20

“OKAY,” I SAY SLOWLY as Ethan pulls his car into Aimée’s driveway, “if this is going to work, you should probably leave out the part where you can see me.”

“You want me to lie?” Ethan takes the keys from the ignition and rotates in his seat to give me the same judgmental look he’s been giving me since yesterday.

I lower my voice. “No. But I think this will be a lot easier for her if she doesn’t have to deal with believing in a ghost she can’t see. I mean, you had a hard enough time with it and we can touch each other.”

Early-morning sunlight catches the shimmery glints dancing off my hands, temporarily softening his expression. He lifts his hand like he’s going to brush my hair away from my face, but instead he switches off the radio.

“Fine. I’ll play puppet then. Whatever you say, I’ll repeat—or translate.” His tone lets me know he’s still angry, but then, with a small smile, he reaches across the passenger seat to push open the door for me like he always does.

I can’t keep up with him. One minute he’s so mad about Caleb that he can’t look at me and the next he’s opening doors for me. I motion toward the door handle, and he stops.

“I’m guessing it’s going to come off as strange if you open the door and no one steps out.”

He shakes his head. “Habit. Sorry.”

I shrug, playing it off like this happens every day. “I don’t need it opened anyway.” I swing my feet toward the door, place them on the cobblestones on the other side, and stand.

“Right,” he says hesitantly. He opens the driver’s-side door and steps out.

I begin to apologize for the confusion with the door, but he’s halfway through his next sentence. He gestures for me to continue, but I gesture back, insisting he finish first. “I was going to ask you not to do stuff like that when we get inside.”

“S-sure,” I stammer, holding my hands up. “No more going through doors—or walls—no freaky ghost stuff of any kind.” He gives me this inexplicable look that makes me feel totally self-conscious. I hate how awkward we are now, stepping on each other’s words, not knowing the right thing to say. It makes it seem like every intimate moment we’ve shared never happened.

Aimée’s sister, Bridgette, opens the front door with a toothbrush in her mouth. She wipes her face with the back of her hand, surprised. “Ethan? What are you doing here?”

A slight blush colors Ethan’s cheeks. “Sorry, I know it’s early.”

Mrs. Coutier looks up from the newspaper she’s reading and pushes off a stool at the marble kitchen counter. She straightens her dark hair as she hurriedly swallows the bite of croissant she took before she saw us—er, Ethan. “Oh, Ethan, never mind what time it is. You are always welcome in our home.” Mrs. Coutier nudges Bridgette, who nods sheepishly and ducks into the hall bathroom. Mrs. Coutier places a gentle hand on Ethan’s shoulder. “How are you holding up, dear?”

Ethan hesitates, staring at me. After a long minute, Mrs. Coutier pulls her hand back, folding and unfolding her arms nervously.

“Say something to her, Ethan,” I whisper, even though she can’t hear me. He looks at me expectantly. I purse my lips. “You’re taking this translator thing a bit too literally, don’t you think?” He doesn’t budge. I heave a sigh. I asked for this, right? “Tell her you tried calling Aimée earlier, but her cell went straight to voice mail.”

Ethan repeats what I said, word for word, only switching the “you” for “I.”

“Real mature, Ethan.” He opens his mouth, and I quickly add, “Don’t say that to her!” He snaps his mouth shut, waiting for his next line. “Tell her you hope it’s okay that you stopped by because you really need to talk to Aimée.” He does. Word for word. Again.

“Of course.” Mrs. Coutier looks relieved. “Maybe you two can comfort each other.” She pauses. “Aimée’s in the playroom. Go on up.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Coutier.” He came up with that one on his own.

I follow him up the back staircase and wait by his side as he knocks on the door. After a few seconds he knocks again. “Maybe she’s still asleep,” he whispers.

“Aimée? No way, she shares an alarm clock with the sun. Let me go inside and check.”

“Wait—” Ethan grabs for my arm, but I’m already halfway through the door. “So much for no freaky ghost stuff,” I hear him mutter on the other side.

“Oops,” I say halfheartedly. He deserves a little jolt after what he pulled downstairs. My amused expression fades when I see Aimée sitting in the window seat, bent over that yellow note she found in her bag.

