The new car is an upgrade, a silver Mercedes with leather seats that heat at the press of a button. The engine rumbles low when Morgan pushes the pedal, igniting into a roar as she accelerates up a ramp and onto an interstate.
"I take it you didn't leave me any change?" she asks Jack, who only shrugs.
"We'll get there twice as fast, now," he notes. "V8."
We drive away the morning, crossing through Mobile, Alabama into Florida, hugging the southern coast.
Morgan makes one stop, at Jack's insistence, at a decrepit RV in a trailer park a few miles into Florida. This is preceded by a brief phone conversation in which he orders something conspicuous, and ends with Jack returning to the car with a dirty grocery bag.
The plastic rustles as he digs inside. A brown plastic bottle, the kind you find hydrogen peroxide in at the store, comes up in his hand. In place of a label are streaks of papered glue, where it's been rubbed away.
"Ether," Jack explains. "For the pain."
I speak: "What century is this? Get some Vicodin."
"Trust me, this is better. Want some?" The cap is off; he extends the flask to me. I wave it away.
"Crack a goddamn window," Morgan orders.
Jack does so, then holds the bottle a few inches under his nose. He whimpers softly and leans back in his seat.
Anything to shut him up.
It isn't until we're thirty miles from Ocala, Florida that Morgan speaks: "Do you have the address?"
"Exit here," Jack says, voice slurred. "Second light, take a right."
"You sure, druggy?" Morgan asks.
"I got shot, goddamnit. You wrap up a gunshot wound with duct tape, then tell me how you feel."
Palm trees line the feeder road like Seussian invaders, entirely out of place in a landscape devoured by weeds and moss. Vines overtake a faded brown picket fence. Beyond that, an elderly horse with a sloping spine chews on the grass at his feet.
Jack directs us to a suburban neighborhood with stately homes on large plots of land, big yards with stone walls. We creep through the streets as Morgan cranes her neck to check black addresses painted on curbs. After some searching, she pulls into the driveway of a two-story gray brick house—a chimney climbs from the roof, and smoke escapes, despite the fact it's a hot day.
"This is home," Morgan answers as she parks the car and opens her door. I follow, struggling with my crutches.
"Seriously?" I ask. "This is amazing."
Georgian columns frame the front door, and I lean against the left, smelling the fresh paint on its softly angled edges.
Jack lifts the mat and finds a key. He steps inside, letting the door slam on Morgan—she opens it again, then holds it for me as I hobble through.
The house is frigid; someone left the air conditioner running full blast. This, along with granite floors and broad windows streaming light, contributes to the crisp, modern feel of the home. The living room's vaulted ceiling is supported by wooden beams, and is less decorated than designed. Nooks and borders cut across the otherwise bare walls and ceiling, carving angles out of the space.
"Holy hell," Jack murmurs. He is ahead of us, and blocks my view of the living room.
"What?" Morgan asks, then falls silent.
YOU ARE READING
Keep the Ghost
Mystery / ThrillerKayla is about to fake her own death. The teenager has met a couple of strangers that claim to be experts on pseudocide, and they've told her what to do. And poor Sean Reilly, the exchange student living in her house, has stumbled on the plan. When...
