“Considering a dead guy almost killed me last night, my tolerance for dark is pretty high right now.”
I can feel the tension in my shoulders unwinding. Joking about it like this makes me feel less insane.
“The police don’t know what they’re dealing with in cases like this,” he says. “They blame the hosts. Lock them up for murdersthey were forced to commit while something else was driving them.”
It’s like the ground pulls away under my feet, leaving me suspended for a moment. “Shit.”
His eyes sharpen on me. “What?”
“I talked to a cop last night,” I say. “I told him what happened—well, not the ghost part, but I told him about the man attacking me. Did I screw things up for him? For Marcus?”
“The cops won’t connect your report to Marcus unless you gave them something specific,” he says.
“I told the cop I was attacked here,” I say. “Does that count?”
“There are no working cameras with this area in view,” he says. “So we’re good.”
I swallow hard, wincing at the burn.“What will happen to Marcus?”
“He’ll probably write it off as a bad dream, assuming he doesn’t dig too deep into his memories, but he’ll remember eventually, and when he does… he’ll remember everything.”
My brain conjures up pictures I don’t want to see: a random girl across town with her whole life ahead of her, and then a harmless accountant father of two approaching her with dead eyes and someone else’s hands…
“How do you know if a person is being possessed?” I ask.
“It’s hard to tell,” he says, “but if it’s early enough, there are physical symptoms. Slurred speech. Overexaggerated movements.”
“So, like, any drunk or high person?”
He gives a considering nod. “As I said, it can be hard to tell.”
Great. Fantastic. I force a trembling breath in through my teeth. Focus on something real. The cold air biting through the tough canvas of Dad’s jacket. The glare of the morning sun. The way my body is begging me to just sit down for five minutes. I’m not there. I’m here.
“Your throat,” he says, and it takes me a second to realize we’re not talking about murder and ghosts anymore. “How bad is it?”
“Still letting me breathe, which I have you to thank for.”
He nods, and his eyes do this slow sweep over my face that makes my skin feel like it’s warming from the inside out. I don’t need a mirror to know I look like death warmed over, but the way he’s looking at me doesn’t feel judgmental.
I glance around the parking lot because I need to look at something other than his face. “So, where’s your grandpa?”
“Getting coffee.” He pauses. “And he’s really not my grandpa. He’s my boss.”
I figured as much. I was just trying to be funny, but that comment wasn’t actually funny, so I don’t know what I was doing.
“I’m going to buy some salt,” I say, gesturing toward Walmart before I can make any other stupid attempts at humor. My voice is getting raspier by the second, and I need to stop talking before I lose the ability to talk at all. “My dog is probably wondering why I’m taking so long.”
“Is he the jealous type?”
“Why? You worried he’s going to come bite your ankles?”
“I’m hoping he doesn’t think I’m a threat to you, or I would be. He looked ready to take on the world for you last night.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve always said if anyone were to do anything to me while he was around, he couldn’t do much, but I’d have a very loud death.”
I glance back at my car, where Bob has indeed pressed his tiny face as close to the window as his cone will allow, his black button eyes fixed on us with what can only be described as profound hatred.
“Well, I’m going to go back to him,” I say. “Thanks for answering my questions.”
