“She only went because of what I said.”
Fran was silent.
“Fran—” Ashley started.
“I’m sorry,” Fran said, sharp as a knife’s edge. “I can’t talk to you about this.”
“Fran, I’m…”
“’Night, Ashley.”
There was a beep, and the call ended.
Ashley sank to her mattress and stared at the window. She couldn’t remember what it felt like to breathe without this knotted mess of anxiety between her lungs. This town was wrong; this world was wrong.
There was a shift in the air of the room. It brought the quiet close to Ashley’s throat, smothering the sound of the wind. Ashley turned to face the door. She couldn’t quite see him, but Tristan was there. In the weeks after Bug’s death, his spirit lingered all the time, watching her, waiting for something she didn’t know how to give him. Maybe he wanted to lead her somewhere again. Maybe there was another body. If so, she ignored it. She’d found enough bodies in this town—someone else could find it this time.
“What do you want?” Ashley asked. She didn’t have the Scripto8G this time, so there was no real way for him to respond. But she asked anyway.
The air shifted. It crackled, alive with static for a moment, and then it loosened. For the first time since he’d started visiting her, it was like he listened. He was leaving.
“Wait.” Ashley clambered to the end of her bed. “Don’t go.”
The air came alive again. The pungent scent of fuel blossomed under her nose, flickering like a dying flame. For a moment, Ashley could almost see him. She saw the shape of him, at least. A cool draft blew through the window, skirting Ashley’s hair over her shoulder, but Tristan was undisturbed.
“You’re the only one left,” Ashley said.
The air lost pressure like a plane in turbulence. There was only silence. Ashley lay back across her bed. The blankets smelled like stale detergent and dust and she wished she could just sink down through the mattress, through the floorboards, and into the dirt. She wished she could cover herself in soil and burrow until this was all over. She wished she could emerge back in January and do it all differently.
When she spoke, it was only a whisper. “I think you might be dead.”
Tristan’s reaction to this was strange. Like smoke from a field fire, Tristan emerged from the dark. His hands were balled into fists, jaw sharp with tension like he was fighting to hold something back. He walked toward her, stilted and jarring like he could hardly manage it. The sight of him made fear catch in Ashley’s throat, but she stayed calm.
“I wish I could do our last night over,” Ashley said, pushing past the way her voice shook and her eyes watered. “I would explain it differently so you’d understand. I wish I could talk to you back then.”
Tristan’s ghost was silent, as always. He stood at the end of her bed and cocked his head to the side in a curious gesture that was so Tristan it hurt.
“I would’ve made sure you knew how much I loved you. I said I didn’t, but that’s not what I meant. I just didn’t love you like I thought I was supposed to. You were my best friend. Just because it wasn’t like—”
Ashley blinked. The house was silent with night and she was left dizzy and breathless. She didn’t know what she’d meant to compare it to. Or, she did know, but she didn’t mean to think it. It was too quick, too easy to say her name.
“It’s not fair,” Ashley said. “You and me should’ve worked…”
Tristan looked at her, and she imagined him like he was before. He would sit at the edge of her bed with his hands on his knees. He’d laugh at the roundabout way she explained everything. You’re being so vague, he’d tell her. Just say what you mean.