I want to rush up and squeeze her, but I know enough now to realize that won’t work. I hang back, studying her more and thinking that she looks better than Nick did, at least, like she might be dealing with things in signature Carson fashion—moving forward, always.
But then I remember where we are.
“What’s she doing on a ghost tour?” I ask.
“Looking for answers,” he says. “But she knows it’s a scam.”
“You can tell?”
“I can read people.” I look at him closely, wondering if that’s what Thatcher’s pain is—that he sees the sadness of the Living as he helps other ghosts haunt. How does someone apply for the job? And why would they? I think it would be don’t-want-to-get-out-of-bed depressing day after day. It would take someone with a certain temperament, a special gift. While he holds himself aloof, I have to admit that I believe he is truly trying to help me—even if I don’t appreciate ninety-nine percent of the lessons.
“What?” asks Thatcher, obviously uncomfortable with my scrutiny.
“Nothing.”
When I turn back to Carson, I see the bored disappointment carved in her stony expression. “You’re right. She’s not buying this.”
She reaches out her hand and pulls someone up beside her. His profile is reflected in the moonlight.
“Nick,” I whisper.
His head is down, shoulders slumped. The weight of what’s happened is sitting on his back and taking its toll. The darkness casts shadows over his face, making him impossible to read. I can’t see his eyes; they’re half closed and he won’t pick up his head—it’s like he’s broken. I notice his fingers moving back and forth, back and forth, over the smooth amber heart he took from my room.
I can’t believe he came—he’s never thought much of Carson’s interest in this stuff.
“Stay with me,” Thatcher orders, and I’m aware of him eyeing my profile. He’s afraid I’m going to run up to Nick again, but I follow his instructions this time.
We walk with the tour group through the graveyard. As we listen to more stories about various people buried here, we climb a hill to a specific gravestone that’s supposedly a hot spot for paranormal activity. But Leo and his friend aren’t around, so there’s no action.
“Boo!”
Startled, I jump and spin around. Leo is standing there, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Did you like the show?” he asks.
Before I can answer, Thatcher growls, “Get out of here, Leo.”
“Aren’t you tired of hanging around with this guy yet?” Leo asks me, totally ignoring Thatcher. “I can teach you so much.”
“There’s nothing you can teach her that she needs to know.”
Leo glares at Thatcher. “Shouldn’t she at least know her options, make her own decisions?”
“What options?” I ask.
“Ah, there’s so much. Where to begin? With an encore, perhaps?” He dances a short distance away, as though he believes Thatcher is going to try to stop him. “Look at these suckers, Callie, all wanting the ghost experience. I could give them something they’d never forget.”
“Leave them alone, Leo,” Thatcher commands.
Leo steps toward me, holds his hands out imploringly. “But my partner in crime took off, and I’m a little low on energy. Want to give me some?”
Thatcher slides in between us. “She’s not giving you anything.”
“He’s not trying to protect you, Callie. He’s trying to deceive you, to make sure you never learn the truth about your powers. That’s the way it is with the Guides. They want you to follow them like mindless sheep to Soulless. He knows if you knew everything I know, you’d never accept what he’s offering.”
“There’s no peace to be found in your way,” Thatcher says.
Leo throws his head back and stretches his arms toward the stars. “Who needs peace when we can have everything?”
He runs to the edge of the crowd and crouches. When Lantern Guy starts leading them away, Leo picks up a fallen tree branch just enough that someone trips over it, staggers, and falls. Leo’s laughter, almost maniacal, echoes around us. He runs on through the crowd and disappears.
“See?” Thatcher says. “He’s dangerous.”
Okay, I have to admit that tripping someone isn’t very nice, but still—
“He picked up a tree branch.” Which weighs a lot more than a little pebble. What are his limitations? I don’t ask, because I know Thatcher won’t tell me. I don’t think he’s trying to keep anything from me, but I don’t think he’s telling me everything either.
“Forget about him, Callie,” Thatcher says, as though he knows the direction my thoughts are traveling.
He’s right. I have more important things to worry over. Nick and Carson. I watch them trailing along behind the group as Lantern Guy leads everyone back to Church Street and the tour’s main office.
Carson and Nick hang back while the other members of the group thank the guide before leaving. I see Genevieve and Ryan trail after a woman who must be her mother. Nick stands off to the side with his arms crossed, still with that heavy sadness, but also annoyed and impatient. His hair is limp and dull—not like it was when I saw him just a short time ago. It doesn’t look like he’s washed it in days.
“How much time has passed since I saw him?” I ask.
“A couple of days.”
“Shouldn’t I be with him most of the time?”
“We can’t bombard them with our presence. It drains our energy and isn’t good for them.”
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t look like time without me has been good for him either.”
After everyone else has gone, Carson pulls Lantern Guy aside. “I’m looking for something more,” she says.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“I know the ghost stories, I know the flashbulb trick . . . but I want to know, is there any real way to connect with someone who may be on the other side? Like, if you think you might be able to bring them back?”
Thatcher steps away from the conversation. I wonder if he doesn’t want to hear the hogwash that old man is probably going to spout, but I’m intrigued by Carson’s question. I lean in closer because Lantern Guy looks uncomfortable, like Carson is pushing him to reveal something vitally important.
But then he just says, “Lighten up, missy. It’s a ghost tour, not a horror movie.”
Carson frowns at him. She trudges over to Nick, grabs his arm, and drags him down the street toward her car.
I catch up to Thatcher, and we fall into step behind them.
“I told you,” Nick says, his voice listless. “This is all just stupid BS.”
“It was worth a try,” says Carson determinedly. “Next we can get out the Ouija board, and if that doesn’t work, we’ll have to attempt a séance—”
“Carson,” says Nick, opening the passenger-side door of her VW Bug. “I came with you tonight to be a good friend, but you sound like a crazy person.”
They both slide into the car and Thatcher and I join them, slipping into the backseat quickly through their open doors. I almost feel guilty for eavesdropping, and I say so, but Thatcher says, “We’re not eavesdropping; we’re haunting.”
“Feels the same to me.”
“It won’t once you’re doing it properly, Callie.”
They sit in the car for a minute, letting Nick’s insult hang in the air.