Page 6 of Hot Ghoul Summer

“Your mom—your mom would hate to see me like this. Maybe she shouldn’t come,” Gary suddenly said, voice increasingly frantic.

“Mom can’t come even if she wanted to, Gary. She’s on the second week of a three-week cruise. Her fiftieth birthday present from her sisters.”

“Oh, good. Good. That’s good. She deserves nice things, too.”

Yeah, something was off, but—

Reminder, your Federal Student Loan payment is due in three days. Pay now?

An email notification briefly obscured my screen.

What the heck? Money is money.

I COULDN’T FIND 34 Silverlake Way. I could find 32, 33, and 35. I wondered if Gary had been more out of it than I thought or if my GPS was being stupid. Maybe it took the address of an intersecting road? Whatever. If I could find 32 and 33, I could find 34 or ask the neighbors.

The digital clock on my dashboard says 9:30. That’s not too late to knock on someone’s door. Is it?

“Geez...” I rub my neck, squeezing the knots of tension that have grown along my spine and shoulders for the last three years—endless clinicals, exams, part-time nursing-home work, studying, studying, studying, stress, stress, stress. “Call Mom.”

My phone does its thing, but Mom is probably sprawled out under a limbo pole on the Lido Deck. I just hope to God she’s not sprawled under Loser Number Three. She met Gary on a pub crawl for Aunt Gail’s fortieth birthday, after all.

“Mom, you’ll never believe what happened. Gary called. He’s giving me one hell of a graduation gift—a beach house. I’m sure it’s full of black mold and directly in the path of lake effect blizzards or something, but—” My mouth dries out as I turn onto Silverlake Way. Two normal Cape Cod houses flank a fucking mansion.

That can’t be mine. That can’t be his!

“Uh. Sorry! Sorry, Mom, I was just saying, he wants to give me this beach house. But, he also had a car accident, and he’s pretty banged up. He thinks he’s dying. He’ll probably recover and change his mind. Who knows? Anyway, he sounded like a decent human being for a few minutes, and I decided to go up to Lake Erie and see him on his supposed deathbed, ‘cause, y’know. I’m a nurse who can’t resist playing the hero in someone’s hour of need, and I’m a sucker. Not to mention,” I drop my voice, eyes scanning the first small house I see, “if this is legit, I might be able to sell the place and pay off my student loans. Or hey, home ownership! Love you, Mom. Call me when you get signal, or send me an email.”

I hang up. My mother probably hasn’t figured out how to use the ship’s WiFi, and I don’t know if I really want her to. I know she’s been done with Gary for a long time, but she loved him once. This news could ruin her vacation.

Shit, why did I call her? I should have waited.

I peer at the house past the mansion. The lighthouse-shaped mailbox bears the number 36. I just passed 32 at the bottom of the little sandy lane. The misty lake air blankets the cream-colored Victorianesque mansion that must be number 34.

My stomach suddenly knots. I don’t think it’s nerves about seeing Gary. If he really changed, I’ll be shocked. A little nugget of determination sits in my subconscious, telling me I want him to put it in writing that I get this place—I think.

I ease my car up to the mansion. I don’t see any numbers on it, but it has to be the right place.

And that feels wrong. This whole thing feels wrong. I creep up the driveway, mist suddenly hanging like a cloud across my windshield.

For a minute, I just sit, my foot on the brake.

How did Gary get this place?

Why did he call me?

Did he say the guy on the pier died? How do you have a car accident on the pier?

I guess someone could have careened off of it...

I know why I called my mom. I wanted someone to know where I went because I don’t trust my creepy ex-stepfather.

But I trust my nurse’s instincts. I think about Gary’s voice during the call—the whistling sound of a broken nose and badly deviated septum combined with the careful labored breathing that accompanies multiple broken ribs. No one could fake those sounds so consistently without the actual injuries, especially through the range of emotions Gary displayed. Whether trying to be upbeat or tearful begging, his breathing and voice stayed the same.

He’s hurt—and he can’t hurt me.

I’m still in my car. My gut is screaming at me.

He never laid a hand on me.

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