Page 43 of Dream Lake

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The ghost’s mood hadn’t eased by the time they reached the attic. Alex reflected grimly that there was something worse than being followed everywhere by a spook, and that was being followed by a spook who had gone full emo on him.

“It may have escaped your notice,” Alex said in a murderous tone, “that I suck at dealing with my own baggage. I’m damned if I can deal with yours.”

“At least you know what your baggage is,” the ghost said, glaring at him.

“Yeah, which is why I spend half my time drinking to forget it.”

“Only half?” came the sarcastic rejoinder.

Alex brandished the handful of printed silk in one hand. “You really think this was yours?”

“Take it easy with that. Yes, it’s mine.”

Alex held up the letter in his other hand. “And you think this was about you.”

The ghost responded with a single nod. His eyes were midnight-dark, his features grim. “I think Emma wrote it.”

“Emma.” Alex blinked in astonishment, his fury fading. “Zoë’s grandmother? You think you and she…” Slowly he made his way to the staircase and lowered to the top step. “That’s a hell of a leap to take,” he said, “with nothing to back it up.”

“She was a writer for theHerald—”

“I know. And she lived here, and maybe there’s some minuscule chance that typewriter might have been hers. But there’s no proof of anything.”

“I don’t need proof. I’m remembering things. I rememberher. And I know that piece of cloth in your hand was mine.”

Alex unfolded the blood chit and looked at it again. “There’s no name on this. So you can’t be sure it’s yours.”

“Is there a serial number?”

Alex scrutinized the cloth and nodded. “On the left side.”

“Is it W17101?”

As Alex read the serial number…W17101… his eyes widened.

The ghost gave him a superior look.

“You can rememberthatbut you can’t remember your own name?” Alex asked.

The ghost glanced over the heaps of boxes and objects in the attic, the packed-away memories shrouded by dust and years. “I remember that I was once a man who loved someone.” He began to pace, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his bomber jacket. “I need to find out what happened. If Emma and I got married. If—”

“If youwhat? You died.”

“Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I came back.”

“From a plane crash?” Alex asked sarcastically. “From what I could tell, it was a hell of a lot more than a bumpy landing.”

The ghost seemed determined to invent some kind of happy ending for his story. “When you love someone that much, you wouldn’t let anything stop you from going back to her. You would survive no matter what.”

“Maybe it was all on her side. Maybe to you it was just a fling.”

“I still love her,” the ghost said with quiet ferocity. “I still feel it. Locked up in here.” The ghost put a fist on his own chest. “And it fucking hurts.”

Alex believed that. Because it hurt just to be near it.

He watched the ghost resume pacing.

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