Page 70 of Ghosted

He grins. “Fantastic. You look fantastic.”

“Better.”

He leaves after that, and I hate how relieved I am when he does.

By the time my last class ends, the sky is already dark even though it’s barely evening. Fall does that. Steals daylight. Makes everything damp and gives people shadows to make stupid choices in.

Apparently, I’m people.

The basement darkroom is empty when I get there.

Which is good because honestly, tonight, I need empty.

I drop my bag on the counter, hang my coat over the back of a chair, and start setting up without letting myself think too hard. Developer. Stop bath. Fixer. Tongs. Trays lined in a neat row.

Steps help.

They don’t ask questions. Because they don’t care if your life has suddenly become a bad decision with cheekbones and a criminal record waiting to happen.

The red light comes on, turning the room that familiar darkroom red that always makes everything look a little haunted and a little pretentious.

Basically, perfect for an arts building.

A few old bulbs hang from thin silver chains on the ceiling, swaying every time the building makes one of its dramatic old-building noises. The shadows move over the counters, the trays, the peeling Halloween flyers outside the door. Rain taps against the narrow windows near the ceiling, and somewhere above me, water rushes through the gutters like the weather is also having a breakdown.

Usually, I like it down here.

The darkroom makes sense. No one talks or stares. No one wears a creepy mask in the woods and ruins your ability to be normal.

Tonight, I start with the warehouse photos because those should be safe.

They’re for class. For my project. Very academic and serious. Very “please ignore the fact that the subject of these photos had me against a cemetery wall less than twenty-four hours ago.”

Totally fine.

Love a well-rounded education.

Jagger appears first.

In the cage. Half-turned. One fist raised with blood on his mouth. The crowd behind him is blurred and messy, but he’s clear. Annoyingly clear. Calm in that very Jagger way, like violence is just another Tuesday and everyone else is being dramatic about it.

I clip the print up, and then stare at it.

Then realize I’m staring at it and immediately hate myself.

“Great,” I mutter. “What the fuck is wrong with you Alice.”

Normally, I like watching photos develop.

There’s something calming about it. The tray, the chemicals, the slow way an image starts to appear like the paper is deciding whether it trusts me with the truth. It gives my brain something simple to follow. A process. A beginning, middle, end.

Very unlike my current life, which seems to have skipped the process and gone straight to whatever the fuck this is.

But these photos aren’t helping.

Because every time another piece of Jagger shows up through the chemicals, my mind goes right back to the woods.

I move to the next print and watch him appear slowly. First the shape of his shoulder, then his arm, then his hand forcing his opponent back into the fence. Another photo comes after that, Jagger looking straight at my lens after the flash, blood on his mouth, eyes calm in a way that makes absolutely no sense for a man standing in the middle of a fight.