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His head drops further. “Fuck. I should have done more than whistle. I should have helped you with Patrice. I was a coward, Nic. Too chickenshit to stop my friends. Too chickenshit to warn you when I couldn’t stop them. Too chickenshit to step up, let you see it was me and help with Patrice. I look back now, and I’m so fucking ashamed of myself.”

I say nothing.

After a moment, he continues, his voice hoarse. “After… what happened. The second time. I had to come clean. I told my parents what we did the first time. I wanted to go to the police, but my parents said it wouldn’t help. I wasn’t there the nightithappened. Cody and Mike weren’t either—we’d all gone to a movie. What we did that first time was wrong, but we had nothing to do with what happened later, and my parents said if we went to the police, they might turn it around and find a way to blame us for the rest.”

I nod, silently, still working it through.

His gaze rises, finally meeting mine. “I still should have gone to the police. Yes, we weren’t there the night…” He swallows. “Thenight you went back. I wish I had been. I wish to God I had been. But my parents were wrong that we had nothing to do with it. If we hadn’t played that stupid prank, Patrice might never have gotten it into her head that she was possessed, that Roddy or whatever got into her. We set into motion the chain of events that led to what happened, and I have never forgiven myself for that.”

When I look into his eyes, I know he believes what he’s saying. To him, the answer is obvious—they caused what happened to Patrice. But it’s not that simple. I remember that night, the noises and voices Heather and I heard, how we’d looked over at Patrice, and she hadn’t seemed to even hear them.

Yes, Anton should have warned us that his friends planned to fake a haunting. But teens are notorious for poor choices. Anton decided the best course of action was to accompany Cody and Mike to monitor them. Wasn’t that the same reason I went? To monitor my friends while they did something stupid because I didn’t know how to stop them from doing it?

His whistle had brought us to Patrice. I can wish he’d done more, but we’d been able to handle it after that. He’d stayed in the shadows out of fear. To him, their fake haunting had sent Patrice running into the woods, and he didn’t dare admit he was there.

In that coffee shop, I saw the anguish he still felt after nearly two decades. That told me the sort of person he was, and that’s when I decided I didn’t want a date with him… I wanted more.

Yes, Anton had picked shitty friends, but we’d both been at that age where we needed friends and we could make bad choices.

His parents stopped him from confessing, and now he can look back and say he should have gone to the police, but what sixteen-year-old would do that? His parents convinced him that their prank hadn’t caused the rest, and he desperately wanted to believe that.

If their prankdidinfluence what came later, it was an unforeseeable consequence. Anton wasn’t there the second time we went into the forest. He had nothing to do with that.

Now, sitting on the bed, picturing him in that booth, I remember how I’d been struck by his guilt and remorse.…

I’d been struck by the depth of it. Such regret for a mistake his friends would have long forgotten. I’d taken it as a sign he was a good man, empathetic and compassionate.

But what if there was a reason his guilt outweighed his crime?

The night he died, lying on the roadside, when he said he had something to confess, my gut had seized, not wanting to hear it, afraid…

Afraid there was more to the story than what he told me in that coffee shop.

On that roadside, had he seemed to hesitate? To pause and then confess to something sweet, admitting he hadn’t hired me by accident?

What if he’d been about to say something else? Something about that night, and then he stopped himself and changed direction?

What had he really been about to say?

I take a shower after that. With everything that happened this morning, I’d skipped mine, and now I really need it. A hot shower and plenty of soap, enough to scrub any traitorous thoughts from my brain.

I’m in the shower long enough for the water to run cold. Then I grab a towel, about to step out when I stop myself. The shower has handrails for people with mobility issues, and I use those and then I dry myself off completely. I don’t step on the bath mat. I don’t walk with wet feet. I am taking no chances.

I dress quickly and head for the bedroom door, suddenly eager for company. I throw it open, step out, and…

I don’t slip, per se. It’s like before, when I stepped on the rug and overcorrected. But there’s something under my stockinged foot that slides, and I grab the doorway as if I stepped on a banana peel.

I look down to see…

There are ashes on the floor. A scattering of ashes right outside my door.

My brain short-circuits, and my breath stops. All I can see is me carrying the box with Anton’s ashes, being careless with it, the lid somehow opening and cremains falling.

Except the cremains are downstairs. I forgot to bring them up again.

Did someone else touch them? Was someone careless with my husband’s remains?

Braced against the wall, I gently remove the sock that slipped as I try not to think of what I stepped on, the horror of that almost as terrible as the horror of my thoughts twenty minutes ago, wondering whether Anton had anything to do with the tragedy from our past.