Chapter 13
Sawyer
Morgan’s haunted hookup matches the impression I’ve developed of him from her one-sided conversations with the ghost. Zach is chatty, boyishly exuberant, with a streak of sincerity in everything he says.
He’s my height, with natural muscle—his former lifeguarding vocation makes sense—and a now eternal easygoing LA dad sense of style.
“You know,” he says to me when we get out of the car, “you’re really lucky you can see me now. You have no idea how helpful I can be. Like, if you ever need someone to covertly investigate a murder, I would gladly provide my surveillance services.”
“I’ll keep you in mind for my next murder investigation,” I promise.
“I mean it!” Zach insists. “What about problems with your neighbors? Missing lawn gnomes? Broken fences?”
“Unsurprisingly, my neighbors steer clear of my house.”
Zach is undaunted. “Industrial espionage? Reading people’s PIN numbers over their shoulders?”
I laugh. “I’m good, man,” I say.
Zach seems disappointed. “I’m just…grateful you’re helping me and Morgan. You don’t have to.”
Reaching my front steps, I soften, understanding now Zach’s desire to commit various ghostly crimes for me. “How about I consult you when I need to know what hammer or screwdriver to use on the house?”
Morgan smiles.
“Deal,” Zach says.
While I head inside, Morgan sets to yard work.
I guess the hardware store inspired me, because I find myself invigorated to handle more of the house repairs.
I start on the living room shelves, which have gathered years of dust on the floor in the corner instead of lining the wall where we intended them.
Deep down, I keep hoping my handiwork will summon Kennedy, who’s been conspicuously evasive since her spelling stunt with the sticks under her tree.
The cupboards have remained restful, the house’s temperature tepid.
She hasn’t materialized to watch, or even half watch, TV with me or to supernaturally rearrange the furniture for the hundredth time.
Right now, I’m wondering if she might want to counsel me on proper hammering or leveling. Unfortunately, I guess my technique is perfect.
Sunset comes, lighting my workspace in vermilion. Out the front windows, I notice Morgan. She’s made progress on clearing the yard. My heart clenches when I see it, and I selfishly start reassuring myself of just how many dead vines remain.
I want this, I remind myself furiously. I should want this. I do want this. If we’re right, this garden separates Kennedy from passing peacefully into the hereafter instead of—I don’t know—getting lost in a limbo of nothing.
I want this. I should want this.
I don’t fucking want this.
The thought pierces me, making me suddenly angry.
Now I can see Zach Harrison and not my own fucking fiancée?
It’s not fair. How often have I had that thought in the past five years?
It’s not fair. Yet somehow, Kennedy or the spirit world or something has found new ways to fuck with my head and my heart.
The last sign of Kennedy I saw was out in the front yard where Morgan’s working. EXHUME ME.
Well, message received.
I stomp outside, down the porch steps, to where I noticed Morgan leaves the shovel against the railing. I seize the implement, heart heavy, and head straight for the tree, passing Morgan, who’s clearing weeds on the other side of the yard. She straightens up in confusion. I ignore her.
Kennedy made her wishes perfectly clear. Mine certainly don’t matter. I’m alive, right? It’s the only happiness I’m entitled to.
If Kennedy wants me to dig up this fucking tree, I will. Reaching the withered old jacaranda, I slam the shovel’s slanted mouth under the rotted trunk like I’m chopping off my own limb. I keep hammering the shovel in, searching for purchase, punishing myself. Punishing Kennedy.
I sense Morgan approaching cautiously. “I can do it,” she ventures with heartbreaking kindness.
“No,” I reply. “You can’t.”
While she watches, helpless, I exact my vengeance on the tree. I drive the shovel in harder, ramming the metal horizontally into the trunk. Over and over and over. Wood chips fly out like shrapnel from where I strike, dirt flinging up with my furious effort, coating me in years-old dust.
With my punishing repetition, the tree finally shifts. Roots lurch under me, disrupting my swing, unsteadying my footing. I stumble.
Morgan’s there to catch me. I feel her grasping, clumsy embrace struggling to hold me.
I can’t stay upright. In Morgan’s unfairly caring hands, my strength leaves me. The shovel falls from my grip.
In the light of the setting sun, I let myself sink into the soil.