“I can’t,” she said. “It’s Tristan, he’s—”
“Are you serious?” John boomed. “I thought Fran was exaggerating about you and this ghost thing. I’m so glad Tristan’s not here to see this shit. You’re out of your fuckin’ mind.”
Tristan moved from the door now. He hovered at John’s side, and Ashley pictured the two of them like they used to be. John’s hatred was deeper than anger; it was pain. He wasn’t the only one who hadn’t gotten to say goodbye. She looked at Tristan, but he had no answers. His stance was slouched. Mournful. He was sad for John—sad for what his friend had become.
“I can’t explain it, but Tristan’s trying to show me something.” Ashley took a deep breath. “If you let me follow him, I promise I’ll leave you alone. If I’m wrong, it doesn’t hurt anything.”
“I don’t want you to leave us alone, Ash,” John said. “I want you to go back to normal.”
Tristan moved back to the door and faded through it. Ashley couldn’t wait for John to cooperate anymore. She had to make a move. She darted for the door, but John was quicker. He lunged for her, balled-up fist aimed for her face. Ashley flinched, braced for impact, but there was none. A heavy thump sounded in front of her. She opened her eyes just as Alejo threw open the front door. Between them, John Paris crumpled to the living room floor, unconscious.
Ashley blinked.
Fran stood behind him, shaking fingers clenched around a hefty wooden bookend. She dropped it and clapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”
“Fran…” Ashley trailed off. “I’m…”
“Just go,” Fran said. Her voice shook. “I’ll stay here.”
Ashley nodded. She and Alejo opened the door to a shoddily carpeted staircase. They made their way into the basement and Alejo pulled a ThermoGeist from his back pocket, holding it in front of him. It lit up bright red, just like it had at the cemetery, and his lips curled into a grimace.
Tristan hovered midway down the stairs and turned to face the far wall. He was less, suddenly—only a whisper of the Tristan who had been with them upstairs. Ashley squinted her eyes to see him properly. She thought he looked afraid.
“It was here,” she whispered. “This is where you—”
“Died,” Alejo breathed. He held a hand to his chest. “I’m not a perfect psychic, but this … I feel it here.”
“I do, too,” Ashley said, though she wasn’t sure what it was she felt. It was deep and dark and cold. It sat in her chest like mildew and made it hard to breathe. She tried to see Tristan’s face, but he was more shadow than human. She wasn’t sure if her fear was her own or if it was his. She tasted the tang of it on her tongue. Tristan quivered, too weak to hold his fear inside. It seeped out of him and into Ashley. In this basement, death was all there was.
“Tristan,” Alejo said. He rubbed at his jaw, like he was waiting for the right words to come to him. “I … thank you for bringing us here. I know you’re afraid. But you’re so brave, too.”
Tristan turned to face them. It was hard to tell if he meant to block them from going any further into the basement or if he wanted them to go on without him. His gaze moved from Ashley to Alejo, and she wished the two of them could’ve met when Tristan was alive. She wished that Brandon and Alejo could’ve saved him before he disappeared. She wished they weren’t always working in reverse, trying to understand what was already done.
Finally, Tristan drifted the rest of the way down the stairs and paused. Ashley followed, and the basement opened up around her. It was a basement like any other. A TV was mounted on the wall, faced by a plaid love seat and a plain coffee table. A washer and dryer were pushed against the staircase. On the far wall, the Paris family had a tool bench and an ironing board. It was all normal, except for the cloying dread that wedged its way up Ashley’s throat.