Page 15 of The Imaginary Friend's Obsession

The only reason I had to come back is because I ran. Because I let myself be convinced that he never existed. But I keep that thought to myself. “So you can see ghosts. And feel things.”

He nods. “Emotions. Glimpses of memories, sometimes.”

“Can you control it?”

“Not really. It comes in flashes. Can you control yours?”

I huff a laugh. “Did it seem like I decided to fling that table on purpose?”

He laughs as well. “No, I guess not.”

“I used to be better at it, I think. But after Dorian… After I left…” I swallow hard. “I bottled it all up. I was desperate to be normal. Now it only comes out when my emotions get the better of me.” Myanger, to be specific, always seems to unleash it. But I don’t want to make myself sound dangerous, even if it might be the truth.

Yet as Ezra nods, I wonder how much he already knows, or at least suspects.

“This explains a lot I didn’t understand about Dorian,” he says. “I suspect your abilities are what allowed him to stay tethered to this plane for so long without passing on. Your influence has likely caused his more…unusual traits, as well.” He folds his arms over his chest, looking down. “It also means we have to be careful. If you’re anything like me, you’re a magnet for spirits. The risk of things going wrong, perhaps even a possession…”

“Dorian would never do that.”

Ezra hesitates. “I’m being honest with you, so I need you to be very honest with me.” I catch that gleam in his eyes again and wonder if he’s reading my emotions. Will he know if I’m lying?

I swallow hard and prepare myself. I know what’s coming. “Okay.”

“That night you left Ash Valley,” he says. “What happened?”

I suck in air, trying to fight the tightness growing in my chest. I dodged this question once; I can’t do it again. But I can’t bring myself to lie to Ezra, either, even if he’s not really reading me. He’s right—he’s been honest. He’s taking a risk for me. It’s time for me to tell him the full truth.

“I’ve seen the report,” Ezra continues, when my silence lingers. “The photographs. It’s impossible to deny that something terrible happened, but I suspect it wasn’t as simple as the MRF wants to believe. I need you to tell me the truth.”

The truth. The mere thought of it makes my hands clench in my lap. The words are on the tip of my tongue—they taste bitter, so bitter—but I can’t seem to bring myself to say them. A flash of memory: scrubbing blood off my hands, my face, my white dress. Blood everywhere, on the floor and walls and ceiling. An impossible amount of red, red, red.

“Daisy,” Ezra says, leaning forward, his eyes intent on me. “Did Dorian kill your parents?”

“I…” I try to force the sentence out, but my throat is so tight, I can barely make a sound. I take in a shaky breath, try again. “Ezra, I…”

He slowly reaches out, takes my hand, and squeezes. “Daisy,” he says, even more quietly. “Was it…” He searches my face. “Was it an accident? Didyoudo it?”

I bite my lip as tears well up in my eyes and slowly lift my eyes to meet his. “I don’t know.”

Surprise flickers across his features. “What do you mean?”

I swallow hard and finally force out the truth. “Ezra, I don’t remember. I don’t remember that night at all.”

Chapter Nine

Ipause on the front porch, my hand hovering over the doorknob. Even as a child, I was always averse to inviting people into my home. Because of my parents, and because of Dorian. But also because I was afraid to show them too much of myself.

Yet I’m choosing to trust Ezra. I have to let him in. And it’s not as though there are any secrets to find that I haven’t revealed to him already. Not any that I remember, at least. So I push the door open and gesture for him to follow me inside.

“Sorry for the cold. It’s an old building.” I wipe a smudge of dust off a side table. “And I’m still in the process of cleaning it.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Ezra says. “It’s beautiful.”

I shrug, self-conscious despite his words, and invite him to wait in the living room while I make us a pot of tea. When I head to join him, he’s waiting on the couch, hands folded in his lap and eyes on the family portrait that hangs over the mantle. A young version of me stands between my parents. We all look so happy; I wonder if Ezra can see the same strain as I do in my smile.

But when I look at him, his stare is distant, like he’s looking through the portrait instead of at it. There’s a wrinkle between his brows, and his hands clutch each other in his lap.

“Ezra?” I whisper.

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