Shine (9 page)

I gaped at her. Out of all the people who could’ve held Zachary’s fate in her hands, it had to be one of Logan’s most fervent fangirls?

I had more important business with ex-Tammi than arguing about my relationship with her idol. I needed to know what she’d seen
at the airport between Zachary and Logan—and what she’d told the DMP. I needed to know how bad it could be for Zachary.

“We all loved Logan,” Megan said sweetly.

“Ooh, guess what?” Ex-Tammi beamed at her, then pointed to her own T-shirt. “I was in the front row Friday night. Logan touched my hand.” She gazed at her palm. “He looked into my eyes and told me to meet him—” She stopped, then scowled, realizing she literally couldn’t tell a lie. “No, he didn’t.”

“Did you see him after that?” I asked her.

Ex-Tammi’s mouth twisted, like she didn’t want to answer. But I’d asked a direct question, and she was too new at the ghost thing to realize she could simply say nothing.

“In the airport,” she said, “talking to Zachary, that Scottish guy from our school. By the way, I can’t believe you went with Zach after he hooked up with Becca Goldman on prom night. Logan never would’ve done that to you.”

My cheeks flared. “Zachary wasn’t my boyfriend at the time, and anyway, it’s none of your—”

“So, Tammi,” Megan broke in, “did you go to the police?”

“No, I told my best friend, Carla, when I haunted her. She told the police for the reward money. Then Carla tricked me into coming back to her house. That’s where the DMP tagged me.”

“Nice friend,” Megan said.

“Seriously. They told Carla they’d take back the reward money if she told anyone I’d seen those guys.”

So the DMP definitely didn’t want the public to know they were holding Zachary. Interesting.

“Have you told anyone else?” I asked her.

“No, I wouldn’t rat out Logan.” She watched her sneaker soundlessly scuff the carpet. “I shouldn’t have told Carla, but when she saw me as a ghost, she started crying. I wanted to tell her something happy. And I was sooooo excited to see Logan, like, in the wild. He’s incredible.”

“He sure was.” Megan sat beside her on the sofa. “So what exactly did Logan and Zachary do in the airport? Did they argue?”

“Not really. They seemed nervous, but basically cool with each other.”

I ached with envy to have seen Logan and Zachary together, forging a peace at last. But that would’ve been impossible, since Zachary and I couldn’t see the dead at the same time. One of us always wielded that ghost-repelling power.

Ex-Tammi examined her chipped black nail polish as she told the story. “My mom and I were eating in that bar-type restaurant, where it was dark enough to see ghosts. Logan came up to Zachary there, which totally weirded him out—Zach, I mean. Anyway, then after his parents went to the gate, he ditched them to go talk to Logan.”

“Where?” Megan asked.

“That was the weird thing. They went all the way back out into the main part of the airport, past the security line. So I had to stop following them.”

Apparently there was no private place to talk in the international terminal. It explained why no one could find Zachary in time for the flight. But it must’ve made him look even more suspicious to the authorities.

“Were they talking while you were following?” I asked her.

“Yeah, but they shut up when I got close. I guess they could tell I was a post-Shifter. And Logan didn’t recognize me.” Her pierced lower lip jutted out in a pout. “I wish I’d been like Zachary and made me and my mom miss the flight.”

“Aww, it must’ve been really scary,” Megan said.

Ex-Tammi hunched her shoulders, squeezing her hands between her knees. “All I remember is a huge noise, then it was really hot, and then nothing. I guess I was one of those people who got ripped apart.” She gave Megan a nervous glance. “I heard there’s not much of us to bury.”

Megan seemed like she was about to cry again, so I spoke up. “We’re really sorry you died, Tammi. And your mom.”

She ignored me and spoke to Megan. “Is my mother a ghost, too? No one I know has seen her.”

“She didn’t come when I called her,” Megan said gently. “About the funeral plans.”

Ex-Tammi looked relieved. “I hope she’s not a ghost. It sucks. Logan made it seem so fun.”

