okay?â
âYouâre the boss.â
âCan I quote you on that?â
Sean laughed, and Lucy shut down her computer. It was late and she had to be up in four hours.
âIâm going to bed,â Lucy said.
Sean sighed. âWish I were there, princess.â
Â
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ten Years Ago
Two weeks after my fourteenth birthday, Grams went into the hospital after coughing up blood. The doctor said she had pneumonia and needed to stay, and asked if I had any family. I told them my parents were dead and Grams was all I had. I think the nurses felt sorry for me, because they let me stay with her.
I think I felt sorry for me, because I blamed Grams for getting sick. âI need you,â I told her. âYou shouldnât have been gardening in the rain.â
Grams loved her garden. I helped her, sometimes, but I think she liked to be alone to pull weeds and turn the soil and plant her flowers. I helped carry pallets of flowers, mowed the lawn, and trimmed the bushes because the shears were too heavy for her. But Grams spent hours every day outside.
It didnât rain a lot in Florida, but whenever it did Grams got sick. Like now. Except now was worse because she was seventy-nine and had been slowly dying ever since Grandpa died when I was five.
I knew she wouldnât live until September, when sheâd be eighty. The doctors wouldnât say it, but they didnât tell me she was coming home, either. They said things like âWeâre doing everything we canâ and âSheâs strong,â and âGive it time.â Never that she was going to die, but never that sheâd get better.
It wasnât fair! I needed her.
âRead to me, Peter.â Grams had been in the hospital for three days. I thought she might come home today, but the doctors said no. She looked sick. Sheâd never looked sick until three days ago. Tired, maybe, but not sick.
I picked up book 6 in the Chronicles of Narnia series. Sheâd bought me the books the first Christmas I lived with her, before my sisterâs killer was put on trial. I read them because there was nothing else I could doâI couldnât sleep more than a couple hours a night, I couldnât go to school without someone talking about Rachel or my parents. Even in Florida, people knew. Especially after that reporter published a book about it. Why would somebody do that? Write a book about Rachelâs murder and the bizarre life my parents lived. People whispered when they didnât think I could hear, even the teachers. Grams got rid of her television, so at home I didnât have to remember if I didnât want to.
But Iâd never forget Rachel.
Gramsâs eyesight was poor, and a few months ago she asked me to read my favorite book to her. I donât know if the Narnia stories were my favorites, but I knew Grams would like them. There was one more book after The Silver Chair, and I wanted to finish the series for her. Maybe if I read slowly enough, sheâd get better.
I read until she slept, and then I cried. I hated her for being sick, and I hated me for being mad at an old woman. I hated God for killing everyone I loved. My insides were black like an unswept chimney. Dark and full of ash. I didnât want to be here or anywhere. I wanted to die when Grams did.
I was too big to curl up with Grams anymore, but I put the side railing down and put my head next to her thin arm. She smelled old and sweetâthe sweet from the apricot shampoo she liked.
Rachel walked into Gramsâs room. I stared at her, because I didnât believe she was there.
I must have fallen asleep, because ghosts arenât real.
âYou canât come back,â I told her.
âI know,â she said. She looked at Grams. âSheâs going to die, Peter.â
âNo, sheâs not.â I sounded nine again.
âWhat are you going to do?â she asked.
I didnât answer. She
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