. “Maybe she’s the Serena Taylor. But . . . what does that even mean for us?”
“Nothing, actually.”
I sighed, stretching my legs across the daybed until my feet swung over the edge. “At least, it means nothing right now. It’s not like I’m going to call Serena and invite her to have coffee with me next. And anyway . . . I think we should scrap the whole Mom idea. For the time being.”
When Joshua began to protest, I held up my hand, almost but not quite touching his lips.
“Don’t even start,” I warned. “If I try to meet my mom again—and that’s a big if—then it will be on my terms. Surprising her by showing up unexpectedly on her front porch just isn’t going to work for me.”
After a long pause, most of which Joshua spent glancing between my fingertips and my mouth, he nodded.
“If that’s what you want, Amelia. I promise I won’t push the issue again.”
I widened my eyes in mock surprise. “Joshua Mayhew not insisting that I do something risky yet supposedly rewarding? What is this world coming to?”
“Hey, I’m a guy who proudly learns his lesson. You know, after about a million screw-ups.” He laughed, and then leaned forward with a suddenly wicked grin. “Besides, that’s my sister’s job now.”
I shrieked, jerking fully upright on the bed. “Oh, holy crap, I completely forgot. That thing is tonight, isn’t it?”
Joshua laughed again, but this time he sounded sinister, like the villain from a black-and-white movie.
“You’re not afraid, are you?” he asked in his best Bela Lugosi voice.
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“Of a roomful of girls watching chick flicks while they paint each other’s nails and gossip?”
I chuckled and rolled my eyes. “You have a seriously skewed view of girly sleepovers. You know that, right?”
His smile softened as he sat up beside me. “Probably. But it doesn’t matter—I prefer our version of the sleepover anyway.”
He leaned in, erasing the inches between us until we were nearly touching. Sitting this close, I could feel the warmth rising from his skin. And, of course, I felt the blush rising on my own cheeks.
“Me, too,” I whispered, trying to keep my cool although I suddenly felt like I might ignite. Funny how he never stopped having this effect on me.
But even with the heat flooding me, I had a fleeting moment when I missed our old sleepovers. The kind where I spent every night in his bed, placing my hand on him whenever I wanted, kissing him whenever I felt the urge. But things were so different for me as a Risen ghost. So different for us.
In this new version of our relationship, I pretended to be Jillian’s “old” friend and Joshua’s “new” girlfriend—an ironic inversion of reality. For the benefit of his parents, I also pretended to leave his house every night. Later, I returned in my invisible state to curl up beside Joshua in bed, as close as I could without actually touching him. Because now, I could feel the wrinkles in the sheets beneath us but not the texture of Joshua’s skin.
Risen ghosts regained the senses that death had taken from them. Taste, smell, even touch. But there was one tiny problem: the Risen could touch anything they wanted, except the living. It was the most ironic, double-edged gift I’d ever received.
Not that Joshua and I hadn’t tried—frequently—to touch. During our first week back in Oklahoma, we took so many different approaches: slow and careful; quick and furious; even the unexpected surprise touch. But none of it worked. When I placed my hand against his, it always felt like I simply clutched the air; it was the same for Joshua. Worse, whenever we came too close, it looked as though we passed through each other—like I was made of air myself.
Nothing made me feel more like a ghost.
Still, so many things about my new existence were amazing. The smell of Rebecca’s garden after a hard rain; the taste of Jeremiah Mayhew’s chocolate chess pie; the slick plastic coating on the benches outside Wilburton High. Each sensation felt fresh and new. So exhilarating, they almost made up for everything else.
Almost.
I shook my head, willing my cheeks to shift from whatever color they were now to something less neon pink. When I felt a little more in control, I met Joshua’s eyes again and—a little reluctantly—returned to the subject of my upcoming torture.
“You know, I still can’t figure out why Jillian insists I go to this thing tonight.”
“Because you and Jill are now BFF?” he offered. When I glared at him, he grinned and went on. “Honestly, I think Jill just wants to make up for how she acted before New Orleans. And in New Orleans. And pretty much how she acts in general. Plus, I think she’s trying to make you some more . . . friends.”
He dragged the last word out awkwardly, grimacing. I couldn’t help but copy his expression. The word “friend” made both of us uncomfortable. Not because of the ones I hadn’t made yet, but because of the one I’d made and then lost.
Gabrielle Callioux.
The girl who changed me into what I was now; the girl who, in only a few days, had become my closest friend; the girl I’d watched disappear into hell.
Thinking about Gaby would probably make tonight even harder. So I forced a bright tone as I responded to Joshua.
“Making new friends. At Kaylen Patton’s house. Yay.” Just for effect, I shook my fists in a fake little cheer.
“Your enthusiasm is overwhelming,” he said drily. “But you promised to show up to this sleepover. And ‘show up’ means you actually have to show up. No going invisible.”
I sighed heavily. Then, since my feet were already dangling over the edge, I slid myself fully off of the daybed and turned around to face him. I tucked my hands into the pockets of my jean skirt—borrowed from Jillian—and gave him a small smile.
Joshua, however, didn’t return my smile. He studied me, suddenly serious, and even a little . . . sad, maybe. Then he reached out to let his palm hover by my cheek, almost as though he could cup it.
“You know,” he said softly, “that I’d give just about anything to touch you again?”
I didn’t trust myself to answer him aloud. Not without my voice cracking. So I just nodded. We stayed silent for another beat, until he cleared his throat.
