Perception (Apparition Investigations #1)

Case #1: Villanova Apartments: Part 13

I raised my eyes up enough to see the splotchy purple marks around my wrists. My instinct was to jerk them out of her sight but it was too late for that. She'd already seen them. And I'd already told her what Noah had done while he was here.

Behind me, the ghosts were absolutely silent.

When she sighed, I looked up to see her posture had fallen. Sagging shoulders, the fire drained from her eyes, her lips pulled into a frown. Her eyes met mine and for a minute, we just stared at each other.

I opened my mouth to apologize again when she held up a hand to cut me off. Then, without a word, she trudged into her room.

I wanted her to slam her bedroom door. I wanted the wall to rattle from the impact of it—violent anger somehow seemed easier to deal with than icy distance.

But it just clicked shut as softly as it always did.

"Crap," I mumbled, leaning my head back against the couch.

She'd looked so betrayed. So hurt.

And she had every reason to. I'd essentially let a madman in our apartment to kill Oliver and Cyril. All without telling her a thing. Keeping her in the dark.

I'd meant it to protect her, to keep her from making the tough decisions. On the surface. Beyond that, if I really examined my thoughts, I knew exactly why I hadn't told her.

I hadn't wanted her to stop me from letting Noah purify them.

Cyril had called me out on it. And for some reason, having the ghosts know that about me was different than Bronte. They could see my cowardice because they wouldn't be around long enough for it to matter. But Bronte?

God, I'd called Noah a coward, but what did that make me?

"I'll talk to her," Oliver said, his voice floating past me toward Bronte's closed door.

Then I felt a chill tingle down my arm. It didn't move, didn't brush past, but stayed. A cool patch just barely grazing my arm.

"You ok?" Cyril asked.

I shrugged and filled my voice with mock enthusiasm. "She wasn't as excited about the newfound superpowers as I'd hoped."

"She'll get there. Maybe she's just jealous her own superpowers haven't developed yet?" he played along.

"Maybe this is the impetus of our epic superpower rivalry?"

"Could be. A clash of psychic titans."

"Psychic titans?"

"Oh, do you think psychic juggernauts sounds better?"

I felt a wave of appreciation for him. For not blaming me for trying to have him purified. For not kicking me when I already felt down. For just sitting there, ready to agree with whatever I said. For trying to make me feel better.

I leaned in toward him just a little closer. "No, you're right. Psychic titans does sound much better."

"She'll forgive you, you know."

"Really?"

"I've been friends with Oliver for over one hundred years. We've fought more times than I can count. But we always forgiven each other afterward."

"And you don't think that has anything to do with the fact that you've been alone with each other for the past one hundred years?"

He made a razzberry sound. "Of course not. It's all down to my persuasive charm."

"Obviously."  I sighed. "I screwed up, Cyril."

His tone softened. "But at least you recognize that you did. That's a step toward mending the situation." When I didn't answer, he sighed. "She'll forgive you, Stella. Just wait."

I did wait. All the rest of the day. But she never came out of her room.

And I was far too cowardly to knock on her bedroom door. As I slid into bed, Cyril assured me that she'd want to talk in the morning. That, most likely, Oliver was convincing her to forgive me.

But when I woke up the next morning, she'd already left.

And had taken the pocket watch with her.