Chapter 31 #3
Peggy and I talk for an hour. It’s weird not looking at her while I talk to her, and at first the stage falls away.
She tells me about her house, about how she died (when she tried to climb a dresser and it fell on top of her, which she describes with a lot of enthusiasm and cursing), and about the people who’ve tried to get rid of her over the years when she pulled pranks on them.
I tell her about Bob, and she makes me promise to bring him to meet her next time.
“Animals can tell I’m here sometimes,” Peggy says, picking at another scale. “It’s fun to scare them, but I won’t scare your dog. Promise.”
Instead of her voice sounding like it’s coming through the walls of my theater, her voice starts coming in through the speakers.
I have to keep my eyes closed. How Nico can keep his walls up with his eyes open is beyond me.
But maintaining my walls with her is easier than with other ghosts.
Maybe because she’s not trying to hurt me.
“Does Peggy’s family know she’s a ghost?” I ask Nico on the walk back to the house.
“She stayed here to comfort her mom, but that was sixty years ago,” Nico says, hands deep in his pockets. “Her mom’s dead now. I’ve been looking for her anchor.”
I know it’s wrong and selfish, but part of me wishes Mom or Dad or Rosie loved me so much that they hadn’t moved on without me. I wish they had waited for me.
The next morning, I wait for Nico outside the containment door, my hands curled around a steaming mug of tea. Nico might avoid coffee, but who doesn’t like tea? And with the way he attacks ice cream, the honey I added should satisfy his sweet tooth.
I’m pretty sure the ectoplasm has all cleared my system.
Last time I threw up was the morning after I was contaminated, and I only coughed up one small glob since then.
I keep waiting for the crushing disappointment about Nico to fade with it, for my brain chemistry to normalize and make me realize I was just contaminated and horny and not hung up on a guy who kissed me once and then told me he never wanted to discuss it again.
Spoiler alert: it’s not working like that.
Turns out I’m pathetically into him, which is inconvenient but also something I need to be an adult about. He doesn’t want me. People are allowed not to want me. I’ve got plenty of experience with that. I can still be professional and friendly and not make this weird.
Hence the tea.
The containment door opens. Nico steps out, and my heart does a somersault that I curse myself for. Well, that’s not a great start to our professional relationship.
“Good morning,” I say, holding out the mug.
He examines the mug like I’m handing him a live grenade.
“It’s just tea,” I add when he doesn’t take it. “Not poisoned or anything.”
He takes the mug, his fingers positioned to avoid touching mine. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I smile at him even though he’s already turned and started down the steps. Cold air hits my face as I follow him down.
I’m getting better at keeping my walls up.
Yesterday, I stayed on my stage through an entire conversation with Richard Fenton while he tried to convince me that my dad would be ashamed of me, and I only slipped once.
At least I’m being useful while everyone waits for Morrow to emerge from whatever hole he’s hiding in.
Nico sets the tea on the floor next to the control panel.
“So, what are we doing today?” I pull my goggles on. “More practice with Fenton? Or are we moving up to someone stronger?”
“Neither.” Nico’s already flipping switches, bringing systems online. “I have an interview scheduled. Your job is to keep your walls up while I work.”
“Got it.” I cross my arms, trying not to shiver in the cold. “Who are we talking to?”
“I’m talking to Marianne Keller. Killed and ate four men between 1959 and 1967, and five more after her death. She murdered her husband, boiled his head and muscle tissue, and fed it to their children.”
“She boiled it?” I ask, nose curling. “Like a corned beef?”
“She possessed a number of women a few years ago,” Nico says. “She’s lucid during interviews. Not what I’d call pleasant, but easy to talk to. She’ll try to get in your head if you give her an opening.”
“I can do this,” I say, trying not to think of those poor women used not just as a tool for murder, but for cannibalism, too. Did Marianne make them eat their own husbands?
“I know you can,” he says. “Or else we wouldn’t be doing it.”