“It wasn’t always fun for him,” I said. “Most of the time he felt pretty bitter.”

“Then why did he stay for two hundred forty-seven days?”

It creeped me out that she knew
that
bit of Logan Keeley trivia. “He had unfinished business.”

“Yeah, like a girlfriend who didn’t appreciate how awesome he was.”

“I appreciated him,” I said in a steady voice. “I loved him.”

“
Loved.
I still love him. I’ll always love him.”

“You didn’t even know him.”

“Aura.” Megan tilted her head. “Remember Rule One?”

I gritted my teeth and cooled my temper. Rule One of being a rock star’s girlfriend: no catfights with groupies. It was beneath us, especially since Logan and Mickey weren’t the type to sleep around.

I changed the subject. “What about you, Tammi? Do you have unfinished business?”

“I thought I wanted to see my funeral. But I can’t watch my dad and sister cry anymore.”

Sympathy thawed my anger a little, and I wished this girl could find peace. But if ex-Tammi passed on, there’d be no witness to Logan and Zachary’s meeting. Would the DMP then let Zachary go, or would they test him themselves?

“I’m gonna turn off the summoner now,” Megan said. “So you can leave, go visit your friends or family, or whatever you want to do.”

Ex-Tammi seemed to be in deep-thought mode, peering inward more than outward.

“Thanks a ton, Tammi.” I hoped my words and lively tone would distract her from thoughts of passing on. “Have fun doing ghost stuff.”

She extended a slim middle finger in my direction. “Glad I finally got to tell you what I think of you. Bitch.”

“Hey, guess what?” Megan asked her before I could respond. “Ridgewood is having a memorial vigil for you after school starts. You should totally come.”

“Maybe. That’s a long time from now.” The dead girl pressed her
palms to her knees, elbows splayed. “Okay, I’m ready. Turn off the glowy thing.”

“Bye, Tammi.” Megan reached through the ghost and slid her thumb under the summoner. With a click, the device started to dim.

Ex-Tammi looked up suddenly. “You know what, I think I’m ready—” She disappeared.

“Ready to what?” I asked the empty space, my heart pounding. “Megan, can you call her back?”

She picked up the summoner. “Not without my dad noticing I used this. I might get in trouble as it is.”

“But what if she passes on? What would they do with Zachary?”

“Maybe it’d be a good thing,” Megan said. “They can’t prove Zach can see ghosts, right? No witness, no evidence.”

“Zachary
is
evidence. If they put him in a room with a ghost, and the ghost freaks—” I couldn’t finish the sentence. I could only imagine the DMP’s reaction: shock, then fear, and finally greed. They’d hook him up to machines for the rest of his life, trying to reproduce his power. They’d use him to make anti-ghost weapons.

“This isn’t gonna help,” Megan said, “but won’t they test Zachary whether they have a witness or not?”

“Probably.” I slapped the cushion where the ghost had sat. “But without Tammi, they’ll do it sooner. One day could make a huge difference.”

“True. I’m sure MI-X’ll get him out soon.”

I hadn’t told her Simon’s pessimistic estimate. I hadn’t told her about Simon, period. “If they don’t get him out, I will.”

“What are you gonna do, hold up DMP headquarters like that
crazy guy last month? They’d shoot you to death like they did him.”

“I can’t just do nothing!” I stomped over to the piles of funeral programs and picked up two sheets. “Look at all these holes in people’s lives. I don’t want to
mourn
Zachary, I want to save him.”

“I know, I know.” She dug in her bag, which was sitting on the floor. “Hey, I know this won’t help you in that department, but it might make you feel better.”

“What is it?”

“A new band: Frightened Rabbit.” She gave me a CD with a rough brown jacket. “They’re a little folky-indie for me, but they do say ‘fuck’ a lot.”

“What’s this got to do with Zachary?”

