Page 46 of Ghosts Don't Cry

He can’t hold my stare. His mouth opens, but no words form. Instead, he presses himself back against the wall, trying to put space between us.

I pat his cheek gently. He flinches. “See you around,Dan.”

The drive back to the house takes less than ten minutes. My hands are steady on the wheel, but my jaw aches from clenching. The confrontation with Dan has left adrenaline humming under my skin and no way to burn it off.

I carry everything inside and force myself to focus. The wiring won’t fix itself, and I’ve got better things to do than give Dan Hartman real estate in my head. I unroll the wire, mapping out the path it needs to take. The old circuits are a mess, junctions overloaded with decades of makeshift repairs. I start by pulling staples, and cutting away rotted insulation, making room for what comes next.

Hours pass. The light shifts through the windows, afternoon fading to dusk. My hands move on autopilot—strip wire, crimp connections, test voltage. The rhythm steadies me, and eases the tightness that’s been in my chest since Saturday night.

Since I saw her.

By the time I call it a day, my hands and back are aching. But the new wiring is in. And Dan’s words are still spinning in my head.

Let them talk. I don’t care if they’re wondering where the money came from, and what prison did to me. They can make up all the reasons they want for why I came back to a town that never wanted me in the first place.

I scrub my hands clean in the kitchen sink, watching as dirt and sweat swirls down the drain. The water is still running when a knock sounds at the front door. My shoulders tense.

It’s past seven. Who the hell?—

Tom is standing on the porch when I open the door, toolbox in hand.

“I saw you unloading supplies earlier. Thought you might want some extra tools while you’re working.”

I eye the toolbox, then him. “Got my own.”

“Sure you do.” He sets it down anyway. “But these belonged to Harris. I figured they should stay with the house.”

My heart picks up speed at the mention of his name, and I look down. The toolbox looks well-used, handles worn smooth from years of use.

“He used to putter around here on weekends,” Tom continues. “Never was much good at fixing things, but he said it kept him amused once he retired from teaching. Always said he was setting up the project for you.” He looks past me, and into the house. “Are you taking it room by room?”

I nod, not really wanting to invite more conversation.

“I’ll be leaving you to it then.” He turns to leave, then pauses. “Offer still stands, by the way. Friday drinks. No pressure, just some of the …nicer… neighbors.”

I don’t answer, and he walks away, whistling quietly under his breath.

Chapter Seventeen

LILY

I movethrough my morning routine on autopilot. Nothing feels right. The reading corner is wrong, and I adjust the placement of the beanbags, then shift them back again. The art station seems too empty, so I overfill it with supplies the kids won’t even use. I move the date marker from Friday to Monday, then back to Friday.

By the time the kids arrive, the usual morning chaos takes over. Zack barrels through the door already talking about sharks, while Melody needs three hugs before she lets go of her mom’s hand. The room fills with voices, movement, and the smell of fruit snacks.

It should ground me. It usually does when I feel out of sorts, but today, it’s like I’m watching my own life from the outside.

“Ms. Gladwin, are we time traveling today?” A voice pipes up from behind me.

I blink, and turn. Melody is pointing at the date board. “It’s Monday today, not Friday.”

Right. I clear my throat, forcing a smile. “I guess I forgot to change it.”

She nods, and goes to put her backpack on a hook.

My phone buzzes on the desk. It’s probably Cassidy. She knows I won’t reply during class, but it reminds me that I haven’t turned it off. I press the power button until the screen goes blank, and then put the phone in my desk drawer.

Michael tugs on my sleeve. “Ms. Gladwin, why do whales jump?”