“Have fun tonight.”
All I could manage was a rough “I’ll try.”
Before I did something I’d regret, like lean into his hand and pretend, just for a second, that this wasn’t our new normal, I spun around and raced out of the gazebo.
Chapter THREE (#ulink_707b9b2c-9066-5609-88ef-f06faf7549a0)
Cramped into Jillian’s tiny car and listening to yet another generic hip-hop song, I couldn’t quite believe I’d left my gorgeous boyfriend sitting on an equally gorgeous bed . . . for this.
Before leaving the Mayhews’ house, Jillian had forced me to try on about a hundred different outfits until I looked presentable. It was ridiculous, considering the fact that most items in my wardrobe once (and sort of still) belonged to the most famous actress in America. Next came an inch-thick layer of makeup, something I’d stopped wearing the day Gaby disappeared. Worst of all, Jillian spent most of our drive lecturing me on how to behave once we reached Kaylen’s house. Which made me wonder—yet again—why I’d been invited in the first place.
“And another thing,” Jillian continued, “you need to treat Kaylen’s mom with a lot of respect. Like, a lot.”
I turned away from my open window, back toward the interior of the car so that Jillian could see my exasperation.
“What do you think I’m going to do, Jill, run naked through her living room?”
Jillian laughed, but she began to drum her fingers nervously against the steering wheel. “It’s not that I think you’re going to do something stupid. It’s just that I’m trying to, you know, prepare you.”
“For what, the Miss Wilburton pageant?”
“Something like that,” Jillian muttered.
Before I could ask her what she meant, Kaylen’s house came into view, and I was momentarily struck speechless.
The home was absolutely enormous—at least three stories tall, maybe four. But the building’s most striking quality wasn’t its size. Its façade boasted every imaginable architectural element: columns, balconies, copper awnings, weather vanes. Best of all, two life-sized statues of lions flanked the double front doors. It was a triumph of wealth and excess.
“Whoa,” I eventually managed. “It kind of looks like Better Homes and Gardens threw up all over this place.”
“Yeah,” Jillian said, pulling her car onto the circular driveway. “This is what we call a McMansion.”
I let out a low whistle and stared up at the house while Jillian parked alongside several other cars. We kept quiet, almost reverential as we removed our overnight bags from the trunk and made the long walk to the front porch.
Finally, standing between the stone lions and waiting for someone to answer the doorbell, Jillian broke our silence with a torrent of words.
“Okay, so Mr. Patton is an oil guy and a state senator,” Jillian hissed in a rushed whisper. “So he’s gone, like, all the time. That leaves Mrs. Patton alone a lot with Kaylen and all this money. And, well, Mrs. Patton is a former Miss Oklahoma, which should mean that she’s super nice. But in Mrs. Patton’s case—”
At that moment, the front door swung open to reveal Kaylen, unbelievably glammed up and looking regal in the marble-tiled foyer. Except the person standing in the doorway wasn’t Kaylen. She was at least six inches taller, not counting her five-inch stilettos. That also left out the four inches of gravity-defying hair, which had been sprayed into some complicated blond sculpture. All that height made her look superhuman, like some sort of suburban goddess.
“Jillian, sweetie, don’t you look pretty,” she cooed, pointing to Jillian’s block-print dress and wedge heels. Then Mrs. Patton raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow and assessed me coolly, before breaking into a high-wattage smile.
“You must be Jillian’s little friend,” she said, offering me a handshake full of bedazzled fingernails. I took an instinctive step back to avoid the nontouch, and her smile dropped.
“Sorry,” I offered lamely. “I, um, have a cold.”
I offered a weak cough as evidence, using my shaking hand to cover it. Then I waved that hand as if to say, See? Germ-ridden.
Mrs. Patton’s upper lip curled in disgust and she, too, took a step backward. Then she composed that lip curl into something that was only slightly less repulsed.
“You poor thing. Why don’t y’all just come on inside?”
She waved us into the entryway, gestured vaguely to a grand, curving staircase, and told us that the other girls were in the theater room on the third floor. Then she hurried away on her ridiculous heels, fleeing what she clearly assumed was the black death.
Now I realized why Jillian had demanded a fashion show before we left. And why we were wearing designer labels to a party that should have been filled with sweatpants and junk food.
I snorted as Jillian and I started up the stairs. “You have to admit, this explains so much about Kaylen.”
“Doesn’t it though?” Jillian murmured. “I told you, Kaylen is an okay person—she’s just a little . . . skewed.”
“I can see why. She’s living with a grade-A pageant mom.”
“Aw, who’s afraid of tiaras and mascara? We’ve fought demons.”
“I’ve fought demons,” I corrected. “You fought a crazed psycho killer with some serious girl issues.”
“To-may-to, to-mah-to.” Jillian waved her hand dismissively.
After what felt like a thousand miles of stairs and hallway, Jillian paused outside a set of red double doors. She’d just reached for one of the handles when both doors swung open and Kaylen came bounding out into the hall.
“Jill!” she squealed, enveloping her friend in a bear hug to which Jillian responded with an awkward back pat.
I’d always thought of Kaylen as something of a princess. But tonight, in stark contrast to her mother, she appeared in a set of comfortable-looking pajamas.
“So, Jill, I got those hot Cheetos you like even though they make everyone else want to puke.” She abruptly shifted her attention to me. “And you’re Amelia, right? Josh’s secret new girlfriend?”
