Father Alvarez sat there staring at me. Not a you’re a-nut-case-crazy kinda stare, but a real, thoughtful, caring kinda stare. Then he opened a desk drawer and rummaged around in it before pulling out a small white box embossed with a little gold cross.
“What’s that?” I asked, tilting my head toward the box.
“A gift.” He held it out for me, but I didn’t take it.
People I barely knew didn’t give me gifts. So, why was he? I looked up at him, just now realizing tears were sliding down my cheeks. “Do you think I’m crazy?”
He shook his head, his lips in a firm, unwavering line. “No. I don’t think you’re crazy at all. I think you’re suffering.” He opened the box and pulled out a silver crucifix on a blue beaded chain. “And when you’re suffering, the crucifix can give you spiritual strength and endurance.”
There was nothing spiritual about me. “I don’t even know if I believe in God, Father. So, I’m not sure how much good it’ll do me.” I couldn’t believe I was saying this to a priest, but I’d never been one to sugarcoat things. Not to anyone. At least I was being honest.
“God, our Creator and Lord, can be known with certainty, by the natural light of reason from created things. And He believes in you.” Father Alvarez placed the crucifix in my hand, curled my fingers around the cool metal, and then studied my face. “Believe me, this will help . . . I don’t know what you’re seeing. It may be from grief or it may be something else . . .” He frowned.
“Something else? Like what?” I pushed back the growing panic in my chest that was threatening to bust its way out. What if he really believed in spirits and the supernatural? Could he actually help me?
“You tell me.”
So, I told him about what we’d seen at church and about the Ouija board. Boy, did that make him scowl. “God commanded that mediums and all those who contact the dead and spirits should have no place among His people. Ouija boards aren’t toys, Kaitlyn. They’re very dangerous. You must be extremely careful.”
“It was Dylan’s idea. He figured if we could talk to them, ya know, find out why they’re still here, then maybe we could . . .” I shrugged. What exactly had we hoped to do if we’d had an actual conversation? Tell them to move on? And go where? Keisha was so mad, she could start a fight in an empty house. And Hunter. He just seemed lost and scared—not the Hunter I knew. I guess neither was Keisha. They’d both been changed by death somehow. Keisha raving and furious, Hunter sad and lonely. How could I tell them to leave when I had no idea what was wrong and I didn’t know where they were going?
“And you believe you saw them? Their spirits?” His brown eyes blazed with intensity, like he was trying to x-ray me with them.
“I know I did.” I might sound bat-ass crazy, but I wasn’t a liar.
He held his fingers together like a steeple and tapped them together, lips pursed. “Ouija boards can let in . . . other things. Bad things.”
“What kind of bad things? Spirits? Demons? Like in The Exorcist?” It was old, but Hunter had loved that film. I’d liked it too, but the book had freaked me out even more. Especially when the little girl had crawled down the stairs like some sort of human spider with her tongue licking in and out. So gross. I shivered.
The father gave me a hard stare, sort of like a teacher does when you know you’ve done something really stupid. “Please don’t use it again. You should tell Dylan to get rid of it. If—if strange things continue to happen, the Catholic Church has set up a hotline for those in need of exorcisms.”
“A hotline? For exorcisms?” My temperature rose at least ten degrees. Was he trying to make fun of me? “You’re joking, right?”
“I’m quite serious. In the past few years, the Church has doubled the number of priests approved to do exorcisms and founded the hotline to help. But more often than not, the problems are not demonic.”
Hair prickling on my scalp, I glared. “So you do think I’m just imagining things?”
He sat quietly for a moment, appearing to measure his words. “I believe you’ve been through a terrible tragedy, and in the process of coping, it is possible that your brain is making you think you’re seeing things.”
“What about Dylan? He’s seen them, too. We can’t both be imagining things!” Anger flared in my words, but I didn’t care. If anyone would believe all this, it was supposed to be a Catholic priest.
“Remember, God is the Lord of the heavens and of the earth. He will care for you in all things.” Father Alvarez squeezed my hand that held the crucifix. “It’s only been a few days. Give it time. I hope this will bring you comfort. And I hope you’ll need it for nothing more. Dios te bendiga. God bless you, hija.”
