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Zach Wiche set down the last box, shoved sweaty hair off his forehead, and stumbled over to the couch, landing face down.
“Done.”
After weeks of arguing, he finally got Mom on his side. Sort of. Today he moved what few belongings he had into his own apartment—plus a truckload of new “necessities” from Mom and Marcus.
The amount of stuff they’d bought embarrassed him, but he was also glad he wouldn’t be living in a nearly empty place, eating over the sink, his mattress on the floor.
He was ready to be on his own—and he really had no choice.
Not with a ghost who popped in whenever, claiming he couldn’t control it.
“Nice place.”
Speak of the devil.
Zach was too wiped to do more than open his eyes. Simon was crouched next to him, and he smiled when Zach met his eyes. Simon Asher—former military, former cop, priest, now dead. And a huge pain in his—neck.
“I can swear out loud now, if I want,” he muttered.
“A man can do anything he wants in his cave.” Those clear green eyes studied him, waiting. Zach couldn’t get over that Simon didn’t look like a ghost. The one time they had touched was a constant reminder; it hurt like the devil, lighting up his tattoo brighter than a neon sign. “What did you want, Zach?”
“Nothing.” Zach frowned at him. “What are you talking about?”
“You called for me.”
Zach pushed himself up. “I did not.”
“I wouldn’t be here if you—”
“I just finished moving, and I’m resting on my new couch, trying to enjoy it. I wasn’t even thinking... oh.”
Simon crossed his arms. “Yeah. Oh.”
Zach swallowed. “Please don’t tell me even thinking about you is enough to have you show up. That could get awkward.”
“Tell me about it.” With a sigh, Simon rubbed his face and lowered himself to the carpet. For a dead guy, he sure looked tired. “If we can figure out why I’m attached to you, maybe I’ll—unattach.”
“You mean—cross over?” Panic Zach didn’t expect shot through him. “I don’t—I mean, maybe you’re not supposed to, um... what?” Simon’s smile widened with every word.
“You’d miss me.”
“Duh.”
Laughing, Simon reached out—and remembered, just before he touched Zach. Pain flared in his eyes. "I'd miss you, too. I think."
“You think?” Zach raised his eyebrows. “Last I checked, you're the priest in the room.”
“Former priest. I'm just as clueless about what happens after.”
“What about when you're not—here?”
“Nothing.” Simon closed his eyes. “I don't remember a damn thing. I just know every time you drag me here it drains me a little more.”
“Wait—I drag you here? I had nothing to do with you coming back. You just showed up.”
“Because of you.” Simon got to his feet. “And I'm really sorry about this, Zach.”
Dread shot through him. “No. Simon, don't—” He pushed off the couch and sprinted for the door. Simon appeared in front of him, blocking his escape. “God—” He skidded across the tile entry, trying to stop himself.
“Zach—”
“No—please don’t say—”
“I need you to find out why I'm here.”
Zach doubled, dropping to his knees, the need to find clawing his gut. “Simon—”
He crouched next to Zach. “I'm sorry, son, but this is the fastest—”
“Touch me,” Zach whispered.
“What?”
“Pain—clear my head.” He’d found that out the hard way, when a nutball stabbed him. “Touch—God—” The claws in his gut became white-hot. “Simon—”
Hands closed over his arm. A different kind of heat burned him.
He fought to catch his breath, focused on the external pain radiating down his arms, etching across his tattoo. After endless minutes, the need to seek eased, enough for him to see straight.
“You can—let go now.”
Simon did, and paced Zach as he inched up the wall, finally standing.
“I'm sorry.” Simon ran one hand through his hair. “I figured the reason would—”
“What—magically pop out of my mouth?” Simon looked upset, so Zach backed off. “I want to know why as much as you—but me hunched over in pain isn't the way. We'll figure this out. Just—promise me you won't use the F word again.”
The regret on Simon's face eased. “Deal. How did you know the pain would pull you out of—seeker mode?”
“The same thing happened when James stabbed me.” Zach met Simon's eyes, swallowed. “Did it—hurt? When you—”
“Died? No.” Simon moved to the window; the afternoon sun highlighted him, filtered through him. “Damn.” Simon looked down at his hands. “Get the answers to why the hell I'm here. I can't be stuck like this, unable to talk to anyone, unable to touch—” Zach could see the wall through him. “Put me to rest, Zach.”
He disappeared, leaving the apartment ice cold. Zach leaned against the wall, his tattoo still glowing. “I will, Simon. For both of us.”