Page 44 of Ghosts Don't Cry

I try to look at her, but my vision is fading at the edges, dark spots creeping in. Her face swims in and out of focus. There are tears on her cheeks.

When did she start crying?

“Ronan?” Her voice sounds far away now, like she’s calling from the other end of a long tunnel. “Please stay awake. You need to take these first. Please.”

I want to answer. I want to tell her something … what, I don’t know.

Thank you, maybe. Or leave. Or don’t tell anyone.

But darkness pulls me under before I can form the words. The last thing I feel is her hand in mine. It’s small, and warm, and steady, anchoring me while everything else slips away.

The last thing I hear is her voice, breaking on my name.

“Ronan. Stay with me. Please stay with me.”

Consciousness slips away. I try to hold on—to her voice, to her hand, to the warmth of the blanket—but it’s useless.

Rick’s voice echoes from somewhere far away.

“No one’s gonna save you, kid.”

Maybe he’s right.

The last thought I have before everything goes black is that I missed the test.

Chapter Sixteen

RONAN

Wilson’s Hardwareopens at eight. I’m there at eight-oh-five, notebook in hand. Replacing the electrical panel is today’s priority, before the house burns down.

The bell above the door announces my arrival. The store is empty except for someone stocking shelves at the far end, so I head straight for the electrical aisle.

“Wondered when I’d see you.”

Dan Hartman steps out from behind a display of power tools, wearing a red store vest. Seven years haven’t been kind to him. The muscle from his football days has gone soft around his middle, and broken capillaries map his nose, evidence of too many beers, and not enough else to do. But that sneer is exactly the same.

He doesn’t look surprised to see me, but news travels fast in this town, so that isn’t unexpected.

“Heard you moved into a place on Cedar Street.” His eyes track over the tattoos on my arms. “Figured you’d show up for supplies at some point.”

I ignore him, and turn to check the wire gauges. The panel needs to be completely replaced, which means a total rewire of the first floor.

“Must be nice.” He moves closer. It’s deliberate, testing to see how I respond. “Being able to afford that neighborhood now. Real step up from where you used to sleep.”

My jaw tightens. He’s trying to get a reaction by reminding me of who I used to be. But times have changed, and so have I.

“I need a breaker panel.” I turn to face him fully, and wait while my height advantage registers.

He doesn’t back up, but something flickers in his eyes. Recognition, maybe, or acknowledgement that the skinny, starving teen he used to shove into lockers isn’t what’s standing in front of him now. His fingers twitch against his thigh. He used to do that as a kid … right before he threw a punch.

“Seven years since they dragged you out of here.” He tries to make it sound casual, and fails. “Prison changed you that much?”

“Do you really want to find out?”

Color floods his face. His fingers ball into fists, and for a second, I think he might actually try something. I almost hope he does. The air between us crackles with unfinished business.

“Town’s been talking.” His voice rises. “About how you got that house, and where the money came from.”