“Knock again,” I tell Ethan. He does, but Aimeé doesn’t even look up. She simply keeps reading the note over and over in a soft murmur: “It’s easy to jump when you get a push.”

Ethan knocks a third time. “Just come in,” I call to him.

He slowly pushes open the door. “Aimée? It’s Ethan. Can I come in?”

Aimée quickly refolds the note and stashes it under a throw pillow when she sees him.

“Tell her you called and you need to talk to her about me,” I instruct before he can ask what to say.

Ethan slides his hands into his jeans pockets as he walks toward her. “Sorry I didn’t call you back.”

I snap my head to look at him. “When did she call you?”

Ethan ignores me, eyeing the corner of yellow paper poking out from under the pillow behind Aimée. “I thought talking in person might be better. I know it’s early, but I wanted to catch you before you left for school.”

“I was up,” she says, looking exhausted. “How did you know I was back at school?”

“Why didn’t you tell me she called you?” I interrupt.

“Um.” He sneaks a look at me before answering Aimée. “I guess I heard you went back.”

Neither of them says anything for a long time. I’m sure Ethan’s waiting for me to feed him his next line, but I’m a little pissed he didn’t tell me about Aimée’s call. “You should find out why she called you,” I finally say, hoping to satisfy my own curiosity.

He says, “You know Cassidy wasn’t alone on the bridge, right?”

Aimée narrows her eyes at him. “How do you know that?”

“I met her there.”

Aimée studies him, sussing out why he’d admit this to her. She glances over her shoulder at the pillow that’s covering the note. “Did you tell the police that?”

“Of course.”

Aimée waves her hand at him. “Sorry. That came out…” Her voice trails off with a sigh.

“It’s okay. I get why you’d ask.”

“So why don’t the police suspect you?” Aimée says, then backpedals. “Sorry.”

“You better give her your alibi before she turns you in,” I tell Ethan.

“It’s okay,” he says again, and this time I’m pretty sure it’s directed at me. “Once the cops read that note, suicide was pretty much the only option they considered. Plus, my dad vouched for me that I was home by 11:45. And Mica saw me leave before she died.” We both flinch when he says “died.”

Aimée nods. “Mica told me you left.”

“Aimée’s finally warming up to Mica. They’ve been quite friendly at school,” I fill Ethan in.

“That’s not a good idea.”

Aimée tilts her head to one side at his odd response. “What’s not a good idea?”

I can tell Ethan is straining not to look at me. He says to Aimée, “Hanging out with Mica. He’s not—he only wants what he can’t have. As soon as he snares you, he’ll turn his back on you. That’s just how he is with girls.”

Aimée’s expression shifts. “I know how he is, Ethan, and I’m a big girl. Trust me. I don’t want a guy complicating my life right now.”

“He can be very persuasive.”

“I’m not easily convinced.” Aimée pauses. “Harsh analysis of your best friend, don’t you think?”

It takes Ethan a second to swallow whatever it is he wants to say but won’t. And I’m no help with lines because I’m trying to figure out why his friendship with Mica is in shambles. “Guess I know him too well.”

Aimée’s upper lip stiffens. “You’re going to have to give me more than that if you want me to stop hanging out with the only person at school who doesn’t give me sympathy eyes.”

“Okay—” Ethan says.

Aimée interrupts him by pointing at his “sympathy eyes.”

He blinks. “Mica was on the bridge with Cassi.”

“So were you,” Aimée shoots back. Then she asks, “Were you the last person to see her alive?”

Ethan waits for me to give him the answer that he must know by now I don’t have. He shakes his head. After a silent minute, he says, “You don’t believe me?”

“How do you know you weren’t?”

“Because she told—I left her with Mica.” He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, jaw tight.

“What?” I ask, stepping in front of him so he can’t avoid my question. “Tell her why he was there. I want to know!”

“Why don’t you trust him anymore?” Aimée asks, saving him from having to answer me—but her question is just as loaded.

Ethan responds slowly, “You and I both know she didn’t take her own life, and he was there.”

