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“Tourist season is starting soon, and Momzilla’s got chore
itis
stage four.”

A hefty waitress who could pass for Mrs. Claus stops at our table. Rachel introduces her as Nana James, Casey’s grandma. She has a sweet, caring face that makes you think of homemade cookies and knitting.

Bailey asks about Casey, and Nana says he’s fine, at home recovering with “World of Warcraft.” Then Bailey states our order: three beer floaters with jimmies. I cock a curious eyebrow and she rolls her eyes. I am the amusing foreigner.

“Root beer floats with chocolate sprinkles.”

Ah. I nod my approval. While we’re at it, I ask her what she meant by tourist season. She says her family owns the local B and B, and they’re gearing up for coloring season.

“When tourists come to get their foliage fix,” she quips with a sneer. “You know, all those leafy things out there start flamin’ like Liberace.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know it was an actual tourist season.” We look out the window, and I can imagine the trees in the square bursting with reds and oranges and yellows.

“Hey, look!” Bailey points to Duffy, J.D., and Holden racing across the park like they’ve escaped from juvie. Duffy is wearing a red, green, and yellow Rastafarian hat that bounces like a jellyfish as he runs. J.D. is what people call a corn-fed linebacker with a ruddy face and a gap in his front teeth. He is wearing a T-shirt that says,
FAT KIDS ARE HARDER TO KIDNAP
. He is falling into Holden, who is slipping on the grass because he is
wearing impractical cowboy boots.

Bailey waves frantically to gain their attention and then flips them off with twin towers. All three mirror her back, laughing and tripping and diving behind trees. Across the park, Mayor Jones patrols the square with an umbrella and eagle eyes. Duffy and the guys make a run for it, scampering to the safety of the Sugar Shack.

“No cowboy hat?” I ask about Duffy.

Bailey laughs. “Hell no. He only wears that when he’s cross-dressing.”

“You shouldn’t do that, you know?” Rachel says evenly.

Bailey and I say, “What?” together.

“Say h-e-l-l and flip people off around
here
.” Her serious tone garners our attention. Rachel is the soft side to Bailey’s hard edge and I wonder how such opposites could be friends. Actually, that’s probably
why
they’re friends.

Our floats arrive but Rachel waits until we’re alone before continuing. She explains that we’re sitting on holy ground because the library on the corner was originally the founding church of Haven Hurst. The park out the window was a cemetery.

“They moved the bodies to a new cemetery outside of town, a plot next to Hardgrave mansion. But this is still holy ground, right, Sophia?” They look at me like I have God in my top five.

“I dunno,” I murmur against the fat soda straw.

“Lose your faith after your mom died?” Bailey asks, and I choke root beer up my nose. “Sorry,” she says, dipping the Twizzler into her float and slurping it. “It happens … what can you do?”

I consider her philosophy. Yeah, okay, sometimes it feels like I’m dragging my faith behind me like a spoiled two-year-old begging for attention. When your mom dies unexpectedly at thirty-six, everything solid in your life turns squishy.

“People know about my mom?”

“Small town,” Bailey says by way of explanation.

Rachel pats my arm. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine.”

“That’s ’cause you like your parental units,” Bailey replies in a tone that speaks volumes. “So, what happened, exactly?”

Here we go, the inevitable question to be answered. In two years and too many schools to number, I’ve never outmaneuvered the curiosity.

So I inhale and let it out in a rush just to get it over with. “My mom got depressed and checked herself into a psych ward and two weeks later she had a stroke and died.” I catch my breath and wait for a reaction but there isn’t one. Just an awkward silence, so I sink into myself and chew on the straw.

Finally, the sympathetic smiles appear, but that’s not what I’m waiting for. How about a sign of skepticism or a comment like,
Jeez, what are the odds of that happening?
I’ll take anything close to my own suspicions because I had found it all a bit too coincidental—Mom getting depressed for unknown reasons and Dad taking her to the hospital without telling me. He didn’t even let me say good-bye. And then two weeks later he tells me she’s dead.

We work on our floats in relative silence and I have time to reconsider Dad’s diagnosis of me. I
am
suspicious by nature.

I contemplate telling them about hearing Mom in my head but I decide to detour around the “schizoid new girl” label. And the thought of describing the devilish laughter isn’t even up for debate.