What a waste of time. I’d spent five hours breaking my butt on the cement in front of a church to be given a crucifix and sent on my way. Well, fine. If Father Alvarez wouldn’t help me, then Dylan would. He didn’t want to be haunted for the rest of his life any more than I did.
I sent Dylan a text and hoped he’d meet me at the corner of his street, which, thankfully, was a ten-minute walk from the church. It was only June but the sun blazed as hot as late July. For the first time, I was glad Hunter had made me put Dylan’s number in my phone. “What if there’s ever an emergency and you can’t reach me, babe?” Little did he know.
My phone buzzed. It was Dylan.
I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.
Of course he texted complete sentences. It was so Dylan.
Sweat trickled down between my shoulder blades as I rounded the corner to Dylan’s street. He was already there, huddled in the shade of a massive oak, wearing his usual khaki shorts, polo shirt, and boat shoes. He didn’t even like going on the river in his daddy’s boat, but he still wore those stupid shoes. What a dork. Still, as my only living friend, I was glad he was there.
“Hey.” He smiled as I walked up. A nervous, shaky smile. Dark circles hovered beneath his eyes. Maybe he’d had a long night, too.
“Hey.” I didn’t even bother trying to smile.
He nodded down the road toward his house. “Come on. I’ve got a plan, but I need to get my laptop.”
“Why didn’t you bring it with you?” I wasn’t thrilled to be going anywhere near Dylan’s ultra-beautiful house, let alone going inside. It’d only make me feel worse.
“Just come on and I’ll get you a bottle of water.”
Hot and too tired to argue, I trudged after Dylan. A cool drink and a few minutes in the A/C might be nice.
It took us nearly as long to cross the expanse that was Dylan’s front yard as it had for me to walk to his street from the church. He led me around the side of the house and I shook my head at its size. I’d seen Dylan’s house from the safety of Hunter’s truck before, but never this close. A two-story brick mansion with a swimming pool on a five-acre lot. I eyed the clear blue water of the palm tree–surrounded pool and wondered what my daddy and mama had done so wrong to end up in a piece of crap trailer when a jerk like Dylan’s daddy could end up in a gorgeous place like this. Our whole trailer would fit in that pool.
Dylan held the side door open for me. “Come on in,” he said. That was the thing about Dylan. I’d give him that. He didn’t act rich or arrogant, and he never cared that Hunter had grown up in a house half the size of his own. He was always friendly, even if he was sort of a nerd. I guess that’s part of what Keisha loved about him. He was kind. And despite his daddy, he didn’t seem to judge people.
He led me into a gourmet kitchen with granite counters like I’d seen on TV and pulled a couple bottles of water from the shiny chrome fridge. “Here.” He handed me one and cracked open the other for himself. Then he gestured to his laptop, which was charging on the kitchen counter. “I’ve started doing more research, but I’m not sure which databases to use. It looks like there’s a lot that hasn’t been scanned into the digital archives yet. We need to go to the library.”
“The library.” The words had barely escaped my mouth when a fat, balding, ugly older version of Dylan wearing a Hawaiian shirt strolled into the kitchen. His jaw dropped open when he saw me.
I’d seen Mr. Anderson at school before, but had never had to talk to him. So, I smiled and tried to be polite. “Hello, Mr. Anderson.”
Mr. Anderson looked me up and down, a scowl forming when he saw my faded Walmart T-shirt and the hunter-green canvas messenger bag slung around my shoulder. “What the hell is this?”
Dylan glared. “This is Kaitlyn. My friend.”
“The girl from the accident,” he nearly spat. “If you hadn’t been dating that—”
“Don’t even say it,” Dylan snapped, his pale cheeks flushing pink.
Mr. Anderson shrugged. “I don’t dump so much money in your college fund so you can date the town’s lowlife.”
I felt like I’d been slugged in the chest. I knew what folks thought about people who lived in trailer parks. I knew they whispered behind our backs and thought we were all losers or drug dealers or thieves. But I’d never had someone be so rude about it to my face. Not like this.
Dylan’s face reddened, but he didn’t say a word.
Mr. Anderson let out a humorless chuckle. “I let you get a taste of chocolate, sample something from the other side of the tracks. I paid for her funeral . . . It’s done. Over.” He gestured my way. “But don’t push it.”
Dylan’s eyes were on fire, but his mouth was closed tight.
