“Like a terrorist attack?” Her eyes went wide. “Jesus, kiddo. You know they’re really rare, right? A lot more people get hit by lightning than killed by terrorists.”
She looked fragile saying that, so I smiled and reached out to take her hand. “Lightning? Good. That means I’ve had my lifetime quota.”
We combined the two masses of dough and began to work together, standing shoulder to shoulder, our palms turning gray. Squid ink takes a couple of days to fade completely from my skin, which always fascinated me.
This time it was extra weird seeing my hands turn gray, as if the flipside were breaking through into reality. Of course, Yamaraj and I looked normal in the afterworld, while everyone else, living or dead, was gray.
We psychopomps were special.
As Mom and I worked the dough, I realized that I’d told her the truth—I wasn’t scared of the Movement of the Resurrection, or whatever they were called. What had Special Agent Reyes said about their “isolationist dogma”? That probably just meant they lived in the mountains with crappy toilets. They were small people with a small worldview, and I was learning how to enter a whole new reality. Forget them.
At the moment I was more worried about Mindy. I wondered again why my mother had never told me about her.
“What’s the worst thing that ever happened to you, Mom?”
“The worst thing?” She drew in a long breath, dusting off her hands, then opened the big utensil drawer and began to rummage. “I suppose when your father told me that all our years together had been a waste of his time.”
“Oh, right. Of course, sorry.” I stopped kneading to give her a floury hug. “But I meant when you were young. Like, the most traumatic thing that ever happened to you.”
She pulled out a rolling pin and turned it slowly against the palm of her left hand. “Maybe now’s not the time.”
“I think now pretty much is the time, Mom. Help me process this.”
“But I don’t want to scare you.”
It was all I could do not to laugh at her then. Not to be mean, but because it was so funny. “Mom, the stuff that’s going to scare me this week already happened. And I survived, so please tell me.”
She looked at me closely for a moment, as if I had changed into something she didn’t quite recognize. But, like Agent Reyes had, in the end she told me.
“It was when I was eleven.”
I nodded to encourage her to keep going, and because I’d known that much already.
“My best friend,” she said softly, “a little girl who lived across the street. She was abducted.”
“Oh,” I said.
“She was driving across the country on a trip with her parents, and they were at one of those big rest stops . . . and she just disappeared.”
I stared at her, trying to keep track of all the things that were becoming clear at once. My mother’s fear of highways. How nervous she’d always been about letting me play outside. “Did they ever find out who did it?”
She shook her head. “No, but they found her a few weeks later, and that was the scariest part.”
“What was?”
“Mindy had been buried . . . in her own backyard. So whoever it was knew where she lived, maybe even knew her family. Even though she’d disappeared hundreds of miles away. That’s why my parents moved down here. They couldn’t live on that street anymore.”
A shudder went through me, and I felt the cold place inside growing around my heart, like when I’d placed my hand in Mindy’s. The taste of metal slivered across my tongue, and for a moment I thought I would cross over to the flipside, right there in front of my mother.
“Crap,” I said, hugging myself with floury arms.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Lizzie.” Mom’s eyes were wide. “I’m an idiot.”
“No, you’re not.” I breathed hard, gathering deep lungfuls of the air of the living world. “You had to tell me. We both went through something bad. I needed you to tell me.”
“Kiddo, you didn’t need that horrible story. Not right now.” Her hand reached out, her fingertips almost touching the teardrop scar on my cheek.
“It’s okay. I’m fine.” I turned and washed my hands. “Just give me a minute. That’s all.”
I hugged her again, hard enough that a ghostly mist of flour filled the air around us, and then walked toward my bedroom.
“Just a minute,” I said, and shut the door behind me.
My heart was beating hard, life pushing back the cold inside me. I touched my lips where Yamaraj had kissed me in the airport, and felt his heat there. I wasn’t going to cross over. It had just been a passing chill from my mother’s story. From Mindy’s story.
I looked around the room.
“Are you here?” I whispered.
There was no answer, but suddenly I knew where she was.
I stepped back out into the kitchen and gave my mother a happy smile. “Turns out I just needed to pee.”
I went past her and down the hall to the other side of the house, pausing in the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. Then I went a little farther, into my mother’s bedroom.
Her overnight bag lay open on the bed, still half full of clothes. That was weird. My mother usually unpacked everything the moment she got home. There was more mess than usual, clothes strewn on the floor and draped across the back of her dresser chair.
And there beside Mom’s bed was a framed photo of her and her parents, posing on the front lawn of a northern California bungalow with a wide front porch. She looked about Mindy’s age, and had the same long pigtails. The picture was familiar to me, something Mom always kept on her dresser, but I’d never thought much about it.
I crossed the soft carpet and opened the door of her closet.
It was dark inside, only the glimmer of shined shoes and dry cleaner’s plastic catching the light from the bedroom windows.
