Chapter 24
It’s astonishing how easily people allow you into their homes. In twenty-nine years, I can count on one hand the number of people who have asked to see my credentials.
—Wheels Upside-Down: My Time with the FBI, a memoir by Donald Dellman
Everyone’s already gathered around Zoey’s open bedroom door.
I have to blink to adjust to how dark it is in here.
Blackout curtains are drawn tight. At least four monitors cast everything in an eerie blue glow.
LED strip lights line the ceiling, and empty energy drink cans cover her desk, making the air smell like artificial cherry.
Donny stands inside with her, resting one hand on the back of her chair. He doesn’t look to be as short on time as the doctor said. Sure, he looks a little ill, but not like he’s on death’s door.
There’s a familiar pressure in my throat, a lump I keep trying to swallow down, but it won’t go away. I barely know Donny. I have no right to be sad the way everyone else here does, but I hate that I’m never going to have the chance to really know him before he’s gone.
Zoey talks us through her compiled list, running parameters until there are twenty-three names left on the screen.
“Can you narrow it down any more?” Griffin asks.
“Nope,” Zoey says. “Not unless you want to sacrifice accuracy.”
“What if you tried really hard?” Griffin asks. “Or maybe believed in yourself a little more?”
“I’m going to stick this mechanical pencil in your eye.”
“Can you rank them by probability?” Donny interrupts, unfazed by them. “Based on the strength of the match to our profile?”
“Already did.” A bunch of names come up in yellow text on the screen. “These are our twenty-three most likely perpetrators, ranked by how many criteria they meet in descending order.”
Donny leans so close to the screen that it’s almost comical, adjusting his glasses as he goes through the names. “Zoey?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Great work.”
The lines on Zoey’s forehead soften, and she glances up at Donny. “Thank you, sir.”
Donny wants us to speak to every person on the list, which will require a full team effort.
“Nico, you’ll go with Benji,” Donny says.
Nico’s coming?
I turn to DJ, but she’s watching Nico with a careful expression.
We’re not alone in our surprise. Benji’s looking at Nico too, head tilted like a curious puppy.
Griffin’s making a weird face out the window, and Zoey’s scrolling on her computer, her eyes fixed straight ahead instead of following the screen.
Nico looks calm, like he expected this. If he sees the others reacting to the news, he doesn’t show it.
I guess, technically, DJ didn’t say Nico doesn’t do field work at all—she said Nico doesn’t do field work unless necessary. Maybe this is necessary because of how urgent the case is.
“DJ will stay with me,” Donny continues with a pleasant smile. “Eden, you’ll accompany Griffin and aid him in any way he sees fit.”
The meeting ends with Donny’s firm suggestion that we get some sleep before we all roll out at dawn.
Griffin flings a casual arm around my shoulders, pulling me against him for only a heartbeat before letting me go. I could shut this down, but honestly? I do need to blow off some steam, and Griffin’s made it pretty clear he’s interested.
But not tonight. Obviously.
I sag against the carpet, the fibers smoothed by the plastic clinging to my cheek. I force my body to go limp.
Stanley Daniels leans over me, his face distorted through the fogged plastic.
My chest burns like someone has dropped a match inside my lungs.
The edges of my vision start to gray out, and I’m not sure how much longer I can hold on when he finally steps back.
He grabs Rosie’s arm—she’s crying, begging him to stop, her face pink and her voice a high-pitched wail—and he drags her out of the room.
The second their footsteps fade down the hallway, I move.
My teeth find the plastic, and I’m biting down hard, thrashing my head side to side like a dog with a chew toy. The bag is thick. My teeth keep sliding off. Every passing second makes me panic more. I don’t stop until I taste air again.
The hole is barely big enough to suck air through, but I don’t care. I pull as much oxygen through that tiny gap as I can.
My hands are tied behind my back, but I manage to get my feet under me and stand.
Rosie. I need to help Rosie.
But what am I going to do? My hands are bound too tightly to wriggle free. The plastic bag is duct-taped around my neck, and I can’t make the hole any bigger. Each breath is a struggle.
I need to get a grown-up.
I rush to the upstairs window and turn around, maneuvering my body so I can grip the lock. My fingers tingle as I strain against the ropes, but I push the window open enough to crawl through. We’re up on the second floor. I don’t have time to think about the drop.