Why didn’t Dylan stand up for Keisha or himself? Fury boiled my blood. Well, if he wouldn’t, I would. “You listen here—”
Mr. Anderson swung his piggy eyes to me. “No. You listen here, darlin’. I know your mama and I know your type. You need to stay away from my son and my money. That accident took care of one problem; you’re not about to be another. Dylan’ll be off to Boston for college in a year and will forget all about the likes of you.” He shook his head and glared at Dylan. “I’ll not have you trading in that black wild cat for this skinny piece of white trash.”
I lost it. If blood could boil over, mine did. I shoved Dylan’s daddy against the wall, my spit flying onto his face. “You’re the piece of white trash. You disgusting pig.” My words burned my tongue, but I didn’t care. “Calling a dead girl that. Keisha. That’s her name, Keisha. She was my friend and she loved your son.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass if she loved him or if he loved her. My son will not pollute our gene pool with the likes of her or you. Now get out of my house!” He loomed over me now, making me take a couple steps back.
Tears spilled down my cheeks and I was out of that house faster than a jackrabbit on crack. Calling me white trash was one thing—I wasn’t stupid, I knew white trash when I saw it, too, and yeah, living in a trailer park pretty much defined it. Not that a kid could help where their mama made them live. But Keisha? Calling her names just because she was black. That was just wrong. Plain wrong. Her blackness didn’t make her worth any less than him. It didn’t make her worth less than any of us. She’d always said she had it harder than me because she was black. But I’d never believed her because she wasn’t poor. Her daddy made a good living. She had two parents with two paychecks. I’d always argued that the color of her skin couldn’t possibly make her life harder than mine. Maybe it had been. Maybe I’d been wrong.
I clenched my teeth and stormed down the street, Hunter’s bag slapping me in the ass the entire way. White trash or not, I had a heart and a brain. Hunter knew it. He always told me I could be more than where I grew up. He’d always believed that—even when I didn’t. My mama was my mama, he always said. She chose her life. And I could choose mine. I was me, not her. I was going somewhere. I was going to be someone. I was someone. Not trash. And I wasn’t going to let some jerk with money talk like that about me or my friends.
I ran as fast as I could, snot and sweat and tears plastering hair to my face. A door slammed in the distance behind me and I heard Dylan calling my name, but I didn’t stop. Screw him. And screw his daddy. I didn’t need this crap. I’d deal with it on my own if I had to, but I wouldn’t abandon Keisha or Hunter.
Rounding the corner to the next street, I leaned over panting, tears and sweat making little muddy puddles on the ground by my toes. I didn’t want to go home, but where else could I go? I didn’t have a shift at work until next week. Father Alvarez had done as much as he was willing, which was nothing except spout dogma at me. Dylan said something about the library, but it would take me forever to walk there. There was no place else to go but home. Home with the ghosts. Crap. I was screwed.
The soft rumble of an engine made me look up. A silver Chevrolet Malibu idled by the roadside. Dylan’s car. Of course.
He rolled down his tinted window and a little belch of A/C hit me in the face. “Get in.”
“No way in hell I’m getting in that car with you after what your daddy just said. Do you think I’m crazy?” Ha. Maybe he did.
Dylan shoved open the passenger-side door and gestured for me to get in. “I’m sorry, Kaitlyn. I didn’t expect him to be like that. Not after everything that’s happened. Not with you.” He shrugged. “At least not to your face.”
“Why? Because I’m not black?” I spat.
He grabbed the steering wheel tight, his jaws clenched. I knew I was right.
“I guess being white trash is almost as bad,” I growled, then I turned around and started walking away from him.
Dylan opened the door. “Kaitlyn. Stop.” He stepped out of the car and walked over to face me. “I’m not like my father. Just like you’re not your mother.”
Ouch. That one hit near home, but I could still be pissed. Even if Dylan wasn’t like his daddy.
He put his hands on my shoulders, keeping me in place. “And I’m sorry for what he said to you. For what he said about Keisha. You know it’s not true. Not about you. Not about Keisha. None of it. He’s just a racist jerk.”
“A jerk?” I pulled away. He was more than a jerk. He was a redneck asshole who wore a suit during the week and got a big-ass paycheck, nothing more. “You didn’t even stand up for Keisha.” I was disgusted. Disgusted with Dylan. Disgusted with his father. Disgusted with this whole stupid town.
