Page 121 of Haunt Me

“It wasn’t her,” I tell my brother, letting him go. We sink to the floor, panting, both of us exhausted. “It was someone else. She… Look, this girl? You know her.”

James’ eyebrow flies up. He is never surprised. But he is now. Stunned. Speechless.

“You knowabouther,” I add.

“Explain,” is all he says.

He’s looking at me. He’s ready to listen.

So, for the first time, I tell him our story—the real one. With all of the new to me data.

James is not like me. He stays absolutely still and silent as he listens, not interrupting with questions. The whole time I’m talking, he doesn’t react at all, his face expressionless, etched in marble. To his credit, once he realizes where the story is going, he does not throw up like I did, but he does look a bit green around the mouth.

Around the end, he just starts swearing a lot, which I have never heard him do.

I finish the story, and he begins to mumble to himself, but I don’t know what he’s saying, because he’s talking in French. Then he falls silent for a long time, gazing out the window as a fairytale-esque night descends on Athens, tears streaming down his face.

“You need to talk to Skye,” he says finally, voice thick with emotion. “I know you are Internet illiterate, but you have a whole team handling this stuff. Skye needs to make sure that her face stays out of the Internet, period. Once your rabid fans discover that you have history with her… That she is the heartbreaker from your songsandthe lost girl from all these years ago…” He stops, rubs a hand over his eyes. “All hell will break loose, Zay. It’s going to be a circus like we’ve never seen. And we have seen the circus. We are currently living in it. But the pressure you have been under so far will seem child’s play compared to what will happen once people find out.”

I just stare at him.

“Any story remotely touching on Eden’s subject needs to be killed instantly,” he says. “Needs to be killed yesterday.”

I look at him in wonder. It never crossed my mind to think about that, but he is absolutely right. That’s my brother: practical and efficient. He always knows what to do when the crap hits the fan. Calm and collected in the face of disaster. Always has been, since he was a kid. He is not a kid now; he’s taller than me by two inches.

He looks like a man, although through his eyes I can see my little brother frowning back at me. For how long will I be able to see him in there, though?

I think what I told him today killed the boy inside him a little bit already.

…

We board my jet in a few hours, and we’re both so exhausted we sleep for most of our flight to Chicago. Mom is waiting for us at the hotel Skye has booked, and after changing clothes, we are ready to go meet the Elliots.

Or, in my case, absolutely not ready.

We get in the car.

Mom, seeing me shake, takes one of my hands and holds it between both of hers. I can feel the tremors in her fingers; her arthritis is getting worse. But her expression is calm, like usual, even though her face looks pale. I did not have as much time to explain Eden’s story to her in person like I did with James, but, like him, she knew her story well. She had followed it all these years on the news, so as soon as I told her who she was, she got it immediately.

“Do you remember the story about why your father and I named you Isaiah?” she asks me, as our car reaches its destination.

I told my driver to park a few blocks away from Eden’s dad’s house, because I want to prepare myself. As if I ever could. We get out of the car, security guards flanking us on each side. This is a nice neighborhood, clean and quiet. Cozy. You can see the water in the distance. The perfect place for a kid to grow up.

But Eden didn’t grow up here.

“Tell it to me again, Mom,” I murmur, trying to distract myself.

“Well, your dad picked it,” she starts.

I can feel her smiling next to me, even without having to look at her. She loves telling that story. Her short hair just about covers her ears—she’s gotten a haircut since the last time I saw her a few months back. I miss seeing her every day.

“It’s from his favorite passage from the Bible,” she tells me, her eyes shining with love. When she talks about him, he is real. He is alive in her words. She loves talking about him. “Isaiah 55. You were named after one of your dad’s favorite promises in the world.”

I nod. She and Dad were meant to be touring the world together, it was their dream. Now she is doing it by herself, and she will have to stop soon, judging by how crooked and painful her fingers are beginning to look.

“You know, when I first met your dad,” she goes on, her voice a music all on its own, “I was just a Chinese immigrants’ kid who didn’t belong anywhere, and he… he helped me have faith.”

I know he did—I’ve heard the story so many times. We have reached the house. It’s a four-floor brownstone walk-up; Eden’s house is on the first floor. The entire building looks like it belongs in a story. I imagine the history it’s seen, the creaky wood floors, the narrow layout of the hallways inside. How will I ever be able to walk in? I put my arm around Mom’s shoulders and prepare to climb the steps leading up to the cozy red door. I can’t.

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