“So,” Rachel perks up, changing the subject. “Tell us about your last boyfriend!”

Uh-oh. I grimace.

“Loser?” Bailey asks. I nod, and she says, “Details, please.”

“Well, he was really possessive, you know? I couldn’t go anywhere without him knowing. Then when I started talking about breaking it off, we got into this huge fight and …” I have roused my headache like a sleeping monster buried under blood and gray matter. It’s always the same when I think about Psycho Steve.

Lately, I’ve been toying with the idea of sharing this part of myself. I became a loner after Mom died, and loners don’t divvy out personal stuff, especially stuff of this nature. Truthfully, I’ve been afraid of what people will think. And I’m tired of being afraid. It’s hard work and exhausting. I was terrified when I thought I’d given myself away to Michael, and yet later I almost felt relief. If I am going to start fresh here, I need friends who know the real me. If they judge, maybe they aren’t the kind of friends I need.

Bailey is leaning forward, encouraging me to say what’s on the tip of my tongue, so I throw caution to the wind and mumble, “He hit me, twice.”

It’s the first time I’ve spoken this aloud and it curls my stomach. Fighting the urge to flee, I stare at my therapy group with their floats and Twizzlers, not knowing what to expect.

“Bass-tid,” Bailey hisses, her eyes narrowing to slits. Rachel nearly pulls a muscle from vigorously nodding in agreement. Their reaction tempts me to explain about the scar-that-isn’t, but how do you say something like that?
Uh, you may have noticed I had this terrible cut across my eye that required ten stitches and left an ugly scar, oops, just kidding. It’s gone
.

I want to unleash all my secrets, tell them what happened after he hit me: how he came after me a third time, how my vision began to swirl and I felt myself slipping out of
my body, how I blinked and was instantly looking through someone else’s eyes, how Mom’s voice yelled “Go for the knife” and I did. I grabbed the paring knife from the counter and threw it at Steve with freakish accuracy. I knew it wasn’t me but someone with the agility of a trained warrior. Someone who used my left hand when I’m right-handed. I want to tell them how Sundance attacked Steve at the same moment, how the knife hit the wall where Steve’s head had been, how I’d almost killed Steve, how I’d
wanted
to kill him, how I’ve been haunted by that night ever since, how I fear he’ll come after me again. And how I fear what I might do.

It’s too much to dump on strangers, so I swallow it down and let it dissolve deep inside me. The coward in me wants to forget it; the survivor in me wants to know how the hell I did it. The coward is winning; I haven’t touched a knife since.

“Hey!” Bailey clutches my hand, her eyes full of excitement. “I have an idea. Let’s put a hex on—what’s his name?” I tell her, and she says, “Let’s put a hex on Steve.”

The idea drifts through my mind like black smoke. I thought I’d put a lock on that door but …

Rachel withdraws with a frown so Bailey pounces. “Come on, Rach!
He hit her, for God’s sake!
”

“I know! I know!” she whispers, glancing around. “But I don’t like that kind of stuff. Besides, I don’t believe you can actually curse someone.”

“Good, then you can’t have a problem with something you don’t believe in, right?” Bailey grins, proud of her warped philosophy. “I’ll set everything up and let you know when. Trust me, Soph, we’ll get even for you.”

We raise our floats and clink, and Bailey says, “Here’s to Steve the Bass-tid! May we curse his soul till the worms suck him dry!”

Chapter 10

Michael

Michael pushed the bedroom door open and peered inside. Raph was down on one knee with one hand resting on the bed and his head bowed in meditation. Retrieving a soul so close to the edge had left Raph weak and shaky. Even at the day’s end, his breathing was labored. Michael started to withdraw and give him more time to rebalance his energy but Raph glanced over his shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” He climbed to his feet and then gently collapsed onto the soft mattress. Michael moved into the room.

“Just making sure you’re okay.”

Raph stared at the ceiling and worked to steady his breathing. His eyes were glassy and dilated, and his voice was heavy with concern. “We weren’t … going to lose him, were we, Michael?” He looked at his brother.

It was always the same with Raph. All cockiness aside, Michael’s brother shared his fear of losing a Forgiven soul.

