Page 9 of Before the Summer He Found Her

“Ah, ahem. Well. Er, have you ever had a strange visitor? Perhaps not of this world?”

“Oh.” Her voice is flat, the smile fading away. It’s one of the few times I’ve seen her appear so serious. “Well, uh, yeah. Do you have a ghost problem or something?”

“Perhaps,” I say, finding it a little amusing her head went straight to the paranormal and how at ease she seems to be about the topic. “From how it sounds, you’ve had a ghost problem before?”

“Umm.” She bites her lower lip. Her hesitation drips off her aura. “I, uh, don’t usually talk about this stuff at work.”

Panic sets in. “Don’t worry about answering me,” I rush out. “We can move forward. I’d like to go over my findings from—"

“My family was very into the paranormal,” she says. No,whispersthe words. Pain’s written all over her face, a hint of the woman I viewed in the past, reminding me the Channah I visited could be very real. Shit. No. Sasha’s machine can’t be real. It just can’t be. Increasing her volume, she adds, “You can talk to me, uh… that is… if you’re comfortable… I might be able to help. I’m into that stuff, too. I won’t think you’re crazy.”

A lump forms in my throat. I can’t very well tell her the truth, so my brain invents a half-truth. Something that isn’t quite a lie but isn’t entirely correct. Something that a mind open to the paranormal might accept—and something that might lead her into admitting whether she’d ever seen me.

“Er, well, my buddy,” I say, “may have invited me to a party this weekend.”

“A party?” Her brows quirk, and amusement returns to her features. “Now, Ezra, that tends to be a topic that people bring up when they’re asked about their weekend.”

“It tends to be, yes,” I say, “except, it was supposed to be a small get together, and I hate parties, and ordinarily, I would have left, and there would have been nothing to talk about.”

“Except?”

“My buddy’s girlfriend, Sasha, has this device that allows people to see ghosts,” I say, tensing as the partial lie leaves my lips. “I was intrigued. So, I stayed.”

Shit, shit, shit. What am I doing?

I wasn’t a ghost appearing to her in a vision; how the hell is this going to get her to open up about potentially seeingme?

Of course, Channah hadn’t been the ghost, either, but it’s the only way I know how to broach this subject.

“A machine that allows people to see ghosts?” she asks. “I would have been intrigued, too. Did you use it? And did you see any ghosts?”

“I saw quite a few ghosts as clearly as I’m seeing you now,” I reluctantly admit. “One ghost haunted me to the point I can’t stop thinking about it.”

The words hang between us, and for a second, I worry I’ve let all my cards hang, right-side up. Not that I saw the real Channah, because that is quite preposterous. But if I had, and it was truly her, she’ll certainly recognize me now. And how are we supposed to work together if she knows what I’ve done? If what I’ve done was even real. Which it can’t be, because then she would have known all along.

Right?

Channah nods, space between her brows creased pensively. “Hauntings happen. Some spirits are friendlier than others. Anyone you knew? Did the presence feel loving or more negative? The way you used haunting—I don’t want to assume you mean what most people mean. Sometimes people haunt us by their mere presence, and they aren’t actually malevolent.”

Oh, how right she is.

“I know, er,knewthe person,” I admit, thinking of the grim expression on Past Channah’s face. “And, uh, hard to say. It wasn’t loving but not negative, either. They seemed very upset, but that could have simply been they were in a bad place. I’m not even sure if what I saw was real.”

“What does your gut tell you?”

“That it was realer than anything,” I say without giving myself the time to think about the question. “Except, my logical brain can’t rationalize that. Itcan’tbe real.”

“And you’ll never be able to rationalize it,” Channah says, a slight smile on her lips. “The thing is, we’re data people. We want science and facts. The metaphysical, energy, all of this”—she waves her hands around—“you can only explain so much of it. That took me a long time to accept, so that I could trust what my instincts were telling me.”

“Yes. I mean, I’m sure you’re right. I can’t say I know anything about this. Other than, thinking about it has yielded me no answers. It’s only served to confuse me further.”

“And thinking about it won’t help,” she says, matter of fact. “With death and the afterlife, you need to trust your heart. It’s seeing without seeing.”

“Trust my heart,” I breathe. “I want to, but that’s always been hard for me. I’ve spent a lifetime teaching myself to trust facts and ignore my emotions.”

I cringe as this admission falls into the space between us.

I’ve never told anyone that. Ever.

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