Time passed in fits and starts.
Dee barely noticed; she moved through the world in a daze. The only part of her that felt real was the too-loud thumping in her chest. The rest of her body felt numb, as if she’d been held under cold water too long.
The weeks leading up to finals were a blur. She had a few recollections of that time—mostly of Riley determinedly quizzing her on history dates and English authors. “You saved my life,” she had said, her mouth set in a grim line. “And I am not going to let you flunk out of your ritzy-ass boarding school.” And then she shoved another textbook in Dee’s hands and began making flash cards.
As luck would have it, she did not fail any of her finals. She sleepwalked through essay answers and gave an oral presentation without a single memory of how it went, but apparently Riley had done her work well, because Dee found herself packing up at the end of the year with the knowledge that she hadn’t flunked out.
She wasn’t eating much. Anything she put in her mouth was about as appetizing as raw clay. Going to the dining hall felt like an enormous undertaking. Gremma tried to feed her.
The first morning, Gremma brought a bagel and cream cheese.
It didn’t happen again.
Then Gremma began bringing her soft food—oatmeal and cubed melon pieces, as if grief were some sort of illness. She also took to carrying around little boxes of cereal in her bag, and passing them to Dee at intervals throughout the day.
Riley was still living at the loft apartment. She said she had received paperwork saying that the lease had been put in her name several weeks ago—and it had been paid for two years.
Dee couldn’t be sure, because phone conversations were fuzzy like that, but she thought Riley might have been crying when she said it.
James, thought Dee, and a fresh wave of misery swept through her. He had done his work well, ensuring that Riley would have a place to stay for as long as she needed it. And of course it was just like him to do it without telling anyone—the underhanded bastard.
She snorted out a laugh that dissolved into a sob.
There was no funeral.
According to the Internet, James simply vanished. There was no body to be found anyway. It had been exploded.
Imploded, came Cal’s wry voice. Another ghost living in her brain.
Luckily for Dee, no one had known James well enough to identify his friends. No police came knocking at anyone’s door, and there was no great fuss over his disappearance. Most people thought he’d gone the way of a tortured artist and thrown himself off a bridge.
She barely remembered the chaos of moving out of the dorm, of placing her belongings in boxes and taping them shut. But then she was handing over her dorm key, signing out her name, and striding to the Camaro.
She settled in the backseat, numb and silent, as Gremma revved the engine. “Newport,” she said, “here we come.”
The Newport beach house was situated… well, along the beach. It was two stories, decorated with what Gremma referred to as “vacation house tacky chic.” There were too many seashells and a miniature buoy in the bathroom, and it was designed so all the windows could be opened. A porch led out to the beach; there was a wooden picnic table, several chairs, and a fire pit.
Dee could see how easily this place might become Gremma’s party den—the roof was just sloped enough to sit on comfortably, and there was a fully stocked liquor cabinet in the basement.
Dee took the smaller, upstairs bedroom while Gremma and Riley claimed the master. There was a moment of awkwardness when Dee walked up the stairs; she felt clumsy, out of place, a hanger-on to their romantic summer getaway.
Slowly, though, Dee began to come back to herself. She helped make meals, walked with Riley and Gremma to the local arcade, watched as Gremma played first-person shooter games and tried to win a giant stuffed bear. They made meals together, cobbled together stir-fries and even tried making homemade pizza once.
Gremma’s parents called and informed them they would be visiting at some point. “To check up on me,” said Gremma. “But whatever. They’re cool, we’re cool. And besides, they’ll want to meet the girlfriend.”
Riley had flushed, but looked unmistakably pleased.
If Dee were being honest with herself, it was painful being with the two of them. Riley and Gremma were affectionate, comfortable around each other, and Dee’s chest ached every time she saw them kiss or hold hands.
The days dragged on, until one morning when Gremma was making scrambled eggs.
A loud knocking came at the front door.
“If it’s the neighbor boys asking to borrow a cup of vodka, tell them we’re out,” called Gremma.
There were other vacationers, of course. Notably, a house of college boys who seemed to show up every time Gremma wore a bikini to the beach.
