Page 105 of Middle of the Night

“Youran away.”

Billy’s chest hitches as he says it. A hiccup of pain that even Ethan can hear. He thinks he hears something else, too. Not inside the tent, but just outside. A vague rustle in the yard that might be an animal, although he assumes they’d be scared off by the tent and its lantern glow and the voices rising from inside.

“We all ran away,” Ethan says quietly, a weak defense.

“Without me!”

Spikes of annoyance run down Ethan’s spine. “Because you’d been there before!” he replies, shouting now himself. “You went there without telling me and got caught and now you’re blaming me for it. Even though we shouldn’t have gone there in the first place. And you knew that!”

“I told you, they talk to—”

“Ghosts? There’s no such thing! They’re not real, Billy. It’s all bullshit.”

Ethan stops then, stunned that he’s spoken a curse word out loud for the very first time.

“It’s not…” Billy’s voice trails off, making Ethan feel cruelly triumphant. Unlike him, Billy can’t even swear.

“Why can’t you be normal?” he says. “Why do you have to be such a weirdo? Why do you always have to be such a freak? If you like ghosts so much, why don’t you just die and become one?”

Billy looks for all the world like he’s just been slapped. His face takes on a dazed expression, his mouth agape and his eyes suddenlyvacant. Ethan thinks he sees tears forming in them. A tiny glisten in the lantern light that makes him feel so vicious and petty and small.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean it, Billy. Honest, I didn’t.”

But it’s too late. The words have been spoken, and Ethan knows they will now always be there, a faint ghost haunting their friendship. If there is one after tonight. He wouldn’t blame Billy for never speaking to him again.

But Billy does speak, letting out a half-murmured “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Ethan says. “I shouldn’t have said it.”

“I know.”

“So you forgive me?”

On the other side of the tent, Billy fakes a smile. “Hakuna matata, dude.”

THIRTY

“Are you really sure you want me to stab this tent?” Cassandra Palmer says as she stands in the backyard holding the sharpest knife I could find in the kitchen.

“Yes,” I say.

Detective Palmer eyes the orange triangle in front of her. “But it’s a nice tent. Looks expensive. Not gonna lie, I feel weird about ruining it.”

“I won’t hold it against you,” I say. “I swear.”

“I’m just giving you the option of finding someone else.”

“You’re the best person for the job.”

In truth, Detective Palmer is the only person I could think of. After our talk last night, I knew Ashley was out. I briefly considered Russ but was afraid he’d balk at the weirdness of it all. Ditto for Ragesh. That leaves Detective Palmer, who I called as she was leaving the state hospital where she had tried to interview Mary Ellen Barringer. It resulted in nothing. Mrs. Barringer was, in Detective Palmer’s words, “as silent as a clam with its shell taped shut.”

Now that she’s here, I see the value in having a nonbiased thirdparty help me. Detective Palmer’s presence eliminates the risk of familiarity possibly clouding the memories I hope will arrive.

That’s not the only precaution I’ve taken to achieve the desired outcome. Rather than do it the moment I got the idea, I insisted on waiting until darkness arrived. I didn’t want the presence of daylight to ruin the experiment. I also arranged the inside of the tent so it’s as close to that long-ago night as possible. Two sleeping bags, laid out side by side. The lantern placed between pillows. I even tried to dress the same way—shorts, T-shirt, and a pair of Nikes.

If this doesn’t work, it won’t be for lack of trying.

As Detective Palmer gets into position next to the tent, I pass her a picture of the original one I printed off the internet earlier today. It’s the famous picture. The one that ran in every newspaper in the country showing the tent with a dark gash marring its side. Detective Palmer takes one look and her brows rise questioningly.

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