Page 6

Summer

T he night my parents died was the end of my life as a so-called normal seventeen-year-old. I lost a whole year of memories, including the details of the horrific night itself. To stay sane, and so I can stop blaming myself, I really need to get those memories back.

I have to know what happened. And, unfortunately, there’s only one person who can help me.

I check the time on my cell. Almost ten a.m.

A creature of habit if I’ve ever met one, I know exactly where he’ll be on any given Saturday morning—Angelina’s. Downtown. And thankfully, an easy fifteen-minute walk from Gravenshade Hall.

As I set off down the street, I double-check my outfit, making sure I didn’t forget anything important, like shoes—or pants.

I’m wearing a black mesh top over a fitted tank, the tattoos on my arms of creeping vines and purple irises on full display. And finally, black cargo shorts and ankle boots. Good. No accidental nudity today .

It’s peak Saturday morning vibes in the neighborhood.

Everyone’s pretending they’re not hungover and playing happy families while guzzling iced lattes.

A guy juggling oranges on a unicycle rides by like that’s totally normal, and I smile at the third golden retriever I’ve seen since I locked my front door.

Halfway to the cafe, I hear the squeak and rattle of Zylah’s thrift-store bike before I see her. I look up just in time to watch her swerve around an elderly man with a shopping bag and give him a jaunty wave.

She pulls up alongside me, the outside of her closed basket decorated with flowers she dried herself—baby’s breath, lavender, and marigold.

Without looking, I know it contains her roadkill-collecting kit, a morbid contrast to her bright lipstick and the orange-and-green shift dress she wears over Lycra pants.

“Hoping to find some new victims for your dark arts on your way back from jujitsu class?” I tease as she grins and swings off her bike, then pushes it beside me with a jaunty bounce in her step.

She wipes sweat from her brow on the sleeve of her dress. “I almost nailed a shoulder throw today,” she says proudly. “Except I forgot to let go, so I kind of flung myself straight onto the mat. Ten out of ten for drama, zero for technique.”

The cicadas screech louder with the rising heat of the morning, either complaining about the weather or trying to get laid. Guess I’ll never know for sure.

“That’s unlike you,” I say. “Your moves are usually lethal.”

“I was a bit distracted.”

“Why? ”

Zylah grins. “Heard on the taxidermists’ forum a family of armadillos caused a car crash this morning on Myrtle Street, just past the quail farm. If I’m lucky, I might find a reasonably intact critter to work on.”

“Mm, tasty. I was wondering what was on tonight’s dinner menu,” I joke, earning myself a poke in the ribs that I immediately return, sending Zylah and her bike wobbling over the sidewalk.

She laughs as she steadies it. “Hey, I just read your post on the McGonnamy Murders. So creepy. Bet you’d like to run a ghost tour through their house someday soon.”

“Thanks. And, yeah, I sure fucking would.” I pop a last bubble of my tasteless gum, then fold it in its wrapper before pocketing it.

“Five family members taken out on the same night by a cousin that they’d kept in the attic his entire adult life.

The paranormal angst in that house will be off the charts.

And who knows, one of the sadly departed might even know my dad. ”

Something cold tickles the back of my neck. I glance over my shoulder. Nothing there now. But I bet there’s a shy ghost hiding behind a nearby tree, expecting me to sort out its afterlife.

Frowning, Zylah clicks her tongue. “Summer, I know you didn’t kill your parents. Deep down you know it too. If there was even a chance you’re the culprit, you’d probably be in prison right now. When will you let it go?”

“Probably… uh… never.”

“You’re hopeless, and no doubt heading off to ruin you-know-who’s breakfast again,” she says, glancing at her cellphone. “Shit, I’m running late for my shift. Better scoot. See you for dinner when we’ll talk about that rather large wolf sleeping in our basement, right? ”

My shoulders drop, and I sigh.

“ Right ?” she presses.

“Right,” I reluctantly agree as she cycles off down the leafy street, ringing her bell at a pedestrian, even though she’s the one who should be riding on the road.

Given Zylah’s obsession with the dead, she should be consumed with jealously because I’m the one who can see ghosts. But she’s not. She’s a happy little sunshine-hearted creep. Unlike me… a depressed, potential murderess.

A soft voice brushes my ear. Don’t forget to ask him about the ash .

I flinch, spin, but the ghost has already done a runner. Of course.

Ash? What the hell is that supposed to mean?

As soon as I push the cafe door open, the smell of coffee and bacon hits me.

