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The candles crackled when I lit them. I turned off the light, then sat in the center of the circle, my eyes closed.
I tried to relax—I really did. This needed my complete attention, for me to center myself and reach for an echo of who Rachel had been, for what was left, imprinted on the world.
And yet, each time I started, each time I tried, I remembered her body.
I reallydidn’twant feel that, to experience those last minutes of her life.
The scent of the candles, the burning wick, they filled the room as I rolled my shoulders and tried to focus. The necklace pressed into my palm, the slightest of currents there I could feel, a connection to her.
A creak made me jump, my heart speeding.
Instead of some huge danger—maybe another poltergeist or Olin himself—I was alone other than the snap of the flames.
A deep breath helped my heart to slow, but what was the point? When had I become a fucking chicken?
It didn’t matter, because the choices were clear. I either had to give up or do the one thing I’d never live down.
So I pulled my phone out and dialed.
