Keep the Ghost

19. After life

Ryan White's identification rests on the bed with me. A birth certificate, credit card, and social security card. He's nineteen, a year older than me, or would be. I wonder if he was a real person, if anyone misses him. Someone must be missing me.

It hits me—sometime soon, if not already, my parents will be told that I murdered Kayla McPherson, left a note admitting this, and committed suicide by jumping off a bridge.

I try to imagine their reaction, but cannot. This is more of that same antimatter that made up the photograph of Kayla's corpse—too horrible for my brain to work out, a black void in my consciousness.

My parents won't believe I'm guilty, not at first. They couldn't—I wouldn't do it, after all, and didn't. They might fly to America, talk with the police. But eventually, after they see the evidence and realize I'm missing, they will begin to suspect I'm truly dead.

This will mean years of pain, of depression and doubt. And I love my parents, I don't want this.

I need a calling card, so that I can reach them.

There's a knock at my door.

"Come in," I say.

The door unlocks, and Morgan enters. This time, a Yankees cap and cotton sweater, blue jeans and sneakers. There are a set of crutches under her arm, which she leans against the wall next to my bed.

"I'm worried about my parents," I say, sounding angrier than I intend.

She turns to the side, bites her lower lip. "You know that you can't talk to them, right?"

"Get me a calling card, please. I need to let them know. They're in Ireland, they won't mess anything up. I just can't stand it, I..." A mental image of my mom and dad clutching each other, crying, fills my mind. I can't speak through the volume of it.

Morgan sighs. "Sean, you can't. There may be a way, someday in the future, but not right now. Not even this year, maybe not even this decade."

"What do you mean?" I ask. She can't be serious.

"If they know you're alive, they'll screw things up. Loved ones always do. They'll think you're innocent, that you shouldn't be on the run. They'll think telling the police you're okay will be better for you, that the cops will forgive you. And if your parents don't do that, they'll make a mistake—they'll send you money, and detectives will see wire transfers to the United States. Their phone record will show calls from you. It can't happen, Sean. You're a murderer and a fugitive. If the police get the least suspicion you are alive, they will stop at nothing to catch you."

"I have to let them know I'm okay," I insist.

My door opens again; I fall silent. Jack enters, hands inside the center pocket of his red hoodie, blue jeans hanging halfway down his ass. I tense, pulling myself up on the bed. My leg burns as I do, reminding me how helpless I am.

"Look at this," Jack says, hand coming up from his pocket with an electronic cigarette, blue tip glowing as he inhales. "A boy without a shadow—that's a beautiful thing. Enjoy it. You're free."

"I lost everything because of you."

"You lost it in a blaze of glory. Sean Reilly died a legend. Kayla's parents will talk about you until they die—Port Lavaca won't ever shut up about their Irish slasher. In fifty years, kids will tell scary stories while their parents drive across that causeway. Let's face it—there's nothing you—" He points at me now, one skeletal finger extended. "—will ever do that makes as big of an impact. You did your shadow justice, and you're better off."

I my voice falls low, and I glare at him. "They'll tell stories about something you did. You killed her, didn't you? Then made it seem like I'm guilty, and now you're trying to make me thank you. You're sick. You're subhuman trash."

Jack saunters to the front of the bed. I pull the sheets that hide my body closer. I'm still naked, and the room is getting crowded.

Morgan intervenes: "I need you to help me get him into a hospital. He needs surgery. Find me someplace quiet to drop him."

He bites on the plastic cigarette, teeth bared around a smile. "Now I'm supposed to help this ungrateful little shit?" Jack rubs the back of his neck. "Why would I do that?"

"Because I am making you," she tells him.

He faces her, takes a step forward, then stops. Thin arms fall limp. "There's a lot to consider."

"I'm not doing anything with him," I point out. "If Jack's involved, leave me out. Look, he just admitted it, he killed Kayla!"

He grins, and I notice a sparse, blond beard stretches from ear to ear. I try to imagine his bald head with yellow hair, but it's too repulsive.

Jack speaks, though the words sound forced: "No hard feelings, buddy. Don't worry about the past. You're a new man, now."

Nothing I say affects him. I take a new tact, and address Morgan. "Why are we in the same room as this goddamn psychopath?" My voice is louder than I intend. "I thought I could trust you. You said you wanted to help me; you said we'd been betrayed. I assumed you meant by Jack, but here you are with him."

Jack hacks out a laugh.

Morgan turns to him. "You, leave."

He raises both hands again, half bowing, then turns and exits. The door slams against its frame behind him.

Then she faces me, smile gone, all stone mask. "I don't care if you trust me. Personally, I wouldn't either. It is in my best interest to keep you from talking to the police about Jack and I, and what we do. Keeping you close is one way to accomplish that goal. He'd rather kill you, but I'm inclined to turn you into an asset. It's less risky, and I'm not a murderer.

"From your perspective, you'd be completely screwed if I walked out now. Even if I convince him not to murder you, you'll be trapped here until the cops come, and you will have a lot of explaining to do. So if I were you, for the time being, I'd keep my mouth shut and play along."

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