I pull up a chair from the corner and settle into position, closing my eyes and building my stage. The theater materializes around me. I focus on the solid wood under my feet, and on the rows of empty chairs stretching into the shadows. The curtains seal themselves. All the doors disappear.
I open my eyes as Nico presses the red button.
The smoke that trickles into the chamber isn’t like the others. It’s darker. Almost charcoal gray. It slithers through the air, coiling around itself as it rises, taking its time before forming the shape of a woman.
She looks to be around fifty or sixty years old, with shoulder-length hair pulled back in a low knot. A simple dress and apron hang over her gaunt frame, and a dark mole sits just above her lip.
I close my eyes before hers can pierce them.
“Marianne,” Nico says, and I hear him come stand next to me like always.
A tinny laugh echoes through my stage speakers.
“Oh, hello, loathsome boy.” Her voice drips with so much venom I can practically taste it. “What do you need from me today?”
Pressure builds on the other side of my stage walls, like someone testing a door to see if it’s locked. I focus on the feel of the solid stage under my feet, on the safety of the sealed wings around me.
Nico sighs. “We left off last time talking about Thomas.”
“Who’s this with you?”
Cold slithers down my spine. I survey the empty theater chairs, and when I turn my head, I jump.
Marianne is sitting in one of the audience seats about three rows from the stage, spine straight, her curious eyes locked on me. I can see the back of the chair through her translucent chest.
“Uh, Nico?” I whisper. “Is it normal that she’s in here?”
“She’s projecting.” There’s no alarm in his voice at all. “It’s fine. She’s not actually breaching your walls. Keep your eyes closed and maintain your walls.”
“Could have warned me,” I mutter under my breath.
I concentrate so hard my temples start to ache. Marianne tilts her head, her fingers drumming against the armrest.
“Marianne, this is Eden,” Nico says, his voice taking on that commanding tone he uses with the team. “She’ll be observing today.”
“Does Eden know how much danger she’s in?” The words come out soft but intentional, like she’s sliding a knife between ribs.
“I have some questions about your husband,” Nico says.
“I have no interest in talking to you,” Marianne snaps. “I want to talk to her.”
I say nothing. Just focus on the warmth of the spotlight on my face.
Marianne leans forward. “Men are such terrible liars, don’t you think?”
I let the words wash over me, forcing my face to give her nothing, even though my heart is hammering.
“They tell you they love you, but all they do is demand things from you, making themselves so loud that you have to make yourself small.” She pauses. “You’d know a thing or two about men lying to you, wouldn’t you, dear?”
“I actually wouldn’t.”
“This boy is lying right to your face.”
“We’re not here to discuss me,” Nico says, but his words come out breathy.
“Eden, you must stay away from him.” Marianne rises to her feet, gripping the back of the seat in front of her. “He’s Billy’s pet. Not to be trusted.”
What?
“Do you know how much danger you’re in, sitting so close to him?” Marianne asks. “Donald should never leave him alone with such a pretty thing like you.”
My concentration wobbles. “Nico, what is she talking about?”
“He lies!” she exclaims, and the sudden volume in my head makes me flinch. Her voice climbs to a hysterical volume, her words tumbling out in a rush as if she wants to get them out as fast as she can. “Everything he tells you is a lie!”
I hear Nico move. Marianne’s form drops through the floor of my theater like she’s being sucked down a drain, her screaming face disappearing into nothing.
My eyes fly open in the containment vault. The viewing chamber is empty. Swirling mist is being drawn back into the metal box through tubes and valves.
I rip the goggles off my face, mind racing. “Nico, what was she talking about?”
“She was baiting me.” Nico’s shutting down the containment system. “Trying to get through my walls.”
“By calling you Billy’s pet?” The words taste wrong.
“Ghosts say all kinds of shit when they want to get a rise out of you.” He keeps flipping switches. “You have to get used to it.”
I know that’s true. Marianne murdered and ate nine men. Of course she’d lie. But the panic that was in her voice is giving me a creeping feeling like something’s not right.