When I was little, I’d always been afraid of closets. But now I could see the appeal of a private, cozy place to call your own.
I knelt on the carpet, keeping my voice low. “Don’t be scared. It’s just me.”
There was no response.
“I talked to that man, and he wasn’t scary. He’s an agent from the FBI, a special agent. He’s here to make sure we’re safe.”
Still nothing.
“So everything’s okay,” I whispered. “But I get why you’re scared. My mom told me what happened to you, back when she was little.”
I heard a tiny intake of breath, and a moment later she spoke.
“I told you she remembered me.”
“She does. Like it was yesterday.”
“Does it still make her sad?”
“Of course it does.” There was no answer, so I added, “But that’s not your fault, Mindy.”
“No. It’s the bad man’s fault. He messed up everything. My mom and dad. My friends. Me.” She sighed. “Max was the only one who got away, because he’d been put to sleep already. He had dog cancer.”
“That’s sad too.” I swallowed. “But the bad man can’t hurt you anymore. You know that, right?”
“I guess not,” Mindy said, and her form began to emerge from among the shadows. She slipped out through the hanging dresses, which remained undisturbed by her passage.
“Do you want to come and watch us cook dinner?” I asked.
She looked at me, tears glistening in her eyes. “Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you.”
“It’ll be fine. Just remember we can’t talk to each other.”
“I’ll be quiet,” Mindy said, then held out her hand.
I took it without thinking, but when the cool and distant tingle fluttered across my palm, I realized what she was doing.
“I can’t cross over right now,” I said. “My mom’s waiting.”
“Just for a second?” she asked, and I tasted metal on my tongue, and felt the floor falling away from me. The sunlight spilling into the bedroom turned hard and mean. “Please?”
I nodded and clutched Mindy’s hand harder, and a moment later the world was colorless.
“Thank you,” she said, gathering me into a hug. She felt small and cold, shivering like a little kid who’d just climbed out of a swimming pool. I was still kneeling, and her head rested on my shoulder.
“It’s okay, Mindy,” I said softly, and she hugged tighter. “The bad man can’t hurt you now.”
She pulled away, her hands still in mine, her eyes wide and glistening. “But what about when he dies, Lizzie?”
“When he dies . . .”
“Then he’ll be a ghost too. And maybe he still remembers me. What if he can find me, even in the closet?”
I shook my head. My heart was thumping in my chest, and without Mindy pressed against me, the world began to shift again.
“I won’t let him touch you.” The gray was fading from the room.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
She smiled, which squeezed a single tear from her eye. I reached out, still enough of me on the flipside that I could feel it for a moment, wet against my fingertip.
I brushed her tear away, and then we were in different worlds again.
CHAPTER 13
“AND IT HAS THESE AMAZING windows,” Darcy said. “You can see the rooftops of Chinatown. It’s perfect.”
Aunt Lalana smiled. “It sounds like an exciting place to live.”
“I can’t wait to move in.” As Darcy took a bite from her burger, she felt a guilty trickle of juice run down her left wrist. She’d ordered without thinking. “Um, you don’t mind that I’m eating a cow, do you?”
A laugh came from Lalana. “Darcy, I was there at dinner when you announced you were becoming a carnivore. You were, what, thirteen?”
“Right, but it still feels rude. Especially since I’m asking you for a huge favor.”
They were in a café in the West Village, near Lalana’s apartment, which was small and prim and elegant, like Lalana herself. She was as coordinated as always today, wearing a blue collared shirt under a bright yellow jacket, one dangling earring in each color.
“It’s not your diet I’m worried about, Darcy. It’s your rent.” Lalana glanced at the lease, which lay on the table between them. The offending number was there on the first page. “Isn’t it a little expensive?”
“It’s more than I wanted to spend, but it’s the perfect place to write.”
“So that’s why it’s so much. Good writing vibes. Of course.”
“My writer friend Imogen looked at it with me, and she agreed.” Darcy imagined Nisha rolling her eyes at this conversation, and making up new rules about saying “my writer friend.” “If it’s a good place to work, it’ll pay for itself.”
“I suppose those publishers are giving you an awful lot of money. No offense, Darcy, but sometimes I can’t quite believe it.”
“Me either,” Darcy said with a shrug. “My agent says it was the first chapter. She says the buyers from the big chains only have time to read one chapter. So if a book’s got a killer opening and an awesome cover, it’ll be in all the stores.”
Lalana looked dubious. “But the people who buy it, don’t they read all those other chapters? Shouldn’t the rest be good too?”
Darcy felt a twist in her stomach, as she did every time she thought of a stranger (or thousands of strangers) reading her novel.
But she put on a smile. “Are you saying my book sucks?”
Lalana laughed. “How can I tell? You won’t let us see it.”
Darcy didn’t answer. Of the family, only Nisha had been allowed to read Afterworlds, and she was sworn to secrecy.