“That doesn’t prove anything. He could have left after you were gone. It was a party, Ethan,” Aimée reasons, “and Mica enjoys a good drunken walkabout. You know that. Last year you had to pick him up at 7-Eleven after homecoming. Besides, he was with Drew when it happened. There are more logical suspects than your best friend.”

“Sounds like you’ve been convinced.”

Aimée narrows her eyes at him. “You were the last person I saw with her. Why should I believe you?”

Ethan’s voice hardens. “Do you honestly think I’d be here if I was guilty?”

Aimée doesn’t answer.

“Don’t challenge her, Ethan,” I warn. “It’ll make her suspect you more.”

“I want to help, okay?” he tells her. “And you’re right, there are other suspects.”

“Someone else was there too?” It sounds more like a statement than a question. “Was it Caleb Turner?” Aimée asks.

Ethan’s eyes widen. “Good guess,” he says.

Snow falls onto my hands, sending a chill up my arms. As if he senses me fading away, Ethan shifts his stance so our arms touch. His warmth spreads through me, drying the snow.

“What happened when you found her with him?” The way she asks makes Ethan—and me—aware that she knows there was something going on between Caleb and me.

Ethan risks a glance in my direction. “I didn’t push her.”

“I didn’t say you did. Guilty conscience?” she says, and Ethan grimaces. “I know you two fought at the party and that’s why you left early.”

“That doesn’t mean…” Ethan’s voice wavers. “I left before she fell, but you were there. It happened at your house—”

“I wasn’t on the bridge with her,” Aimée interrupts. “If I had been, she’d still be alive.” Her words hang in the air, sprouting between-the-lines meanings. She grips the pillow beside her so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

Ethan holds up his hands. “No one’s accusing anyone here. Right?”

Aimée stays quiet.

I put my hand on Ethan’s shoulder to stop him from saying anything else. “Give her a minute.”

Aimée straightens the elastic holding her side ponytail in place and clears her throat. “Are we really going to do this?”

“Do what?”

“Team up to figure out how our girlfriend died?” Aimée has been referring to me as her girlfriend since middle school when we set the class record for being each other’s consecutive dance dates. She used to tease Ethan that I’d been her girlfriend longer than his.

“You need to do this,” Ethan replies.

Aimée crosses her arms indignantly. “How do you figure?”

“You love Cassidy as much as I do, and I know that if I don’t do this for her I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.” He pauses. “You will too.”

Aimée flinches at his use of love instead of loved, but her expression relaxes. She takes a deep breath and reaches under the pillow beside her. “I found this in my bag after school on Tuesday.” She hands Ethan the star-shaped note.

He unfolds and reads it. “Who wrote this?”

“I think Caleb Turner did. I found another note in Cassidy’s locker,” Aimeé says.

Ethan glances at me as he hands the note back to her.

“Sorry about the third degree,” Aimeé goes on, “but I have to exhaust every possibility if I’m going to prove Caleb’s guilty. I showed the police both notes. They’re not going to be any help. According to them, Cassidy’s blood-alcohol level combined with her supposed suicide note makes ‘foul play unlikely.’” Aimée harrumphs. “They’re lazy dolts who don’t want to do their job. That’s why I went to school on Tuesday and Wednesday. I’m going to prove them wrong. If you want to help, you have to come back too. Today.”

Ethan thinks for a minute. “You’re convinced Caleb’s to blame?”

“Is there someone else you suspect?”

“It doesn’t make any sense that Caleb would give you that note to, what, brag? Turn himself in? Why not go straight to the police?”

Aimée thinks a minute. “I know he put the other note in Cassidy’s locker. I saw him there.”

“Did you tell Madison about the notes?”

“No. Why?”

“I think she has something to do with this.”

“And I think you’re not telling me everything you know, but what choice do we have? Everyone else is happy to sweep Cassidy’s death under the rug as a cautionary tale. We’re the only ones who want to find the truth. So are you coming to school with me or not?”

Ethan curls his hand around mine. “Will you be there?”

“Do you mean me?” I ask.

He tightens his grip, and I hope Aimée assumes he’s making a fist to fight back some emotion.

“Of course I’ll go with you,” I answer on top of Aimée’s yes.

Ethan squeezes my hand tighter and looks at Aimée. “I’m in.”