“No, Raph,” Michael said gently. “We weren’t going to lose Casey.”

“But it took so long. He was so far gone. I almost couldn’t—”

“But you did.”

“I felt you helping again,” Raph mumbled, embarrassed. “I still can’t focus all my energy.”

“It will come. Have faith. You’re young.”

“You were better when you began saving souls.” Raph hoped Michael would argue but he just shrugged.

“Yeah, well, you know we’re all different. Besides, it’ll get easier the older you get, the more souls you save.”

“That’s what they tell me.” Raph sighed and relaxed. But his calm mood vanished the moment Gabe walked in.

Gabe was frowning and tense as though he was holding something in. He carried a high velocity of negative emotions that his brothers picked up. Gabe and Michael stared at each other without speaking.

“Something’s wrong,” Raph assessed and no one disagreed. He pushed himself up
on his elbows and eyed them closely. The moment stretched beyond his patience. “Hey, somebody’s mouth better start moving or—”

“That girl!” Gabe exploded and then dropped onto the bed at Raph’s feet.

“Who?”

“Sophia St. James. I think she saw—”

“She doesn’t know what she saw!” Michael jumped in, irritated. He turned on his heel and started pacing. He couldn’t be sure what Sophia had seen and he had spoken on reflex, on hope. He had heard her gasp when Casey came back to life. He had seen her shocked expression. No one else had suspected anything, thanks to Gabe and Milvi, but Sophia had. Yeah, she probably saw what happened. That didn’t mean she
knew
what happened.

“We should’ve been more careful,” Gabe ruminated thoughtfully.

“Hey!” Raph snapped. “I was a little
busy
. You guys are supposed to have my back. What happened?”

“Nothing!” Gabe yelled. “I was radiating a shield against everyone’s view like always. Milvi was even there to—”

“Then how did Sophia get so close?” Michael demanded.

Gabe jumped to his feet. “I don’t know! She was just there! I couldn’t …” He stumbled on his words and glanced at each brother. His pale cheeks flushed with embarrassment; he knew he had to confess. “I can’t … sense her presence like I can the others.” His admission was heavy with the weight of his failure, and he stared guiltily at his shoes.

Because there had never been an undetectable aura, it seemed logical that Gabe’s own weakness was to blame. After all, he was only sixteen, barely old enough to disseminate the emotions he
could
detect. He had analyzed and dissected the situation from every angle with the same result: He had not sensed Sophia’s presence soon enough to shield her from their work.

The room fell quiet but for rain thumping on the roof and wind throwing the shutters against the house. The late season storm was in full swing and showed no sign of letting up. The boys stared at one another, each considering the improbability of Gabe’s statement.

Raph’s expression gradually worked into a look of shame similar to his younger brother’s. His mouth quirked sideways as he chewed on his own confession.

“It helps to look directly into her eyes,” he blurted out and then fell onto his pillow in humiliation.

“Information I could have used
earlier
!” Gabe barked.

“Like I said, I was a little
busy
!” Raph grabbed a basketball and spun it furiously on his finger.

Michael stared at them, bewildered. “What are you guys saying? Neither of you can sense Sophia’s aura?” He couldn’t believe it. Sophia had the strongest, most active, most colorful aura he’d ever encountered. He could find her exact location in Yankee Stadium on opening day in less than two seconds. How was it possible they couldn’t sense her?

He ran a hand through his hair and resumed pacing. Things had gotten more complicated.

“Well?” Gabe said, watching Michael wear a path across the hardwood floor. “Can
you
sense her emotions?”

“Yeah.”

“Without looking directly into her eyes?” Raph challenged.

Michael nodded, wondering why he was flooded with a bizarre sense of pride. He wanted to tell them how overpowering her emotions were, how he could sense the slightest shift in her heartbeat, or spike in her adrenaline. He wanted to explain the second heartbeat that sprang inside his chest whenever she was near. Her smile was warm water rushing over his skin and her aura eclipsed all others in the room. Even now he felt a gathering of emotions just thinking about her.

“Do you still experience that sharp pain around her?” Gabe asked, cutting into Michael’s stream of inappropriate thoughts.

“Yeah.” Michael shrugged like it was meaningless. The pain was one thing; the second heartbeat was something entirely different.