Benedict waited in the doorwayuntil he couldn't hear the other man's shoes in the stairwell.
His mother was dead.
Lungcancer.
It was almost laughable,wasn't it? That a woman who had combated spirits her whole life, survivedhouses that had claimed lives, and put the most volatile to rest—would die ofsomething so painfully human?
"Are you okay?"Emmeline asked when he closed the door. She chewed her lip, lingering in themouth of the hallway.
Benedict nodded stiffly."We weren't close." She would know that. He had barely spoken to hismother since he left home. He had not been back, and she had not paid him anyvisits at school or in the city where he settled.
"Still..."
He sighed and sulked past herinto the hallway. He pushed open her bedroom door on the way but walked to hisown room, falling face-first onto his bed. "We weren't close," hesaid again, this time wondering why those words were supposed to make him feelbetter. They just made him feel worse. She was dead, and he didn't even knowhow to react.
Emmeline crawled onto the bed.It didn't sink under her weight. The covers didn't move. She lay down besidehim, looking back at him. If she could breathe—really breathe—he would feel itagainst his lips. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
They were quiet for a longtime. He thought about going to sleep, but his phone vibrated on the table, nodoubt with his flight information. He didn't get up to check it. Not just yet."What was your mother like, Em?" he asked.He never had before. They never talked about her life.
"Mymom?" The words broke a little in her throat, likeshe had forgotten she had one. Maybe she had forgotten. Ghosts were strangethings, remains of a person stuck in the world for some cruel reason. "Shewas nice. Is nice, I guess. She's probably still alive." Her voice gotsmaller and smaller, eyes glassy. "She worked all the time, and lifewas hard for her, but we didn't see it when we were kids. She made sure wedidn't see it. I think I only saw her cry twice. One time was when her friendmoved away. The other family came by our house to say goodbye before leavingtown, all piled into their big car and a moving truck. My mom stood there inthe street and stared after the vehicles, tears in her eyes. I didn'tunderstand then what it must have felt like, to have a close friend—a personthat really knew her and could sympathize with her—leave. Friendship was agiven when you were a kid. They came and went and came again, and it wasn't sohard because there just wasn't much to us yet. We didn't need someone tounderstand us yet because we were narcissists that believed everyone was justlike us."
Benedict huffeda laugh. He put his hand on the bed between them. She put her hand beside his,their pinkies almost overlapping. "And the secondtime?"
"Hmm? Oh.My parents had this blowout argument, and my dad stormed off. He did that. Heleft, but he always came back eventually. I went into my mom's room and found herlying on the bed, crying. I couldn't have been more than ten years old. Ididn't know what to do. She was always the strong one. Everyone else was anemotional mess, but not her. She knew what to do. But there she was,broken-hearted. I asked if she wanted something to eat. I think I wanted tooffer her something, to make contact, to comfort somehow, but I was too youngto know how. I mean, even my food-making abilities were limited to themicrowave or stove-top mac and cheese." She darkened, staringat where their hands lay on the covers. He followed her gaze in time to see thebruises forming. "Do you think she knows I'm dead? Like, feels it? Iwonder how much she's cried now…"
Benedict's eyes stung. "Icould look her up for you. We could look you up and see if they found out who… That you were…"
"Murdered," shesaid it. She had never said it before. His gaze flicked back up to her face,expecting to see that ghoulish corpse of a girl beside him. The bloodstains andbruises were gone. Her round cheeks rose in a little offering of a smile,appreciative as though he had done something acutely kind. "No oneknows. No one found me." She said the grim truths as though they weresoothing.
"How do you know?"
Threads of that toxic, violentgreen swirled in the deep grays of her eyes. "I know. No one will everfind me."
His heart broke a little."I found you." It wasn't the same. He knew that. He hadn't found herbody…hadn't solved her murder or stopped it from happening. He didn't even knowher full name. But he had found a piece of her, and that piece could never belost again.
They were quiet for a whilelonger before she said, "We shouldn't go—to the funeral, I mean. Theymight figure your little scam out."
Benedict huffed. "Elysiumhas never managed to sense you, let alone see you. I think we'll be fine."
She raised a brow. "It'sa house of ghost hunters. What if they do see me?"
"They won't."
"What if they do?"
"Then we'll leave."When she didn't reply, he closed his eyes. His mother was dead. The world hadchanged, and yet, it hadn't. Not really.
"I have a badfeeling," Emmeline whispered.
Benedict smiled softly, sadly,because so did he.
"If we go into thathouse, we'll never get out again."
He cracked his lids and foundher staring back at him. Her eyes weren't the bright green he had expected. Shewasn't angry. She was…worried? "I won't let anyone exorcise you. I swear.I won't leave without you."
Somehow, she grew sadder,tears gleaming in her eyes and very nearly overflowing her lashes. And yet shesmiled, the way that betrayed the age of her appearance and screamed just howdeeply she loved him. "I know you won't leave without me. Youcan't."
Chapter Five
Benedict took a cab to the airport.He only packed one bag, small enough to carry onto the plane, but put it in thetrunk rather than the seat beside him. Emmeline sat on that seat—even if thedriver didn't see her there.
She leaned
