Page 32 of Dead Set on You
“Halfway there.”
“You don’t know that,” he insists.
I let him have that one because my ghostly expertise is still loading, because I don’t know much of anything at this point. Nothing that makes logical sense, at least. Great-Aunt Julia thought we all went to heaven, but the sweet woman was clearly wrong.
“I think I have an explanation,” I offer, leaning on the only spiritual knowledge I ever learned.
“Explain.”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” I offer as preamble, shifting so I can face him fully.
My dress hikes up my thigh, and I dig my fingers into my palm to keep from tugging it back into place. An hour ago, I was asking him to feel me up, so showing him a little skin shouldn’t bother me, but it does. All things Rafael Vela get under my skin … which leads me to my explanation.
“Hell. I’m in hell.”
Rafael doesn’t so much as blink. “What?”
“This is hell.” I gesture to his truck, to the outside. I don’t point to him, because that would be too on-the-nose. If I haven’t made it to Great-Aunt Julia’s heaven, then this must be the alternative. I’ve died, and Rafael is my perpetual punishment (because I clearly didn’t buyenoughcookies).
“Let me get this straight,” he says, leaning his back into his seat and leveling a narrowed gaze at me. “You think you’re in hell, and I’m the only one who can see you?”
“Yes … minus the burning fires.” I mime flames with my fingers.
Rafael pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a deep, frustrated sigh that makes me bristle. “If this is your hell, then why amIthe one who can seeyou?”
He’s the devil is a plausible explanation, but one that might result in him going back up to the hospital room to finish the deed (if my current theory is off the mark). I imagine his tanned finger wrapping around my pale neck and squeezing.
Shaking the image from my mind, I clear my throat. “Maybe you’re dead too?” I say tightly, momentarily petrified by the thought of being stuck in perpetuity together.
He mutters a string of Spanish. Another heavy sigh. A dark look. “Being on the other end of this, I understand if this istraumatic for you,” he starts, speaking to me like a child who needs to be talked to slowly. “But I can tell you for certain, this isn’t hell.”
I swallow a knot of annoyance. “Oh, is that right? Who died and made you an expert on all things heaven-and-hell?”
“For one, lots of people.” Rafael holds up one finger, the tip of it bearing a white scar. “And two, you’d probably have to bedeadto be in hell.” Another finger pops up beside the first.
My annoyance flares.
And because I need answers, I focus on his words instead of his tone or his fingers. I consider my comatose body, kept alive by medical equipment.Alive.He has a point. Not that I’ll admit it.
“All right. What’s your theory?” I ask. “About what’s happening?”
Rafael rolls his shoulders and takes another deep breath. “That I’ve taken too many meds.”
I snort.
Rafael’s eyes snap to mine.
“What?” I scowl.
“The flesh-and-bone Evie Pope never made such sounds,” he muses, tapping his finger against the steering wheel.
“I can assure you I’m one and the same.” Give or take some bones. “You don’t believe me?” I push, needing an answer.
Rafael does what he’s done all morning—and notoncein years—and ignores me as he reaches for the center console and presses a button. The screen lights up; the truck purrs to life. My nerves short-circuit.
A different kind of distress—some would call it a phobia—kicks in as he shifts the truck into drive. I grind my teeth against the rush of anxiety.Breathe.
Hands pressed against each other, I count through fourMamma Mias and direct my thoughts from the moving vehicle to something more productive than giving in to my fear. Likemy situation and dissecting thewhyon my own because he’s not been helpful.
