Page 48 of Dead Set on You
Because I’m not rushing to make a getaway, I notice things I didn’t before. Bits of him lurk in every corner, like his mind exploded and ideas splattered all over. A half-painted canvas, paints and brushes and canisters tucked beneath it. A guitar case. Books and magazines about beers, wines, and spirits (the other, much more fun kind). And the most mysterious of all curiosities—three black crates stacked atop each other in a corner. Most likely the remains of scorned lovers and former rivals.Conditions,I remind myself.
I push the boxes from my mind and steal a glance at Rafael. We’ve hunkered down at his dining room table, and he’s sitting inches away from me, munching on Cristina’s desserts—his gluten sensitivity having flatlined—and staring at his laptop.
I’m gnawing through another fingernail as some distant clock ticks away the seconds until Dr. Wagner’s team drop-kicks me to a long-term care facility, complete with vinyl recliners and sad linens.
What I should be doing is focusing on our task—on getting through the checklist, the one from this morning, now amended and self-dubbed Evie’s Second-Chance Checklist. I’ve mentally crossed off Gemma’s name, replacing it with Rafael’s. Never thought I’d be working with Rafael again after the OhLaLove account. But here we are.
Attempting to tackle item #1 (researching similar cases), we’ve enlisted the help of Google to dive down the rabbit hole ofwhatI am before we do anything else. Half a dozen tabs line the top of his browser, each more unhinged than the last.
“The obvious choice is …ghost.” He slides his gaze to me. We’re sitting beside each other, separated by inches of space and years of distrust, and I still can’t believe he’s the only one who can see me—and help me. “You’re invisible, you walk through walls, and you’re definitely haunting me. I’m going with ghost. Final answer.” He gives me a smug look, like he nailed it.
“Boo,” I deadpan.
“I am very scared.” His lips pull to one side. I scowl, daring him to even go there.
I nod toward the screen. “What makes a ghost aghost? There has to be a definition, maybe a …”
“Checklist?” His smile stretches. My scowl deepens. “There’s criteria …”
“What. Does. It. Say?”
“Hold. On.” He matches my staccato, but has the self-preservation to turn to the screen and read before I throttle him. With words, of course. “The Ghost Club experts say ghosts are tied to the places of their death … and they don’t typically retain their consciousness.”
“Next,” I say, not hesitating. And before he can argue the point, I speed things along. “This option doesn’t work for two reasons: One, I’m not dead. And two, while I’d much prefer to be unconscious while everything fixes itself, that’s not the case. What else you got?”
“There are about four more tabs on ghosts—” He points to the screen.
“I’m not a ghost … because I’m notdead,” I repeat, and point to the mouse. “Next …”
Rafael mutters to himself but clicks on another tab. I lean in, squinting.Spirits.
“ ‘Spirits are the souls of humans who’ve passed on,’ ” I read aloud before Rafael even opens his mouth. “ ‘Spirits retain consciousness and have been known to interact with others, should they choose.’ ” I pause, considering. While I’mconsciouslyexperiencing my worst nightmare, I’ve only been able to interact with one person—and as much as I’d like to haunt him for eternity, I definitely didn’t choose Rafael.
“This has got to be it,” Rafael points to the screen—specifically to a ghoulish figure looming over a bed like something out ofThe Conjuring. “Looks pretty spot-on.”
I look up at Rafael’s divine ceiling. “Are you sure this isn’t hell?”
Rafael laughs. “It’s a joke, E,” he says. “You’remuchmore intimidating.”
I reach for something—a pen—and attempt to grab it. To stab him, obviously. But my fingers go right through it.
I swallow a growl. “Let’s move on, unless you have an actual desire to join me on this side of life.”
He has the good sense to sober, but the ghost of a smile lingers. “Okay, so it’s a no to spirit—and definitely no to ghoul,” he says, clicking through the search results a little too slowly for my taste. I resist the urge to lean into his space and nudge him out of the way, even though I’m itching to take control. Instead, I cross my arms and lean away. And wait.
He mutters to himself as he scans the pages.
“Yes! This!” His enthusiasm startles me. I immediately lean in.
“A crisis apparition?” I’d have to get closer to read the small font.
Rafael nods, pointing to the screen like he’s uncovered a conspiracy theory. “ ‘A crisis apparition is when a person who is very sick or dying—or very obviously in a crisis of similar proportions—telepathically communicates images of themselves to others who are living. Usually those with whom they have a close relationship.’ ” Rafael reads the exact definition from theEncyclopedia of the Paranormal.
Another dead end.
“It’s certainly not that,” I say, hand halfway to the mouse before I remember I can’t toggle the mouse or move several times faster than Rafael, who’s downed two cups of coffee since we’ve been here. I’d be running the wheels off my Peloton with that much caffeine in my system. Not Rafael. “Next.”
Rafael doesn’t click as he drags caffeine- and mischief-glazed eyes from the monitor to me. “I think it’s the most reasonable,” he says, his tone alight with humor.
