Deceased.
“Billy Garet is dead.”
Huh.
No shit.
Page of Cups
“THAT... CAN’T BEright.”
I read and reread the small text. Billy Garet, whose picture shows the same guy from my room, is in fact a ghost. Guess I was right after all.
“What does that mean?” I exhibit faux concern like a seasoned Oscar nominee.
Nick blinks, appearing to contemplate his next words as though he’s afraid whatever he says might throw me into a spiral.
“I saw Billy Garet’s body. He’s dead.” Nick’s eyes hold mine. “Are you sure that the man you saw wasn’t someone else? Maybe someone who looks similar enough to claim he’s Billy?”
My eyes narrow in on the picture. “Maybe?”
Nope.
“Can you tell me one more time what he said to you?” Nick asks, looking down at his notes.
“That’s it. Aside from telling me his name is Billy Garet and then disappearing, there isn’t anything else to say.”
Nick’s brows scrunch together. “Disappearing? What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. One minute he was there and the next... poof. He was gone.”
He sets down the pen, folding his hands in front of him. “I’m going to need you to describe what ‘poof’ entails.”
I glare at Nick. “Really?”
“I’m just trying to work out all the details. Like I said, I want to help keep you safe. And details are important.”
“I told him I didn’t want him here, and he literally vanished. I thought maybe he dropped to the floor and crawled under my bed, but he didn’t. He was gone. Like, poof,” I repeat.
As the words leave my mouth, I hear the absolute absurdity of what I’m implying.
I haven’t once doubted that the man at the end of my bed is a ghost, but I haven’t had an opportunity to consider what that means and how it concerns me. Believing in the possibility of the supernatural is one thing; having it confirmed is quite another.
The triumph of being right bleeds away and fear creeps back into me.
Nick blinks several times, chewing on his cheek. “Could you have dreamed the situation?” he asks, keeping his eyes on the computer screen.
“What? No, I didn’t dream it,” I spit out, fear turning to fury. “I’m a grown-ass woman. I know the difference between a dream and reality. I’m not losing my mind.”
His hands rise in surrender. “Okay. You didn’t dream it. I’m just being thorough.”
“No. You’re being mean. Have I not been tormented enough tonight? Now you have to humiliate me?”
“No, that’s not what’s happening,” Nick says, eyes wide.
He crosses over to me and pulls me into a hug. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. It wasn’t my intention. You’ve had a horrible couple years, and with you having lived the trauma firsthand, well... I can only imagine how hard it’s been. I would never purposely embarrass you.”
I want to scream. Want to pound his rock-hard chest with my fists and tell him I wasn’t dreaming, and that ghosts are real. I don’t need his patrol; I need ghostbusters. But I don’t do or say any of that. Men like Nick deal in facts. The facts here are that a dead man vanished into thin air from my room.
