Page 81 of Within These County Lines

We step into the elevator, and I resist the urge to rub my stinging shoulder.

Honestly, I’m glad I missed the message. Going to the club yesterday wasn’t just about checking on the pool; it gave me another chance to see Mrs. Pomers and hear her speak about Xander.

What started as a routine health inspection has become so much more than just making sure the pool is safe for swimmers. It’s about money, my scholarship, breaking a curse, and being the next gay icon for those kids at camp.

Okay. Maybe not an icon. The jury is still out on my iconography. But visibility counts for something, even if it’s not inspiring.

It’s probably for the best Victor remains oblivious to it all. This situation is way beyond the expertise of a guy whose primary skill set consists of poop jokes and overly aggressive back pats.

I clear my throat. “So, does this mean you can start writing my letter?”

He frowns as he fumbles with the keys clipped to his belt. “What letter?”

I bite back a groan.

Not that oblivious.

The elevator dings. Before I can protest, Victor strides out the doors and I’m left to follow him like a dog with its tail between its legs.

Across the sea of gray cubicles, Whitley’s blond hair sticks out among the bald heads.

“Can we talk?” she asks as I take my seat.

“Yeah?” I raise an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

She glances around to scan the nearby desks, exhaling after finding each one unoccupied.

“I’m kind of worried about your situation.” She frowns.

I let out a dry laugh. “Which one?”

“The one with Xander.”

I jerk my head back. “What? Why?”

She hooks the heel of her shoe around the base of her chair and pulls herself closer. “I couldn’t sleep this weekend with the fireworks, so I did a lot of research.”

“What kind of research?”

She holds up her phone. “I found some court notes from Louise and Abigail’s trial. They were in this book I found on the internet called the Pennsylvania Provincial Council’s History. It says they lived and practiced spectral witchcraft in the woods by the Ardor Tree.”

“I know.” I shift in my chair. “So, you’re saying everything checks out? They put a curse on the tree?”

She tilts her head. “Kind of. The thing is, spectral witchcraft means they appeared to people as ghosts.”

I narrow my eyes. “Okay?”

“They also tried to bring other people back as ghosts too.”

“What are you saying?”

She pauses. “I’m afraid Xander might be a ghost brought back from the dead by Louise and Abigail.”

I run a hand down my face. “Xander isn’t a ghost. He’s not dead. He’s just cursed by the tree like me. He’s like a ghost because no one can see him, but that’s not the same thing.”

She bites her lip. “Just listen.”

Scrolling through her phone, she pulls up a page. “There are five main types of spectral ghosts. The first is an orb. You know, those glowing balls of light people catch in photos.”