Chapter 23
My team uses the terms ‘ghost’ and ‘entity’ interchangeably. I prefer ‘entity’ because it strips away all supernatural romanticism. The manifestations we work with are not Casper or Patrick Swayze. They’re dangerous, they’re real, and the terminology should reflect that.
I spin on my stool so fast I almost fall off it. There’s nothing unusual about the bar. Same tired people nursing their drinks, same sports game playing on the TV in the corner, same bartender wiping down glasses.
“Eden?” DJ’s voice sounds far away even though she’s right next to me. “What’s wrong?”
“We need to leave.” I dig through my jacket pocket for my wallet.
“What?” DJ asks. “Why?”
I throw cash on the bar—more than I probably owe—and grab DJ’s arm.
DJ slides off her stool, and I shuffle toward the door. The whiskey’s made everything soft around the edges, which was exactly what I wanted ten minutes ago, but now I’m cursing myself for it.
The winter air hits like a stinging slap when we get outside, but at least it’s the normal kind of cold, not the paranormal kind.
“Did you feel that?” I scan the parking lot. The streetlights cast weird shadows between the cars, and every one of them looks like it could be hiding something.
“Feel what?” DJ asks, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering.
“The ghost cold.”
DJ studies me, her eyes slightly unfocused. “Eden, I didn’t feel anything.”
I squint back at the bar, trying to focus through the alcohol fog. If there’s a ghost in there, both of us should be able to see it.
I’m too drunk for this. I’m relieved when DJ loops her arm through mine, steadying both of us as she calls an Uber. I collapse into the backseat with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. My head lolls back against the headrest, and I watch the streetlights roll together into a blur.
I can see the driver’s face in the light from the dashboard. He has gray hair, thick glasses, and keeps humming along to some country station. He looks nothing like the description of Morrow’s type, but what if we’re wrong about the age? What if Morrow can possess anyone?
I’d be about as effective against Morrow as a wet paper bag right now. I need to be more careful.
I lower my voice so the driver doesn’t hear me. “Does alcohol really make it easier to see ghosts?”
DJ grimaces. “Yep. Anything that lowers inhibitions also lowers your brain’s ability to filter out anything supernatural.”
Awesome. “Guess we’re drinking in the house next time.”
“Given how powerful you are, it’s probably a good idea for you to only ever drink in the house.” DJ slumps back into her seat, the fake leather creaking under her. “Nico’s completely sober—he hasn’t touched alcohol or caffeine since I met him.”
“Are you sure our team leader isn’t actually a robot?”
I make beeping noises and bend my arms at right angles, and DJ throws her head back laughing.
The driver drops us off at the gate. Our walk back down the driveway feels like it takes an hour, but when we reach the front steps, my muscles ease. The porch light is on. Warm light spills from the windows.
Is it too early to start thinking about this place as home? Probably. But it’s hard not to think of it as home when it’s the only place I feel safe.
DJ jiggles the door handle, only to find it’s locked.
“DING DONG!” DJ yells through laughter as she fishes her key out of her pocket. “DING DONG, GRIFFIN, AND FUCK YOU AND YOUR FUCKASS SIGN!”
Griffin doesn’t come to the door, but it’s okay because DJ gets it unlocked after a couple of drunken tries.
“It’s safe to say neither of us is getting any work done today,” DJ says, holding the door open for me.
I snort. “You think?”
“Want to watch a movie?” she asks.
Last time I watched a movie all the way through was two years ago at a homeless shelter.
Every Saturday night, they’d play whatever PG-13 DVD had been donated that month, and the common room would be full as everyone crowded around the ancient screen mounted on the wall.
I stopped going there a year ago because they don’t allow dogs.
Benji appears in the doorway, eyes brightening behind his glasses. “Are you guys watching a movie?”
“I’m letting Eden pick.” DJ turns to me. “You can choose anything, as long as it doesn’t have ‘ghost’ in the title.”
“I hope your favorite movie isn’t Ghost,” Benji says. “Or Ghostbusters. Ghost Ship. Ghost Rider.”
“I also request no horror,” DJ says. “No possessions, no hauntings, no creepy dolls, no cursed videotapes, no murderous children, no blood-drinking immortals—”
“Actually, blood-drinking immortals are vampires,” Benji says.
“I’m aware, Benjamin.” DJ rolls her eyes hard enough that I’m surprised they don’t get stuck. “The point is, I want two hours where nobody dies.”
