of the constellations. “You win. I’ll give you Cinnamon-Raisin Bagel, as a going-away gift.”
He chuckles, his chest vibrating against mine. “Thanks.”
“As a bonus, I’ll give a special companion constellation.” I shift half onto my back, let go of his hand, and point to a random group of stars. “A toaster.”
“Ah, brilliant.” His fingertips glide slowly up my raised arm. “Can I tell you a wee secret?”
“Ooh.” His secrets were rarely shared and always juicy. “What is it?”
“I prefer my bagels untoasted.”
I bring my arm down, jabbing an elbow into his ribs. Zachary cries out, half laugh, half oof.
We start to wrestle, and he lets me win. Then we start to kiss, and we let each other win.
For tonight, we are finished with the sky, and the earth, and everything but each other.
I stretched my arms above me, feeling strength return. Hearing Zachary’s voice in my memory was like food for my mind and soul. In the same way I couldn’t take an exam on an empty stomach, I hadn’t been able to think straight all day. But now my head was starting to clear, and for the first time since the crash, my thoughts weren’t drowned in panic.
I spoke to the stars. “What do I do, Zach? How do I save you?”
No one answered, of course. No one could, but me.
If Zachary were in my shoes, he’d work the problem logically,eliminating the implausible choices until the right one remained. (If he couldn’t fight his way to get to me.)
Simon had told me not to do anything foolish. He’d also said to learn new information. But what could I discover that highly trained special agents couldn’t?
Then it hit me. I can talk to ghosts. From my work at the law firm translating for the dead—not to mention having had a ghost boyfriend for months—I could calm almost any spirit long enough to find out what I needed.
I didn’t yet know exactly how to end Zachary’s misery. But I had an idea where to start.
Chapter Nine
Z achary’s parents called me on my “private” red phone the following morning while I was working at my aunt’s office. Ian confirmed that Simon had been assigned to protect and assist me, but I couldn’t get far enough away from my coworkers to ask about the DMP’s death wish for me.
Knowing that the Moores were safe, and that Ian was linked into MI-X enough to know about Simon, made me feel less alone, and more confident for what I was trying next.
That night I arrived at the McConnell Funeral Home to find the front door locked, with a paper sign taped to it.
TONIGHT’S VIEWINGS ARE PRIVATE. PLEASE RESPECT THE WISHES OF THE VICTIMS’ FAMILIES.
Under the plea were details for the Flight 346 public memorialservice, to be held at the World Trade Center Plaza at the Inner Harbor the following night.
Despite the announcement, dozens had gathered in the funeral home parking lot holding candles and laying flowers. As I peered through the glass door, I heard the first strains of “Amazing Grace” begin behind me.
Mrs. McConnell was hurrying through the lobby, looking harried but still dressed to perfection in a tailored gray suit. I tapped the glass, and she trotted over to unlock the door.
“Aura, thanks for coming to help.” She ushered me in, giving a polite wave to the mourners. “Megan’s in the office assembling programs. Our folding machine broke, and we can’t have them done at the copy shop, in case details of the funerals are leaked to the public.”
“Makes sense. I’m glad I could help.” I felt a little guilty, since that wasn’t the main reason I was here.
She sped off, and I headed for the office, passing through the lush foyer, where even the walls were upholstered in silk. Down the hallway lined by viewing rooms, pastoral paintings with gilded frames loomed over tables accented with lifelike decorative plants.
There’d been a time when I would often drop by the funeral home to visit Megan at work. Death hadn’t bothered me much back then, and
He chuckles, his chest vibrating against mine. “Thanks.”
“As a bonus, I’ll give a special companion constellation.” I shift half onto my back, let go of his hand, and point to a random group of stars. “A toaster.”
“Ah, brilliant.” His fingertips glide slowly up my raised arm. “Can I tell you a wee secret?”
“Ooh.” His secrets were rarely shared and always juicy. “What is it?”
“I prefer my bagels untoasted.”
I bring my arm down, jabbing an elbow into his ribs. Zachary cries out, half laugh, half oof.
We start to wrestle, and he lets me win. Then we start to kiss, and we let each other win.
For tonight, we are finished with the sky, and the earth, and everything but each other.
I stretched my arms above me, feeling strength return. Hearing Zachary’s voice in my memory was like food for my mind and soul. In the same way I couldn’t take an exam on an empty stomach, I hadn’t been able to think straight all day. But now my head was starting to clear, and for the first time since the crash, my thoughts weren’t drowned in panic.
I spoke to the stars. “What do I do, Zach? How do I save you?”
No one answered, of course. No one could, but me.
If Zachary were in my shoes, he’d work the problem logically,eliminating the implausible choices until the right one remained. (If he couldn’t fight his way to get to me.)
Simon had told me not to do anything foolish. He’d also said to learn new information. But what could I discover that highly trained special agents couldn’t?
Then it hit me. I can talk to ghosts. From my work at the law firm translating for the dead—not to mention having had a ghost boyfriend for months—I could calm almost any spirit long enough to find out what I needed.
I didn’t yet know exactly how to end Zachary’s misery. But I had an idea where to start.
Chapter Nine
Z achary’s parents called me on my “private” red phone the following morning while I was working at my aunt’s office. Ian confirmed that Simon had been assigned to protect and assist me, but I couldn’t get far enough away from my coworkers to ask about the DMP’s death wish for me.
Knowing that the Moores were safe, and that Ian was linked into MI-X enough to know about Simon, made me feel less alone, and more confident for what I was trying next.
That night I arrived at the McConnell Funeral Home to find the front door locked, with a paper sign taped to it.
TONIGHT’S VIEWINGS ARE PRIVATE. PLEASE RESPECT THE WISHES OF THE VICTIMS’ FAMILIES.
Under the plea were details for the Flight 346 public memorialservice, to be held at the World Trade Center Plaza at the Inner Harbor the following night.
Despite the announcement, dozens had gathered in the funeral home parking lot holding candles and laying flowers. As I peered through the glass door, I heard the first strains of “Amazing Grace” begin behind me.
Mrs. McConnell was hurrying through the lobby, looking harried but still dressed to perfection in a tailored gray suit. I tapped the glass, and she trotted over to unlock the door.
“Aura, thanks for coming to help.” She ushered me in, giving a polite wave to the mourners. “Megan’s in the office assembling programs. Our folding machine broke, and we can’t have them done at the copy shop, in case details of the funerals are leaked to the public.”
“Makes sense. I’m glad I could help.” I felt a little guilty, since that wasn’t the main reason I was here.
She sped off, and I headed for the office, passing through the lush foyer, where even the walls were upholstered in silk. Down the hallway lined by viewing rooms, pastoral paintings with gilded frames loomed over tables accented with lifelike decorative plants.
There’d been a time when I would often drop by the funeral home to visit Megan at work. Death hadn’t bothered me much back then, and
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