Page 9 of Ghosts Don't Cry
I walk faster, needing to burn off the restless energy that’s crawling under my skin. The urge to run pounds through me. Get out, don’t look too hard at what’s being offered. But I can’t.
The keys in my hand won’t let me. The letter in my pocket won’t let me.
Whatever else Edwards has planned is waiting for me like a time bomb set to go off in thirty days. And underneath it, the ghost of Graystone Hollow waits, reminding me that some places don’t let you forget what you were, no matter how much cash someone might throw at you to make you stay.
The light shifts as I walk, clouds building on the horizon, dark with the promise of rain. Leaves skitter across the sidewalk, dried out and brittle, caught in small whirlwinds that never let them settle anywhere for long.
I keep walking, past buildings I half-remember from when I was last here, and streets that hold memories I’ve spent years trying to outrun. The keys stay clenched in my fist, metal warming against my palm. The letter stays folded in my pocket, and I try not to think about what else he might have had to say.
Chapter Four
RONAN - AGE 17
Hands shaking,I haul my backpack over my shoulder and stand up. Everything I own is stuffed inside. Two shirts, one spare pair of jeans, the notebook I lifted from my last school, and a paperback I found wedged and forgotten in the back of the Greyhound seat.
The rising sun lightens the empty streets as I step off the bus. A few early workers hustle past the station, collars turned up against the cold. No one pays any attention to me. They never do.
The high school office doesn’t open for another three hours, so I dig through my pockets and scrape together enough money to buy a coffee at the diner near the bus station. The waitress leaves me alone, glancing at the paper I’ve got spread out across the table as she sets down my coffee. She probably thinks I’m just another kid doing last minute homework.
But that’s not what it is.
The forgeries are good this time. They have to be after what happened in Portland, where I used the wrong logo and the secretary actually started making calls. I was gone before anyone could verify anything.
I got better after that. School letterheads, transfer forms, medical records—everything is available online if you know where to look. I figured out which details matter, and which ones no one checks. A natural progression from forging my mother’s prescriptions years ago. Doctor’s signatures, date stamps, DEA numbers. Back then it was about keeping her alive. Now it’s about keeping myself from disappearing into the cracks forever.
I chose this town because of its size. It has a mid-sized high school, with a steady stream of transfer students from nearby towns. It’s the kind of place where there’s such a high turnover of students that ticking boxes matters more than chasing details. A day on a library computer in Seattle was enough to figure that out.
This is my last chance to finish my education before the streets swallow me alive.
The walk to the school takes twenty minutes from where the diner is. I memorized the route last night, studying the town map I’d printed off until my eyes burned. The buildings get older as I move away from the station, worn brick and peeling paint telling stories of better days.
I reach the high school just as the first cars start pulling into the staff lot. The building squats against the morning sky, three stories of brick and clouded windows. It looks the same as every other school I’ve been to. Same tired architecture. Same chain-link fence separating the grounds from the neighborhood beyond. Same sense that this place has been here forever, and will be here long after everyone inside it has gone.
The main office is empty, other than the secretary. I hand her my paperwork.
“Ronan Oliver. I’m supposed to start today.”
Her fingers tap against her keyboard, her nails painted the same shade of pink as my mother’s pills. A random detail thatcuts straight through time. Some memories are like that. They remain sharp enough to make you bleed years later.
She frowns at her screen. “Your previous school records seem to be incomplete.”
“It might be a system error.” The lie comes easily. Practice makes you better at most things, even the things you hate about yourself. “I bet they’re still transferring everything over.”
“And your parents?” Her eyes drop to the top sheet. “Oh … Your paperwork says uncle, but?—”
“My parents are dead. My uncle took me in, but he travels a lot for work.” I keep my voice flat.Bored.The tone of a teenager who’s answered the same question a thousand times before, and doesn’t care enough about it anymore to be defensive. “His phone number is in the contact details.”
I found a phone in the bus station restroom before leaving Seattle. It didn’t have any kind of passcode on it, and the number was stored in its contacts. I put that in, and changed the voicemail message. That way if they do call, it’ll sound like a legitimate number. Hopefully, I won’t ever need it though.
She studies the documents again, while I focus on keeping my hands steady and my eyes straight ahead, instead of looking for the exit. Three schools in the past year have taught me everything I need to do. I learned fast that if you look confident, they rarely push for more.
“Okay then.” She slides some papers across the desk. “These emergency contact forms will need to be signed by your uncle. Bring them back tomorrow morning.”
I can forge the signatures once I leave for the day. What’s one more lie to be added to the pile I’ve told so far? She prints out a class schedule and a floor plan, then sends me on my way.
I’d have preferred to finish up in the office before class started and lose myself in the crowds as they moved through the hallways to classrooms, but that’s not the case. The hallways areempty, which means all eyes will be on me when I walk into a room.
According to the schedule, my first class is History with Mr. Edwards in room 204. The door creaks when I push it open, and the teacher pauses mid-sentence. He’s an older guy with wire-rimmed glasses, and a sweater with leather patches on the elbows.