Dee pulled the front door open and blinked.
It wasn’t a college boy.
It was a middle-aged man. Dressed in a suit.
Not a demon. There were lines around his eyes and gray in his hair. Definitely human.
Her heart began to pound. Lawyer, she thought. Undercover cop. Someone hired by her parents, someone to drag her home. But, no. She would not go, she wouldn’t—
“I’m looking for a Deirdre Moreno,” said the man.
Dee felt herself begin to tremble. “Who’s asking?”
The man smiled, not unkindly. “I’m a private investigator. I was hired a few months ago to deliver something to you—on this date, actually. I was supposed to find you and make sure you got this.”
He looked down and nudged a box with his foot. She hadn’t noticed it before, so focused was she on his suit and official demeanor. “Why?” she asked. “And by who?”
The man shrugged. “I’m just the messenger.” And then he was walking away, toward a car parked on the curb. Dee lingered in the doorway, eyeing the box with suspicion until Riley appeared behind her.
“Postman?” she asked.
“Private investigator,” replied Dee. “And a mysterious package.”
Riley tilted her head. Then she reached down and rattled the box. “Well, it’s not a bomb.”
“You can tell that from the noise?” Dee snorted.
Riley grinned up at her. “Actually, I could tell because it didn’t just explode.” Then she hefted the box into her arms and carried it into the dining room. “Yo, Gremma! Some man just delivered a mysterious package to Dee!”
“Cool.” Gremma came out of the kitchen, still wearing an apron that read KISS THE COOK.
“We should—” Dee began to say, but Gremma already had a very large kitchen knife in one hand. Once the box was open, Gremma dug into it and came out with a folder; Riley grunted and pulled out a boxed set of books; Dee found a slim manila envelope. She opened it and her fingers closed on the edge of a sheet of paper. It was expensive, thick, the kind used by artists, and her stomach fluttered. She knew this paper, had seen it in his hands many times.
She pulled a painting from the envelope.
It wasn’t large—perhaps the size of a normal, printed sheet of paper. But the style was different than she had ever seen. It was in watercolor, a medium Dee had never seen James use. It was lighter, more ephemeral, the brushstrokes were messier. It looked clumsier than James’s other paintings, but it was still beautiful.
The painting was of a girl. A girl with frizzy dark hair and brown skin. She was wearing a shirt with a private school pin, and she gazed out from the painting with steady, serious eyes.
Beneath the painting were two lines of cramped, familiar handwriting.
“Girl in Hospital Basement”
And beneath that, This is how I would have painted you if I hadn’t sold my heart.
Dee carefully set the painting down on the table and looked to Riley. Her throat was aching, too full, and she barely managed to say, “What are you holding?”
Riley was looking down at her own discovery in confusion. “A complete set of the Harry Potter books,” she said. “No idea why, though. I mean, who hasn’t read these?”
A laugh escaped Dee. She closed her eyes for a moment, drew herself together.
There was a knitted heart resting at the bottom of the box. It was worn, one edge knotted together. Dee forced herself to touch it, to stroke the soft yarn.
“What’d you find, Gremma?” asked Dee, if only to distract herself.
Gremma had a dark, semitransparent plastic sheet in her hand. She was holding it up to the light. “It’s a CT scan,” she said, squinting at it.
Well, that wasn’t what Dee had expected. She walked around the table, trying to get a better look. “Why would there be a CT scan?”
Gremma’s eyes flicked over the sheet. “Listen, I’m not an expert, but I think… well. It’s a brain tumor,” she said.
Dee felt the breath freeze in her lungs.
Gremma frowned. “I’ve seen stuff like this before in some of my medical textbooks.” She tilted the scan. “Notes on the bottom say it’s malignant.” Her mouth scrunched up in thought. “Based on my limited medical knowledge, I’d say this person would only have four to six months left.”
Dee looked down at the scan. Lancer, James.
Her gaze fell to the small painting, the one of herself. James had gotten two things out of the demon’s deal: art skill and a body frozen in the moment that his heart was taken.
She felt the words as they left her mouth. “Two years, actually.”