Page 14

FOURTEEN

AMETHYST

What the hell does Relaney think she knows? I’m so busy schooling my features into a mask of innocence that I let her disappear behind a beaded curtain.

Curiosity burns my chest, lighting up a fire that propels me through the dangling barrier. All plans to hunker down in her spare room ignite into ashes. Desperate for answers, I follow her into a space twice the size of my living room.

It’s unlit, save for candles on the right side of the room by the window, which stand on an altar among a carriage clock, crystal balls, and cards. In the middle of the room, four men sit on the floor around a circular table, each giving me wide-eyed stares. I glance to the left, where at least three queen-sized mattresses lie side by side, covered in cushions, clothes, comforters, and clutter.

If I wasn’t so preoccupied with finding out what Relaney saw last night, I’d wonder why she’s accommodating a quartet of men in her lounge when her house is so much larger than mine.

I take a step further into the room, too annoyed by her cryptic accusation to be bothered by her flock, and glare into the back of her head. It reminds me of a dandelion seed. “What is it you think I’ve done?”

She turns around, her long lashes fluttering. “Your podcast,” she replies, her voice echoing through the room. “Didn’t you try to save your killer’s soul? You failed, by the way. I could have done a better job.”

My brows pull together. Is she talking about my livestream or the video that went viral? I haven’t podcasted since before the execution.

“The background music you played as you read out from his final letter,” she adds, seeming to answer my unasked question. “It’s called Ode to a Sinner.”

“Oh.” I rub the back of my neck, trying not to broadcast my relief. Looks like she didn’t see me drag a dead body through the backyard. “That thing you said about saving Xero’s soul, is that even possible?”

She sweeps her hand toward the four men sitting around the table. “My acolytes and I will show you the way.”

“Are you a priestess or something?” I focus on the strangers.

She points at a broad-shouldered man who might be attractive beneath his long hair and scraggly beard. “That’s Chappy, who’s training to be a medium.” Then she gestures at a much smaller, red-haired man wearing thick black glasses. “Ezekiel’s third eye is already open.”

My gaze moves on to two tall, black-haired men who I’m sure are brothers. When she doesn’t introduce them, the larger of the pair raises a hand. “I’m Sparrow and this is Wilder.”

“Hi,” I say.

Relaney walks to the table, shoving the brothers aside, who both rise and stand against the wall. My brow furrows, but I don’t ask why she’s being so rude. Maybe she’s ignoring them because they’ve overstayed their welcome.

She gestures at me to sit on their recently vacated cushion. I cast the brothers an apologetic wince, but they shake their heads as though they’re used to being dismissed.

“Come on, dear.” She beckons me over, making her bracelets clink.

I lower myself onto the brothers’ seat.

Chappy offers me a large hand. “Hey.”

I shake it, noticing the rough calluses. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same, babe,” he says, his voice lowering .

Relaney leans across the table, kisses Ezekiel, and shoots Chappy a sly glance. Chappy brings my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles.

I pull away, not wanting to get caught up in their relationship drama. “You said something about the afterlife?”

“Of course,” Relaney says, her voice returning to the breathy whisper. “Xero Greaves suffered a traumatic death and caused many others. As such, his spirit is trapped between worlds. It’s my duty as a spiritualist to guide him to the correct resting place.”

I bow my head and stare down at the tablecloth. There’s a reason I avoid my neighbor. Spiritualism, souls, and supernatural subjects are bullshit. When we die, our minds die with us and that’s it. Nothing. We cease to exist.

It explains why I don’t remember anything about my childhood. Mom says I was sitting in the backseat of the car when there was a collision. Somehow, I’d unbuckled my seatbelt, and the impact had me flying through the windshield, then I was hit by another vehicle.

The paramedics pronounced me dead, but Mom begged them to perform CPR, which restarted my heart. I don’t have any memory of the coma or my short stay in rehab, and can only recall snippets from the time I spent recovering from my injuries at home.

Listening to Relaney is a long shot, but I have nothing to lose. And I’m in no position to demand that she accommodate me for the night without even attempting to be social. If there’s a chance that part of Xero still lingers here in limbo, then I’ll do what I can to help him move on.

“When you say resting place, do you mean heaven and hell?” I ask.

Chappy takes my hand again. “There’s no such thing, babe. Just different planes of existence.”

I slide my hand out of his grip and tuck both of them in my lap. “What does that mean?”

“Organized religion is how the establishment keeps people under control,” Relaney says. “Follow our orders in the living world so you get rewarded in the next. It’s the ultimate scam.”

Ezekiel and Chappy nod along. When I glance at the wall toward the brothers, Sparrow stuffs his hands in his pockets and shrugs, while Wilder rolls his eyes. It looks like they share my skepticism.

“So, what’s out there when people die?” I ask, just to keep the conversation going.

Relaney lays her hands on the table, palms upward. She closes her eyes, inhales a deep breath, and says, “When we pass from this life, our spirits continue evolving to higher planes of existence. We reflect on the lessons from our past lives and decide if we wish to return for another.”

“Reincarnation?”

“Precisely,” she says with a nod. “Death is simply a transition, and your killer is trapped between realms.”

“I thought they were planes?”

“Shall we begin with a seance?” she asks, ignoring my question.

“Why not?” I mutter, not wanting to be an ungrateful guest.

This pseudoscience about spirits might be bullshit, but at least I’m not stuck at home being watched by a stalker pretending to be Xero. Or being haunted by Xero’s ghost. Or hallucinating JakeRake69’s rotting corpse.

I really don’t know what to think about what’s happening, but one thing is for sure: I’m safer here with Relaney and her acolytes.

