Page 39 of Melancholia

The surprise has me extending my hand to him, and Amir pulls me out of the Range Rover until I’m standing on the pavement of the parking lot.

“Come, my pretty mortician,” he murmurs, the words sending a jolt through me. “Come have dinner with me. I promise I won’t bite tonight.” Then he pulls my arm into his, like a real gentleman. Like I’m something of value to him, instead of just the mortician who discovered his crime and failed at his game.

“If this is all some elaborate trick to kill me, I’m going to be upset,” I murmur to him as he pulls me up the sidewalk. “Because you totally could’ve killed me at the mortuary and been done with it.”

At that, Amir laughs. Startled, full, and with a grin that makes something inside me heat. “No, Nell,” he assures me, still smiling that charming grin. “This isn’t some elaborate ploy to kill you.” He takes a few more steps and opens the heavy glass door.

“Not this time, anyway.”

15

The hostess is clearly expecting us. She greets Amir by name and gives me a small, curious smile. Like she’s asking who I am without actually opening her mouth. Or maybe why I’m with him.

Honestly, I’m wondering the same thing.

But Amir doesn’t give me a chance to either bolt or try to figure out Morse code with blinks. He gives her a charming grin right back and follows her through the mostly empty restaurant.

I’m definitely underdressed, though no one says anything about it. I don’t even get looks from the other two tables that are occupied by an older couple and two women. The hostess takes us to a table by the window, gesturing for us to sit, then placing menus in front of us. The hard-backed leather is fancier than anything I’ve seen since coming to Still Pines, and I brush my fingers across the textured surface as she tells us about the specials.

I’m barely listening, unfortunately. Because outside the restaurant, the ghost of Mr. Addison, whom I did intake and a preliminary on earlier today, is staring at me.

I remember checking the clipboard twice when I saw him. For all the man is only forty-seven, or was, before he died, he looked so much older than that. His pale, bloodless face looked sixty, if I were going to guess, and the dried blood on the side of his head where it hit the pavement doesn’t help that. He came in with skull and brain matter sticking to the outside of his head, so no matter how much Mrs. Addison begged to see him, that was not something I was willing to humor.

God, I think to myself. He just looks so sad. The dead don’t have expressions. Especially once they’re on my table. But standing there in the blood-soaked shirt and jeans he came in wearing, I can’t say if I’ve ever seen a sadder man.

“I can’t find her,” he breathes, and I know that it’s not actually possible to hear him through the glass, but my mind makes the window not matter. “Can you help me find her?”

When fingers brush the back of my hand, I jerk back in my seat, eyes jumping to Amir to find he’s already staring at me. “Hello again,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking my knuckles. “If you don’t mind, I’d like you to myself tonight, I think.” He hesitates, though, and I can see the interest in his eyes. “Will you tell me who it is?”

When I glance back out the window, Mr. Addison is gone. I blink, a little surprised, because normally it’s not that easy to get my ghosts to fuck off.

“It’s…” I look back at Amir, then down at his hand on mine. The physical touch is grounding in a way. And gentle in a manner I’m not used to.

Back at the hospital, no one was ever this kind when they found me talking to ghosts, or even just staring off into the distance like there might be one there. Whether or not there was, somehow I always ended up on the bad end of a therapy session and with medication adjustments.

“You don’t have to humor me.” There’s a defensiveness in my voice that I don’t expect or plan for, and my eyes drop to the table between us. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to snap at you.”

Why the fuck am I apologizing to a murderer?

When he doesn’t say anything, I find I can’t maintain the silence. “Mr. Addison.” The words come out quickly, and soft. “The man that I had to do intake for today. He was in a car accident. He—his brains were—” I make a vague gesture to the side of my head as if that explains it. “Which you probably don’t want to hear about.”

When he tilts his head and lifts a brow, I huff a reluctant scoff of laughter. “Yeah, my bad. Maybe you do.”

“What did he say?” For someone who wants my attention, he seems suddenly oh so curious about the ghosts we both know aren’t real. “How long do you usually see them after?”

I can only look at him. With confusion on my face and my heart beating in my ears. No one has ever asked me things like this in a way that feels almost conversational, rather than placating or informational. “I don’t know.” It’s not quite a lie. But I look down at the menu where my hands are still resting. “Usually days. Sometimes weeks, but not usually much longer.” But I hesitate, knowing that isn’t exactly true.

“Except for Elaina. I still see her and she’s been dead—well, my sister has been dead a long time.” My voice is soft, barely a whisper, and I swear when I look at Amir, something softens in his face.

“Did Mr. Addison warn you about me? Is that why he’s out there tonight?”

Slowly, I shake my head. “No. It’s not usually anything like that. He…he wasn’t talking about you.”

He was mimicking me. Though I don’t know why that’s the case. I haven’t said those words in over a decade, and only once.

I can’t find her, I said to the nurse, my hand in hers as she led me away from the room where Elaina died. I was too young, too in shock, to understand that my sister was already dead, and my parents’ hearts had turned to ice.

Can you help me find her?