Page 26 of Ghosted
“Earth to Alderwood,” Dean says, snapping in my face. “You good in there, Rae?”
“Yeah, sorry,” I gulp around the sudden dryness of my throat. “I guess I expected that you had money, but this is vacationing in Cape Cod for the summer in a private beach house, caviar for breakfast, retirement by fifty money.” I turnmy shell-shocked expression to him and notice that he’s trying to fight back a smile.
“I guess I should have warned you? Sorry. It’s just that there’s no polite way to say, ‘Hey, I make a lot of money, prepare to see my fancy house that I kind of hate,’” he says sarcastically. At my expression, he says, “See? Even saying that makes me seem like an ungrateful bastard. Which I’m not, but I had the privilege of not caring about money when I was alive. Buying something this… grandiose? It was my father’s idea. He said it looked good to clients and gave the impression that I knew what I was doing. I was stupid and single, so I listened to him. Can we please not let this make it weird?” He turns puppy dog eyes to me and presses his hands together against his chest dramatically.
“Yeah, of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’ll shut up about your giant house now.” I mime locking my mouth and tossing the key over my shoulder, which makes Dean smile, dimple popping.
“Caviar is disgusting, by the way. It tastes like you licked the bottom of the ocean and somehow came away with sea creature snot.” He shivers at the memory of it.
“Thanks for painting such a vivid picture,” I say, disgust screwing up my face. My car door opens with a creak, and I head up the immaculate driveway. He flits ahead of me, appearing in front of the huge, glass-paned door.
“The code to get in is 2452,” he says, pointing to the keypad on the front door. “Or, at least it should be, as long as my parents haven’t changed it.”
I punch in the code on the keypad, relief washing over me when the deadbolt clicks open. “You don’t have a securitysystem, do you?” The afterthought strikes as I step inside the high-ceilinged foyer.
“I didn’t end up installing one. It was one of those to-do items that I never got around to.” He walks inside and goes to flick on the light switch. It’s only when his hand passes uselessly through the wall does he seem to remember his predicament. He sighs and asks, “Would you mind?”
I press the switch, and am once again rendered speechless by his home. The sleek lines continue inside, but the interior is all warm wood, comfortable furniture, and plush rugs. Pictures flow up along the staircase to my right. They seem to be a mix of his family and friends, as well as some canvases painted by a very talented artist depicting various nature scenes.
I walk further into the home, Dean trailing behind. True to his word, he’s used deep red as an accent throughout the house: on rugs, paintings, throw pillows, and blankets. As soon as I emerge into his large, cozy living room, I’m greeted with the biggest couch I’ve ever seen. “May I?” I practically beg, eyeing the couch.
“I’m not going to get any use out of it anymore, so be my guest,” he says, smiling indulgently as I flop face-first onto his white, fluffy, cloud couch.
“Ohmygodthisisthemostcomfortablecouchever,” I mumble directly to the cushions. I also take a huge (hopefully secret) whiff of the couch that still smells of his expensive cologne and hair products. Ghosts don’t have a scent, which in Dean’s case is a shame because he used to smelledible.
Dean laughs and does his best to throw himself next to me, up by my head. The couch doesn’t even shift, and despite the chill, his proximity makes me even more comfortable. I allow my eyes to drift shut for a moment and pretend that everythingis fine and we aren’t here on a mission to figure out why he died.
I feel a tingling sensation on my scalp and crack an eye to see that his hand is resting on top of my head, fingers moving ever so slightly in an attempt to card through my thick hair. My heart thuds irregularly at the dreamy look he’s wearing, and I wish for what feels like the millionth time that things were different. I push myself up to sitting and smile at him a little. “Ready?” I ask gently, knowing it may be hard for him to see where he died.
He takes a steadying breath and nods. “Come on, let’s get this over with.” He stands and gestures for me to follow him again. We walk through his immaculately clean kitchen with its top-of-the-line appliances and through a door leading out to his garage.
I feel a chill roll through my entire body. At first glance, the garage is innocuous. There’s a nice, black Mercedes sedan parked in the middle of the space, and on either side are the typical garage fare: yard tools, Christmas decor, snow shovels, and extra supplies for the house. On closer inspection, though, all outward ventilation has been sealed over with black trash bags and industrial grade duct tape.
I approach the car, drawn to it the way all people are drawn to places where awful things happened. I lean down, squinting through the driver’s side window to see the car looking mostly harmless. Which is strange; it seems like I should be able to sense the horrible thing that happened here, but it’s just a car.
I start to spin away, wanting to ask Dean about the day he died again, when something catches the light and attracts my eye to the driver’s seat. I bend closer to the car, unwilling to lay my hand on the cool metal of the hood. Even if I can’t see thehorrible event that happened here, I don’t want to touch the thing that took Dean’s life.
Squinting through the window, I notice a small scrap of duct tape attached to the side of the seat. It would be easy to miss since it’s nearly hidden by the center console, but the way the light catches it makes it stand out against the red leather interior.
“‘Least it’s a pretty car, right?” Dean says ruefully, mistaking my close inspection for interest in his car.
“Mm. Did you repair a tear in the leather recently?” I ask, eyes fixed on the small scrap of duct tape. “Or maybe pack some boxes?”
“No, why?” he asks, flickering closer.
I point to the duct tape in the car. “Because there’s a tiny scrap of duct tape that matches the decorating in here. Maybe you were restrained?” I say, gesturing to the duct-taped ventilation, then back to the seat.
“Iwasmurdered! Motherfucking-shit-fuck!” Dean exclaims, growing so agitated that the room temperature drops several degrees, and the snow shovel hanging on the wall near us starts vibrating. He wraps his fists into the silky strands of his hair and squeezes. He paces quickly, going back and forth faster than I can keep track of, taking the temperature of the room down quickly.
I clear my throat. “On the plus side, you can move things now, so that’s pretty cool.” I wave weakly towards the shovel that’s picking up the pace, pounding hard against the cement wall. I wonder briefly how it hasn’t fallen yet.
Dean abruptly stops pacing and tilts his head at the shovel, hair mussed. “Huh,” he says, peering at the swaying tool that’s losing steam and slowing its aggressive rhythm. I’m glad I wasable to distract him from his end-of-life crisis, because I need him not to burn out now that we’re getting somewhere. I turn around and start towards the rear passenger door behind the driver’s side, curious if there’s any more of that tape.
The door to the garage slams open behind me, and I spin with a gasp. My eyes widen when I see a gun pointed directly at me. In what feels like slow motion, I look up the barrel of the discreet handgun, over the fitted suit jacket, and land on a face that looks like Dean if he were thirty years older. “Shit,” Dean and I say in unison.
SEVENTEEN
“Dad,”Dean says, stepping in front of me. Sweetly, he thinks he’ll be a shield, but he forgets that the bullet would pass right through him and end up buried in my gut.
