While slipping on my aunt’s Uggs, which are a little big for my feet, I announce, “New rule. All potentially emotional conversations must be reserved until I’ve had at least two cups of coffee. It’s unfair to try to get my brain to function before that.” I tuck the legs of my flannel pajama bottoms into the boots, then grab and put on my red hoodie from the coat closet near the front door. “Now for the second half of this emotional rollercoaster.”
Connor fills my mug on the counter with more coffee, and Kaleb adds the cream and sugar before handing it to me.
“Drink quickly?” Kaleb teases.
“Thanks,” I laugh, then salute them both with my mug before heading outside.
My breath is visible in the crisp air and the grass is damp under my boots, as I make my way around the house to the spot just below my balcony. I hold my mug with both hands as much for warmth as I do to keep it from spilling.
I find Felix sitting at the edge of the half grown-over, scorched grass circle, leaning back on his hands and looking up at the clear blue sky. He looks just the same as the night before-- jeans, Vans, and a T-shirt with illustrations of different sided dice that says “This is how I roll” -- just minus the sport coat.
“Kind of a morbid thinking spot,” I comment, walking over to him.
When he sees me, he stands up, going through the motions of wiping grass or dirt from his clothes and hands, even though it’s unnecessary. With Felix, it’s a strange study of all the things we do without thought. Habits that even though they’re no longer useful, we still carry with us after death.
He screws up his face, looking down at the spot. “It’s the only place I can go to without an anchor.”
A sliver of ice pierces my chest. “So it’s not the house?”
He shakes his head. “No, the house is within my range, but this is the spot I always appear at first.”
Oh no. Please, no.“Is that how you died-- in a fire?” I whisper. I can’t say burned alive. The memories are too fresh in my own mind.
“The guys say no,” he answers, glancing over at me. My heart aches with the weighted shadows in his hazel eyes. “Like I told you, I don’t remember how I died, or how my family died. Kaleb tells me it’s like that for ghosts sometimes-- not to remember. Ironic since my unfinished business is to find and bring to justice whoever did this.”
I blow on my coffee before taking a large sip, then inquire, “How do you know what your unfinished business is?”
“It was my first thought when I... woke up, I guess. The first thing I remember after becoming a ghost was the need to avenge something. I didn’t know what until they told me my parents died with me.” Felix rubs the back of his neck and gives me a peek of a smirk. “How very Batman of me.”
I offer a small smile in return. “No capes. I hear they aren’t wise superhero costume accessories.”
That earns me a hint of a laugh.
“Want to tell me what you do know about that night?” I ask, watching his face carefully.
He shrugs then sighs. “I guess it’s only fair since I know your stuff.”
“No, I’m not asking-- I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” I reply.
“No, it’s okay. The others know, so it isn’t really a secret.” He looks at me, turning away from the blackened grass. “We don’t know much. The police believe it was multiple people that broke into the house in the middle of the night. We don’t-- didn’t have an alarm system or anything, so there was no warning.”
He speaks without inflection, an empty statement of facts. “The front door was forced open, and we were rounded up. There was minimal blood inside the house, so police know that we weren’t killed there then moved. It’s likely we were murdered here at the burn site. They don’t know how we were killed, because the fire destroyed pretty much all the evidence.”
“And there’re no suspects?” I ask just above a whisper.
He shakes his head. “No fingerprints, loose hairs, or anything like that, and my parents were normal. My mother was an interior designer, and my father owned a company that specialized in remodeling.” A short hum of remembered fondness vibrates in his throat. “They used to love when clients would hire them both. It meant they got to work and plan out the remodels together.”
Felix folds his arms, his gaze flitting from my face to the house behind me and back. “My parents didn’t have any enemies, and I don’t remember pissing anyone off. Police think it’s an ‘unfortunate’,” he presses his lips tightly together, “random act of violence. There aren’t even any similar cases to connect it to. Just a group of assholes that decided to murder me and my family for the fuck of it.”
My stomach is a hard mix of feelings: rage over the police’s incompetence, sorrow for Felix, and a sinking weight of helplessness. “Are they at least still looking?”
“Nope,” he spits out. “The case is still open, but until they find more evidence...” He releases a pent up sigh. “Anyway, so that’s really why I hate July. Not just because of the mass death thing, though that does suck. It’s how little anyone seems to care anymore-- you know, outside of you guys. The reason you hate July have anything to do with what I saw?”
I snort; it’s an ugly sound of derision. “Yep. My birthday is July 8th, and my father used it as a benchmark of my progress, I guess. He always got more creative on that day.”
“Not big on birthdays then?” he comments, his voice flat.
I scoff. “No. Not so much.”