I started walking again. I didn’t know where, but if it was away from Dylan’s house and his nasty father then I was headed in the right direction.
Dylan came after me. Grabbing my arm, he spun me around. “Kaitlyn, stop,” he pleaded. “I’ve tried to stand up to my dad before. All it ever gets me is a sore gut and an earful of his garbage. I’ll be free of him soon enough. I just have to get through this next year.”
His daddy hit him? Man, that was rough. At least that was something I’d never had to endure. My daddy had loved me . . . right up until the part when he left. But right now I was too pissed to really care about what Dylan had been through. “Yeah, you will. You get to leave this place. Go off to some fancy college and do something with your life. But what about me? I don’t have a college fund. And with Hunter dead I don’t even have a ride! All I got is a drunk-ass mama and a run-down trailer. I’m stuck here with the ghosts.” It sucked . . . there had to be a way I could get out, even without Hunter. But I couldn’t think about that. Not yet. First, I had to help him and Keisha, then I’d come up with a plan to escape this backward town.
“Do you think if I ever told my parents what we’ve seen they’d actually believe me?” He snorted. “My dad’s only interested in what’s best for business, and my mom’s not much better. And as for college . . . I have to get into a good one because it makes them look better. They don’t really care if I’m happy.”
I clenched my teeth. Maybe he was just as alone in this whole mess as I was. Maybe we needed each other.
My heart softened, just a tad. “Why keep me around? Why not just forget about me and the accident? You’re smart. Your daddy’s rich. I’m sure you can figure out how to protect yourself from Keisha and Hunter until you leave town for good. You’ll be just fine without me. You don’t need my help.”
Dylan looked at me. Not just a quick glance. He really looked at me. Sort of like how Hunter used to look at me. A look that told me I was important. A look that told me he cared. A look that let me know he really saw me—saw beyond the mess that was my life.
Before I could respond, his finger grazed my cheek. It lingered there awkwardly for a moment before he pulled a tear-encrusted strand of hair off my face and tucked it behind my ear.
Something unexpected twanged in my chest. It was a feeling meant for Hunter. Not Dylan. He wasn’t even that cute. At least, he wasn’t my type. Could we actually be becoming friends? Real friends? I sure couldn’t let it be anything more than that.
A strange breeze gusted up, tussling my hair. I’d better be careful. Keisha could be watching. Hunter, too. I shoved the unwelcome longing aside and stepped away from him.
But Dylan acted like he didn’t notice. “You’re smart, Kaitlyn. I know you get straight As. You don’t need somebody to help you get out of this town. You can do it all on your own.”
I snorted. Getting straight As wasn’t gonna do me much good in this town, and with all my money going to pay our bills, I sure as hell didn’t see a way out just yet.
“You’re right, Kaitlyn. I could do the research without you. But they’re haunting us both. And I need a friend who understands what I lost in that accident.” His eyes welled up, the memory of losing his girlfriend and best friend clear on his exhausted face. “Someone who knows what’s really going on. And I can’t bear the thought of Keisha and Hunt-er trapped here.”
I stared at him and thought of Keisha. I thought of the anger and torment coming off her in my bedroom. I swallowed hard, wondering if Hunter’d been visiting Dylan at night while Keisha’d been tormenting me. Had Keisha been right when she was alive? Had Dylan secretly liked me, but kept it to himself because I was his best friend’s girlfriend? But if that were true, why haunt me and not Dylan? And Keisha knew I’d never liked Dylan before. Not like that. I wouldn’t have even considered it. He’d been Hunter’s best friend since forever. And then he got together with Keisha. But now . . . I shooed away the notion. Stupid. And whether he liked me or not, we still needed answers. And he was the only one I knew who could help me get them.
“Kaitlyn, get in the car.” He grabbed my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Please.”
The last place I wanted to be was in a car—especially in one with Dylan Anderson. But what choice did I have? It was either get in the car with him and take a fifteen-minute air-conditioned ride to the library, take a two-hour walk there in the heat, or go home to my drunk mama and haunted bedroom. Ugh. “Alright. Let’s go.”
A little smile cracked on Dylan’s face, but I held up a finger. “Drive slowly, and don’t take me near that tree.”
“Deal.”