I scan the mix of families and college students enjoying their rowdy breakfasts and find my target in his usual booth, reading the paper old-school style, like he’s in his sixties, not fast-tracking out of his mid-thirties.

The booth cushion lets out a sigh as I slide along the seat opposite him. “Detective Perez,” I say as he looks up and scowls at me from under thick, dark brows.

“Summer. Not again. You know I can’t talk to you.”

“Come on, Rich. What’s the harm in a little chat? Please. I’ll get down on my knees and beg in front of everyone if I must. Just tell me everything you remember one more time. That’s all I’m asking.”

“You can stick to calling me Ricardo . No, wait, better make that Detective Perez. ”

“Sure, Detective Perez. Anything you say.” I smile and point at his overloaded plate.

“Eating Spanish donuts for breakfast again? That’s not very healthy.

I can take one off your hands, if you like.

I’ll be doing you a favor, and I’m starving.

Didn’t have time to eat breakfast. Couldn’t chance missing you here. ”

“Don’t worry about my health. I’ve earned the donuts. Spent the last hour running around the lake,” he says, pushing the plate toward me like the good-hearted man I know he is. “There’s no need for me to ask what you’re doing here.”

I pretend to study a hanging fern near the window, grinding my teeth and counting fast to twenty-seven. Honestly, I’d prefer not to beg further, but I will if I have to.

The whir of the coffee machine, bursts of laughter, and the clink of cutlery fade as I shrug and snatch a donut, focusing my gaze on Perez’s neat, square nails against his cerulean mug, then his trim mustache and narrowed dark eyes.

“I was just passing by,” I mumble through a mouthful of sticky goodness. “Happened to notice you in here.”

He barks out a laugh. “That’s not what you said three seconds ago.”

Raising my hands in a guess-you-caught-me gesture, I say, “Come on. Please . What would it hurt to go over it once more?”

“Once more until the next time you ask, you mean?”

A guilty smile tugs the corner of my mouth.

“Okay, so, yeah, you’re right. I’ll probably ask again.

But if there’s the slightest chance you’ve forgotten even a tiny detail…

something that’s been hiding in your subconscious for the last eight years, then it’s worth pissing you off on the semi-regular to tease it out of you.

Right? Maybe it will mean something to me, unlock my memories. ”

He rolls his eyes and folds the newspaper, setting it aside, and I relax against the booth with a relieved sigh, knowing I’ve already won this round. I could hear this tale told a million times and never tire of it. It’s a horror show, yes, but at least it’s my horror show.

I’ve replayed the trauma enough times in therapy to earn a frequent flyer badge—and anyway, sarcasm pairs nicely with the anxiety meds.

“As you know, a neighbor heard a female screaming and called the police. Cops found you on the floor of Gravenshade’s kitchen, covered in blood as you leaned over your parents’ bodies, dressed in a long T-shirt, feet bare, like you’d just gotten out of bed.

A kitchen knife was on the floor about three feet away, the back door open.

You weren’t crying or screaming, just staring at them. You’d gone into shock.”

My breath goes shallow and tight. Numbers run through the background of my brain—7, 8, 9, 10, 7, 8, 9, 10, 7, 8, 9, 10—cycling on repeat.

The room shrinks until there’s nothing but the booth, the table, the numbers, and his words.

“Was the kitchen trashed?” I ask. “Did it look like there’d been a fight? ”

He takes a big gulp of coffee. “One of the dining chairs had been knocked over. There were long smears of bloody handprints on the wall beside the back door, your mom lying face down below them. Your dad was on his back partly covering her. Their throats had been slit. No other stab wounds or injuries. Your father’s expression…

he looked… stunned rather than terrified. ”

As I wipe my clammy palms on my pants, my heart beats like a drum in my ears, nearly drowning out Detective Perez’s words. Leaning forward, I cross my arms on the cool surface of the table.

I don’t even need to close my eyes to see the kitchen—the way it looked when my parents were alive. I remember the mundane details of the night so well. It was warm and sticky. A full moon. The soothing hum of cicadas. Barred owls hooting from deep in the nearby woods.

Pain twists in my chest, but still I push the hardest question through my lips. “And the knife definitely didn’t have my fingerprints on it?”

“It didn’t have any prints on it, Summer. None whatsoever.”

A waiter appears at our table, wanting to take my order. I smile, point at the remaining donuts, then wave him away. “And the handle was covered in blood. It hadn’t been wiped?”

He nods grimly.

“How is that possible?”

“I don’t know. I’m hoping that one day you’ll tell me.”