She instructs us to lay our hands on the table, palms-down with our fingers spread, so each hand connects with their neighbors’. Chappy twines his pinky around mine and winks. I glance at Relaney, who either hasn’t noticed or is too absorbed in the ritual to care.

After telling us to close our eyes and focus on our breath, she makes a long speech about the universe. I can’t focus on anything she’s saying through Sparrow and Wilder’s mocking laughter.

I’m beginning to understand why she acts like they don’t exist.

Ignoring them, she asks, “Is anybody out there? If there are any spirits present, please make yourselves known.”

“Got your spirit right here,” Sparrow mutters.

I crack open an eye to find him swigging a bottle of Armagnac. Closing my eyes, I hide a smile. What a dick .

Relaney gasps. “Someone’s here! Spirit. Knock three times to announce your presence.”

Three knocks echo through the room. My eyes snap open and I glance around the table, finding everyone sitting around it with their hands still connected. When I look at the brothers, they smirk.

My eyes narrow. What the hell do they think they’re doing?

“Wonderful!” Relaney says, her voice quickening. “Let’s ask the spirit some questions. One knock for yes, two knocks for no. Alright?”

One knock sounds through the room and it doesn’t come from the brothers. Relaney's and the other two men’s hands are visible atop the table. I glance at Sparrow, who passes his bottle to Wilder and folds his arms.

“Very good. Are you at peace, spirit?” Relaney asks, her eyes still closed.

Two knocks.

My throat tightens, and I glance around the room. Maybe there’s another acolyte standing in the hallway, faking these answers. That might explain these responses. I steal another glance at Sparrow, who shakes his head.

“We hear you, spirit," she says, her voice softening. “Is there anything we can do to help ease your burden?”

One knock.

“Shouldn’t we identify it first?” I ask.

There’s a pattern of knocks, a combination of singles and doubles. I stare, wide-eyed, at Sparrow, who stares back with mirrored confusion. They repeat over and over until Ezekiel gasps.

“It’s Morse code.” His face scrunches.

“What’s he saying?” Relaney asks.

“H…Y… S… T… A… M… E… T… H?—”

“Amethyst,” I say. “Who is this?”

The knocks change rhythm, and Ezekiel translates. “E… R… O… X… E…”

I bow my head, my eyes stinging. How is this even happening?

“Xero Greaves?” Relaney squeaks .

One knock.

My lips tighten. This is where I draw the line. Xero wouldn’t float into Relaney’s house to communicate with me via Morse code… Would he? Or am I being too skeptical?

Memories of our conversations flood my mind—his soothing voice, the way he made me feel understood and cherished. Each memory is a caress and a sharp pain, a reminder of the love we shared. His attention was my sanctuary, his letters my refuge. The thought of never hearing his voice again, never experiencing our connection, crushes my spirit.

What would it cost me to cover my bases and say hello? Nothing. What would it cost to remain hardheaded? More haunting. More creepy messages. More needing to call the police. More chances of someone discovering what I did last night.

“Is it really you?” I croak.

One knock.

“Did you come back for closure, because I can explain.”

Two knocks.

“No? Then what do you want?”

He starts another sequence of knocks, spacing them out, making me wonder if it’s a long sentence. I turn to Ezekiel, who tilts his head, his eyes still closed behind his thick glasses.

“What’s he saying?” I whisper.

He grimaces. “F… U… C… K… Space. K… I… L… L… Space. C… L… A… I… M.”

Wilder chokes on his mouthful of brandy and drops the bottle, which hits the floor with a smash, sending shards of glass across the room. Sparrow slams his fist on his brother’s back, his features morphing into panic.

Nobody around the table seems bothered about the commotion, appearing too preoccupied to care that one of their friends is choking.

“Are you alright?” I ask.

Two knocks.

I wasn’t talking to him. Straightening, Sparrow leans against the wall and gives me a half-hearted thumbs up.

“P… U… S… S… Y,” Ezekiel adds.

“Oh, my,” Relaney says, her cheeks darkening.

“Who do you want to kill?” I ask.

“I’m losing him,” Relaney says. “Everybody, please focus.”

I close my eyes again, my insides twisting with unease. How much of this is real? The wool tablecloth is itchy against my palm, and Chappy’s finger pulls against mine. Nobody in the room is the source of the knocks, and I doubt that Ezekiel is faking his translation of Morse code.

It’s a prison guard. Some man in the penitentiary who’s become obsessed with me and my pussy-scented letters, has analyzed my every movement, and predicted I would have nowhere else to run by here. That’s too far-fetched. Would a man in full-time employment really break into my neighbor’s house to harass me via Morse code?

Or maybe Xero really is out there, fuming at me for ruining his last few hours of life. I’m seeing all kinds of crazy shit right now, so why would the explanation of what’s happening be logical? I don’t blame Xero for his anger, but I don’t understand the fuck and kill and claim? If ghosts can’t touch anything, what’s the source of the knocks?

“Are you back, spirit?” Relaney asks.

An explosion has my eyes snapping open. I turn to the other side of the room, where sparks fly out of a stereo, setting one of the mattresses alight.

“Shit.” Chappy scrambles off his cushion, his large body upending the table. He rushes across the room and smothers the fire with a comforter.

Rising, Ezekiel stretches before walking over to help his fellow acolyte.

Relaney pats my shoulder, turning my attention away from the spectacle. “Don’t worry about that. Spiritual activity causes electrical surges, and the one we summoned tonight was powerful. I’m sorry we couldn’t put Xero to rest, but we can try again tomorrow night.”

“You don’t mind?” I croak.

“I’d be honored to be a character in the conclusion of your podcast,” she replies, her lashes fluttering. “Would you like me to show you to your room?”

“Thanks,” I murmur. “For everything.”

By the time I’m on my feet again, the brothers watching over us have gone.