Page 27 of Ghosted
“Who the fuck are you, and why are you in my son’s house?” Dean’s dad demands, not lowering the gun an inch. His finger rests on the side of the gun, but I have full faith that he could pull the trigger in an instant.
I raise my hands instinctively and say, “My name is Rae Alderwood.” I swallow the bile rising in my throat and fight the urge to pass out.
Great. Love learning that in fight, flight, fawn, or freeze, I’m a freezer. Or a passer-outer? Wonderful.
“Tell him about me,” Dean says tensely, not moving from his spot between his dad and I.
I shift my stare briefly from thefuckinggun pointed at me,to Dean and shake my head minutely. The last thing I need is the cops called, along with a one-way ticket to a padded cell.
“And why, Rae Alderwood, are you in my son’s house?” Mr. Dean’s Dad murmurs cooly, clicking the safety off the gun, making me lightheaded with panic. “Did you have something to do with his death?” he all but whispers. It would be kind of sexy in a silver fox way, if I weren’t one wrong move from finding out what it feels like to be intimately acquainted with a bullet in my belly.
“Um, I—” I stutter. “I was his girlfriend,” I finally squeak out. Not exactly the truth, but truth adjacent. Plus, saying “I went on a date with him one time” will make me seem even more deranged.
Dean turns a very out-of-place, shit-eating grin my way. “Girlfriend, huh?”
“Will you shut up?” I say to him exasperatedly. And then my mouth all but seals itself shut when I realize what I’ve done. My face burns so hot that I fear my skin will melt off.
Awesome. We can now add “cracks under pressure” to my resumé.
Out of the blue, the name of Dean’s dad comes back to me from the article I read—Jack. I’m glad my brain is focusing on the important things. Jack prowls forward, eyebrow quirking in a way that is so Dean,I soften to him a little even though he definitely still has a gun pointed at me. “What did you say?” he asks, baffled.
“I—Um,” I stammer out.
“Tell. Him,” Dean grits out. His pleading expression has me wavering. “I couldn’t stand it if something happened to you because of me.”
When he genuinely looks close to tears, I sigh and say, “Actually, I’m not Dean’s girlfriend.” At this point, I’m fullyprepared to end up in a cell with no pointy things allowed by the end of the night.
“Explain,” Jack demands, gun still trained directly on my furiously pounding heart.
“Okay. There’s no easy way to say this, but um… I’m a medium,” I break eye contact with the gun to study his confused face. “Like, I talk to ghosts?”
Killing it, Rae.
“Get out,” Dean’s dad says flatly, finally dropping the gun, apparently sensing I’m not a threat.
“No wait, I’m trying to figure out what happened to him. I know he didn’t commit suicide,” I rush out, lowering my hands.
“Tell him that I’m the one who broke the window growing up, but I cried so much that Luke took the fall because he wanted me to shut up. I didn’t tell Dad the truth until my twenty-fifth birthday when I was sure he couldn’t ground me,” Dean says quickly, stare never leaving his dad.
I relay the message cautiously and watch as Jack’s expression morphs from fury to awe to skepticism. “Tell me something else. Not something he could have told you on your date.”
“You really think he’d tell me an embarrassing story on the first date?” I ask shakily.
Jack grimaces. “Knowing my son, yes. He’d think he was being charming. Go on,” he says, clenching his jaw.
Dean rolls his eyes, thinks for a moment, and says, “He and mom almost got a divorce when they were remodeling their home in 2005, so they made us kids vote on the finishes so they couldn’t be mad at each other. Oh, and I desperately wanted a red carpet in my room, but mom said no.”
Jack listens closely as I recount what Dean said, face blanching in shock. “Dean?” he asks, looking around. “Is hehere?” he questions me. I can see the war between wanting to believe me and wanting to call my bluff.
“Yes,” I say, pointing to Dean’s position in the room. “Move the shovel again,” I tell Dean, knowing that for most, having a visible experience helps make things feel more real.
Dean focuses on the shovel intently and then pushes it with a finger. I watch as Jack’s nostrils flare when it begins to sway. “Is that you, Dean?” Jack asks. Dean moves the shovel harder in answer, nearly taking it off the wall.
“If that’s really you, make it stop moving,” Jack commands, swallowing thickly. Dean puts out his hand, gripping the handle of the shovel so it stops swinging abruptly.
Jack’s eyes close, a single tear trekking down his lined cheek. “Son,” he murmurs brokenly. “I’m so sorry. I should have protected you. I should have come sooner. I should have known that you...” He’s openly crying now, and I feel my eyes well up in response.
“Dad,” Dean says, his voice ragged and breaking on the word. He flickers in and out for a moment before disappearing completely.