Nico’s jaw is locked so tightly I can see the muscle bulging under his skin. His hands are pressed flat against his thighs, fingers spread wide, and he clenches them into fists so hard his knuckles go white.
“Why was she surprised that Donny leaves you alone with me?” I ask.
Nico keeps working the controls.
“Why would she say I’m in danger?”
Still nothing. The containment system whirs as it cools. Nico flips switches harder than he should.
I push off the chair, stepping closer to him. “Nico, please. Why won’t you answer my questions?”
“Will you give it a rest?” he snaps.
“I’m just trying to understand why she got so—”
He slams his palm against the control panel hard enough to make the whole thing rattle. I take an involuntary step back.
“Stop asking questions about things that are none of your fucking business,” he yells.
His eyes drop to where his hand is still pressed against the control panel. When he pulls his hand away, it’s shaking. He staggers back a step, then bolts up the stairs, slamming the door behind him.
What the hell just happened?
I fumble under my hoodie sleeve until my fingers find the hair tie on my wrist, snapping it against my skin. The sting barely registers against the white noise filling my head.
I’ve had this feeling before. When I was sixteen, Tori started acting more tired than usual.
I knew she was on drugs—she’d dabbled in painkillers before, and I’d even joined her once or twice—but she’d never been this lethargic.
I had a bad feeling, but when I asked her straight up if she was doing heroin, she swore she wasn’t, but then dropped weight like crazy and stopped hanging out with me at all.
I knew she’d hate me for it, but I was scared for her, so I told our foster parents and her social worker got her into a rehab before she aged out of the system.
Sometimes, doing the right thing means people get mad. Tori has barely talked to me since then, and even now, things aren’t the same as they used to be, but at least she’s alive. I’d rather she be angry and alive than dead.
What if Billy’s been working on Nico this whole time? Wearing him down every time Nico comes to interview him? What if Billy has a plan to manipulate Nico into releasing him when he’s not in his right mind?
Nico would never do that. But manipulators make people do things they wouldn’t normally do all the time.
Billy’s had years to get inside Nico’s head.
I push the thought down. Donny would have known the risks. He must have kept an eye on Nico during Billy’s interviews, at least until his diagnosis. I’ve seen how wrecked Donny can get after a long day.
Maybe that’s when the manipulation started. It makes sense that Billy would try this when Nico’s alone, struggling with the prospect of losing someone he considers a father.
Does Donny suspect this, too? Has he been counting on finding Billy’s anchor before Billy wears Nico down?
Banning the only Type One on the team from the containment room would mean nothing new could be discovered in interviews. Finding anchors would be practically impossible.
So Nico continues working in the containment room without Donny.
There’s no safe way to dispose of Billy—except maybe launching him into a black hole—without destroying his anchor, but that can’t be found unless Billy slips up in an interview that can only be conducted by the very person he’s trying to manipulate.
Until I show up.
Could that be why Donny was so excited when I could also talk to ghosts?
But if that’s the case, wouldn’t Donny tell me?
Why wouldn’t Donny have DJ or Griffin watch in on Billy’s interviews? Sure, they can’t hear Billy, but neither can Donny. They could at least physically prevent Billy from being released.
It feels like I’m putting together a puzzle, but there are no edge pieces. Everything makes sense until it doesn’t.
Maybe Donny doesn’t know. Maybe he was just relieved to have stumbled on someone who could share the burden of confronting evil before he dies and leaves Nico with nothing but grief and responsibilities.
I should go to Donny with this. Even if he doesn’t suspect anything, I’m sure he’ll hear me out. He knows Billy is dangerous.
But if I’m wrong, and Donny speaks to Nico about this half-baked theory I’ve come up with the night after being rejected by him, based on one interview with a ghost who fed her husband to her children?
I don’t want Nico to hate me.
I also don’t want him to get hurt. I can’t help him if I don’t have every piece of the puzzle. I need to know what Billy’s doing so I can protect Nico from whatever game this ghost is playing.
I turn toward Billy’s containment drawer, adrenaline drumming in my ears. I’m alone in here.
I won’t get another opportunity like this.