“Unfortunately, all of my favorite movies have ‘ghost’ in the title, so I’m going to have to sit this one out,” I say.
DJ now rolls her eyes at me, which makes me grin.
Benji fetches two glasses of water for us, helpfully and non-judgmentally placing them on the coffee table. He pulls a small black vape pen from his pocket, taking a long pull before sinking into the recliner. The musty, sweet smell hits me a second later—definitely weed.
I take a seat on the couch next to DJ and accept the remote she hands me.
I scroll through titles, my thumb hovering over a few options before landing on Grease. I love this movie. Mom and I watched it together a couple of times, and she sang along terribly while Dad pretended to be annoyed.
“This one?” I say, trying to sound casual even though my voice comes out smaller than I want it to.
DJ raises an eyebrow. “Really? A musical?”
“I used to do theater,” I admit, feeling my face heat up. “I actually love to sing.”
I wonder sometimes what would’ve happened if I’d kept going. If maybe I’d be one of those people who do community theater on weekends, who have friends who come to watch their shows and bring flowers afterward.
“As long as you’re not one of those types to sing along during the movie,” DJ says.
“DJ, if you’re no fun, just say that,” I say.
I press play, then glance around for Bob, my chest tightening when I don’t see his little body curled up somewhere nearby.
“Bob is sleeping on his bed in your room,” Benji says without me having to ask. “I checked on him ten minutes ago.”
The tightness releases. “Thank you.”
Benji gives me a boyish salute. His shoulders have dropped from around his ears, and his eyes are already starting to get that glassy, peaceful look.
I wish smoking did that for me, but the only time I tried it, it made me paranoid as hell.
I spent three hours convinced someone was whispering my name from the corner of the room.
I figured the weed didn’t agree with me, but now I realize it was probably real.
Watching Grease without singing along is torture.
I manage to get through the opening song without singing, but I’m sitting on my hands and bouncing on the couch.
The alcohol is lowering my impulses, which isn’t helping, and this is also the first time I’ve watched Grease since Mom died.
I got too excited about the idea of watching the movie before turning it on to anticipate the ache it would plant inside me.
Mom would say it’s a crime to listen to Grease without singing along.
When Rosie and I were little, she had a song for everything.
Doing the dishes. Tying our shoes. She took us to see plays and musicals put on by the theater around the corner as soon as we were old enough to understand them.
She played the album in the car or at home for weeks leading up to it, so we’d know the songs by the time we saw the show.
As serious as Dad was in his professional life, he wasn’t serious at home.
He might not have been a singer, but he was the first to jump in and dance with Mom, or with me.
He always encouraged me to be completely myself and told me that if any kids at school made fun of me for singing, laughing, or loving things, I was supposed to hold up my hand, say ‘whatever,’ and walk in the other direction.
I got called into the principal’s office for that one.
Our house was messy and loud and full of laughter, and when they died, I thought the person I was then died, too. But I guess there’s still more of it in me than I gave myself credit for because all I want to do right now is sing.
“Oh my God, you’re adorable,” DJ says. “Just sing already before you explode.”
I grab DJ’s shoulders with both arms, singing straight into her face with zero shame, doing all the dramatic hand gestures Mom used to do.
Soon, DJ’s on her feet with me, her hands in mine, and jumping around, laughing because she doesn’t know the words.
We’re being so loud that I’d put money on Donny being able to hear us from his apartment over the garage.
I wonder if Nico can hear us. I can only imagine how annoying he must find this.
DJ catches her breath on the couch. The opening notes of Greased Lightnin’ are playing when a throat clears from the doorway. I spin around to find Griffin watching me.
“I’ve never heard singing in this house before.” His eyes find mine. “I assume you picked this?”
The smile wanes on my face, and I lower the vase I’ve been using as a microphone. “Got a problem?”
“Just didn’t peg you as the type.”
“The type to feel joy, or who knows how to have fun?” I jab the end of the vase toward him. “What kind of movies did you think I liked?”
“YouTube compilations of crow calls.”
“Hardy har har.” I swing my hips back and forth in my best impression of John Travolta. “Are you going to stand there and provide commentary, or are you going to join in?”
Griffin charges in, singing the lyrics so loudly I can only stare at him. I know I just urged him to join me, but I wasn’t expecting him to actually do it. He knows the words?