“They’re from Glasgow, so they sound like him. The accent. It’s not the same as hearing
his
voice, but—”

I cut her off, throwing my arms around her. No one, not even Zachary, got me the way Megan did.

She hugged me back. “It’s only a dumb CD.”

But it wasn’t. It might not help me save Zachary, but it was a lifeline, a way to connect to the person I loved most through the
thing
I loved most: music.

Maybe it would keep me sane long enough to save him.

I
woke to an aching Scottish voice and a tear-dampened pillow.

The Frightened Rabbit CD played beside my bed, left on repeat the night before. The music wasn’t morose—in fact, it was filled with hope and humor. But the singer’s inflection, so like Zachary’s, pierced my heart. The syllables rolled from the back of his throat and over his tongue, cracking with emotion. And the way he sang the word “love” like “luv,” made me feel like Zachary was here in my room, ready to take me in his arms.

The night had felt like one long dream, where I’d wandered in a fog, searching for Zachary, hearing his call, but never knowing which direction it came from.

Gina knocked, then spoke through my door. “I’ll be home for lunch, hon. Then you can drive me back to the office so you can have the car for errands.” That was our bargain—she’d give me one day off a
week, and I’d use half of it to get our groceries and dry cleaning.

I mumbled a thanks and flipped my pillow to the dry side, hoping to catch up on sleep. But I was haunted by the thought of ex-Tammi. Did she know she could hurt me, her imagined nemesis, by passing on right away? Had I accidentally given her peace by letting her vent her jealousy over Logan?

Outside, rain pattered on the porch roof. The sound of water made me notice my throat was parched. I’d cried so much last night I’d dehydrated myself.

I slumped down the stairs, passing a series of photos of my mother on the wall. One was taken a month before she died, holding me as a toddler in her lap. I wondered how often she had thought of my father in those last days.

I stopped so fast, I almost stumbled.

My father. Anthony. Gina had been in love with him. He’d been a friend of the family, a friend of my mother’s.

There must be pictures.

I didn’t hesitate. This was the first time I’d been alone in the house since I knew my father’s name.

My aunt’s bedroom wasn’t locked, even though she knew I occasionally snooped. If I hadn’t poked around in her closet last summer out of sheer boredom, I never would’ve found the box with my mother’s journal and photos from Ireland. I never would’ve studied Newgrange. I never would’ve tracked down Eowyn and learned about my parents.

The closet held nothing but clothes—Gina had gotten wise to me. I burrowed through her drawers, careful to replace each item the way I’d found it.

I went slowly, to cover my tracks, so it was almost ten o’clock by the time I swept aside the pale pink bed skirt.

Sweater boxes, sweater boxes, and more sweater boxes. No way Gina had this many sweaters.

The first two containers actually did contain sweaters. But the third slid out heavy and slow. I lifted the lid.

I’d never seen this scrapbook. Its pristine red leather cover held no label, dates, or decoration.

I frowned at the interior. The plastic photo sleeves left no spaces for notes and captions that could’ve identified my dad.

I pried the pages apart, skimming photos from Gina and her ex-husband Danny’s honeymoon on Capri. They looked so happy back then, before she met and fell in love with the man who would one day die in a car accident, haunt her and my mom, then become my father.

More pictures, from blurred-together family events—baptisms, weddings, graduations. I studied the group shots, scanning past uncles and cousins, hoping I would somehow
know
my father on sight.

Empty spaces appeared in the album pages, like missing puzzle pieces. I saw through the plastic sleeves to the white photo backs dated two years before my birth.

I turned the final page. A funeral program was tucked into the album’s back pocket.

In Loving Memory,

Anthony Pasquale Liberati

With shaky fingers, I opened the program. A photo dropped into my lap.

Gina and my mother stood on either side of a dark-haired man.
My grandmother was in the picture, too, on the other side of my mom.

They’d all known him. I never would. Those dark brown eyes would never watch me graduate high school or college, and those tanned arms would never encircle me on the dance floor at my wedding.