Page 29 of Within These County Lines

I smack a hand to my forehead. “Right now?” My voice is groggy. “I don’t know. I’m literally so tired from this week.”

I wish I could tell her about Xander and the tree. She’s working the same job as me so complaining seems lame when there’s so much more to it. But I don’t even know what I would say. How do I begin to explain that I see a dead person?

I decided overnight I can’t start the online community for that exact reason. It comes across as less helpful and more desperate for attention.

“Ugh, Stetson. You’re killing me. I need you.”

So many people need me these days. Victor. Sheryl. Kim. Murray. Xander. Whitley.

I need a day for myself.

“Can I help you later this weekend?”

“No. Come now. We can’t let the coyote escape our perimeter. Plus . . .” She trails off.

I sit up, suddenly more awake. “What?”

“I have some bad news.”

“What?” I say again, sharper.

She exhales. “At first I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to ruin your Saturday but—”

“Did Murray text you again?”

“Yeah.” She sighs. “He’s here now. He said he wanted to say goodbye to me or something before I leave for school. He just came over.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s such a lie. He wants to talk to you about me.”

“I know. I’m not an idiot. But he wouldn’t let up.” Bennie barks in the background. “Has he texted you?”

“No. And he completely ignored me at the Bean.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know! And isn’t it weird that he’s only texting you?”

“Yeah.” A silence stretches between us. Rustling wind comes through the speaker. “Are you mad he’s here?”

The first word that comes to mind is yes. I don’t want to see Murray. And I don’t want my friends seeing him.

But I also know better than to act surprised when he finds his way back into my life through a call, friend, or uninvited memory. It’s stupid to think he’d disappear just because I ended things. We share the same hometown. He still lives ten minutes down the road. Our parents shop at the same grocery store. We swim in the same river. He’s a part of my past, whether I like it or not.

But Penango County is just that—my past. It’s where I am from but not where I’m meant to stay.

Less than two months. That’s all that stands between me and crossing the county line and stopping history from repeating itself.

I wipe my hand down my face. “It’s fine,” I say. “You can see whoever you want.”

“Okay, cool,” she says “But now I need you to come over so I can get him out of here. I need a reason to tell him to leave.”

I shrug. “You shouldn’t need one.”

“I know, but I do.”

I press my fingers into my temples. I don’t want to do this. But I know how this goes. If I don’t go, he wins. He gets to linger.

“Fine. I’ll be there soon. Make sure he’s gone before I get there.”