I kick the fly screen out and launch myself out of the window.
There’s a loud snap. Pain whites out my vision, and I clamp down on my tongue to stop my scream.
I run before I’m ready. Pain is information. PAIN IS INFORMATION. Every step sends lightning bolts of agony up my leg, but I don’t stop. I kick the neighbor’s door until Mr. Norris opens it, his face paling when he sees—
I wake up, gripping the edge of the comforter as I come into a sitting position. My left leg throbs as I run my hands over the long scar on my shin, reminding my body that the bone healed years ago. Bob licks my chin, his soft tongue grounding me back in the present.
It’s close enough to morning, so I take Bob outside for a leisurely explore, then feed him his breakfast along with his pain pill and a few drops of CBD oil I picked up from the vet to try.
I set him up in my room with water, my balled-up comforter, and the T-shirt I wore to sleep, then close the door so he doesn’t hurt his leg by going down the stairs looking for me.
There’s a light already on in the prep room when I head downstairs. Guess I’m not the only early riser.
I round the corner to find Nico standing with his back to me, and come to an ungainly stop.
Oh.
He’s standing in front of his open locker in nothing but the lower half of a baggy jumpsuit.
My eyes travel over his broad shoulders, and then all the muscles in his back that taper down to a narrow waist. He’s lean, but clearly strong.
I knew he had tattoos, but I had no idea how many have been hiding under his shirt.
The bones on his hands morph into arm bones that extend to his shoulders.
I glimpse barbed wire, snakes, spiders, lightning cracking across one shoulder—he even has a section on his ribcage that is drawn almost 3D, like his skin has been peeled back to display anatomically correct ribs with red sinew and muscle visible under it.
He has a nice body. Easily the nicest body I’ve ever seen, which isn’t saying a ton.
It’s not like I’ve seen many shirtless men.
Dylan also had a nice body, but he was all real-world muscle from years of lifting heavy things, and he had a healthy layer of pudge from enjoying his preferred vices.
There’s no pudge anywhere on Nico. He has the kind of body that’s only built from spending hours at the gym and having the kind of discipline not to enjoy any vices at all.
I shouldn’t compare the two. It’s messed up, but Nico’s body is not the kind of body people like me usually get to see.
People like Nico are more likely to go for disciplined girls who take care of themselves.
Or who go running. Maybe not at two in the morning, but at least more than when they’re forced to.
I’m staring at him. I know I’m doing it, but I also can’t pull my eyes away from every line of ink, every ridge of muscle, and his abs, which I’ve only allowed myself to imagine at night. The real thing is so much better.
Nico turns around, barely registering my existence. He threads his arms through the sleeves of his jumpsuit and turns back to his locker.
I force my legs to my locker, yanking the stiff mechanism open to find khakis and a navy windbreaker identical to the one Nico’s wearing. Apparently, we’re all disguising ourselves as health inspectors today, which is funny because ghosts are kind of the ultimate health code violation.
I try not to look at Nico even though my subconscious is focused on him. “I thought you never did field work.”
“I go where Donny needs me,” he says, focusing on zipping his jumpsuit.
I pull out my own jumpsuit and pause, holding it up against my body and finding it’s—the right size?
DJ—or whoever loaded our locker with the disguises for the day—must have found a smaller jumpsuit and put it in here for me. I’m not complaining. I change into it in the bathroom, and I don’t have to roll up my sleeves or pant legs.
When I get back, I notice something else in my locker: a pair of earplugs sits on the top shelf, but they’re not the foam kind. These look almost like earbuds, with soft silicone rims packed with a white, granular material.
Salt.
“What are these?” I ask Nico, even though I think I already know.
“I made them for you.”
I pick one up, turning it over in my fingers as I try to reconcile the guy who begged Donny to send him away from me with the guy who apparently spent hours making custom ghost-blocking earplugs.
“I don’t know if they’ll function the way you need them to,” he says. “I still don’t understand how your abilities work, but we can adjust over time. These should help keep out at least some of the sounds you pick up. If you decide you want to wear them.”
I slide one earplug into my ear. The world immediately dulls, the volume on everything turning down. The salt-packed rim sits snugly against my ear canal, but the silicone is soft and doesn’t scratch me.
“This won’t leak salt into my ear, will it?” I try to sound casual.
He shrugs, one shoulder lifting. “Guess we’ll find out.”