I repeat the sentence over and over in my mind, then again out loud. It’s a mantra of desperation. But no matter how many times I say it I can’t deny the way my chest aches with shallow breaths. The logical part of me is screaming in the void, while the rest of me—the part that’s been caught up in Ghost since the moment I met him—knows better.
The words on the screen burn into my eyes, into my soul as if branding me. My fingers tremble around the phone even though I’m unwilling to accept what’s staring back at me.
The urge to respond is strong. I want answers, need to know how this is happening. I type and delete a few sentences, unsure of what to say, until I finally settle on something. Simple and direct, unlike my chaotic thoughts.
Geneva: Who is this?
My finger hovers over the send button. Part of me doesn’t want to engage, doesn’t want to give Ghost—or whoever this is—the satisfaction. But I can’t let it go. I hit send and stare at the screen, waiting, my heart in my throat.
A few seconds pass. Then another chime.
Unknown: You already know, Geneva.
The phone falls from my numb fingers and lands on the comforter. My throat tightens, my breath coming faster. This can’t be Ghost. But who else could it be?
Maybe someone is trying to mess with me—someone who knows that I’m the only one who’s spoken with him. This is just some sick joke.
But no one knows how deeply this case has etched itself into my psyche, how much time I’ve spent thinking about him, dissecting his every word, trying to understand him.
No one else… except maybe him.
My heart thuds painfully against my ribs, a slow, steady beat, like a drum warning me of something I’m not prepared to face. This isn’t a prank.
How did Ghost get something as restricted as my number, much less a phone?
I scan my room, unable to shake the feeling that someone’s watching me. That he’s watching me. But that’s impossible. Ghost is locked up.
What if he’s not?
I move abruptly, knocking my glass over in the process of turning on my lamp. The whiskey spills across the nightstand, pooling on the wood, but I don’t care. I can’t sit in the darkness anymore.
Finding myself alone, I glance down at the phone, relief still eluding me. A small part of me itches to pick it back up, to read the message again. And answer him.
I grab my phone against my better judgment. The same judgment that has failed me time and time again when it comes to this man.
Geneva: What do you want?
Unknown: So, so, so many things. But tonight, I just want you to answer the question.
Geneva: Go to hell.
Unknown: Very rude, not to mention unprofessional, Dr. Andrews.
I stare at the text, every fiber of me screaming to block this number and end the conversation. But I don’t. I can’t.
Instead, I sit there transfixed as every interaction with Ghost flashes through my mind. His eyes locking with mine across the courtroom. The way he smiled, like he knew more than anyone.
Like he knew me.
My cell phone vibrates softly in my hand as another alert appears on the screen.
Unknown: I’ll make this easier for you. Do you think of a ghost as something that represents the dead, or do you see it as something that haunts the living?
I clench my jaw, my mind buzzing with the implications of his words. He’s playing with me, drawing me in, feeding off my pain. Except, he shouldn’t know anything about me beyond the surface-level details of my professional life. He shouldn’t know me like this.
I sit there, staring at the messages, my thoughts spinning out of control. In death, my parents haunt me. The memories, the survivor’s guilt, the endless questions. All of it has shaped who and what I am, and why I’m having this conversation to begin with.
But then there’s him…
Ghost isn’t like my parents. He isn’t someone I loved and lost. He’s something else—a living phantom, drifting through my life, possessing my thoughts. He’s alive, yet he feels like a ghost too, haunting me in an entirely different way.
Am I tormented by the dead or the living? The answer comes to me. Or maybe it’s been there all along, and that’s his point.
Geneva: Both. I think of a ghost as both of those things.
Unknown: The dead and the living, always overlapping.
Unknown: It’s my reality too.
His reality too?
A sense of understanding rises in me before I can stop it. His response is very telling. Vulnerable in a way that humanizes him. I mentally rail against viewing him in this light, knowing this could be nothing more than lies designed to manipulate me. To force compassion from me in a way he doesn’t deserve.
How many times do I have to remind myself that he’s a serial killer?
Unknown: You feel it, don’t you? The connection between us?
I should call Detective Harris right now, delete these texts, or throw the phone across the room, anything to break this fragile bond between us. It pulses within me like a slow-burning ember, not ablaze but still hot enough to provide warmth. And pain.
I want to believe that I’m not reporting this in order to discover more for Ghost’s psych evaluation. But right now, this interaction isn’t about professional curiosity. No, this is something more. Something personal.
The ember of connection flickers and for a moment I can feel myself drawn to Ghost in a way that’s stronger than before. His words echo in my mind, each one dragging me deeper into a shared darkness, into a space where his ghosts and mine meet.
Fourteen days, twenty-two hours, seven minutes, and twelve seconds since I’ve seen Ghost…
Come Monday morning, I’ll be back at zero.
CHAPTER 11
GENEVA
The inmates look at me like I’m a donut and they’re on a diet. It’s uncomfortable but not enough to deter me. Meanwhile, the guard barely glances at me as he guides me down the long, dim prison hallway.
Every step takes me closer to Ghost, to the conversation I know I shouldn’t be having but can’t stop myself from seeking out. Even Detective Harris was perturbed this morning when I told him about my plan.
“What are you hoping to get out of this, Gen? What more could you possibly need from him?”
I didn’t have a good reason for Allen. Or maybe I just didn’t want to say it out loud. The truth is that I need answers only Ghost can give me.
Out of all the billions of people in the world, why am I the one he’s fixated on?
I run my fingers over my hair, making sure my bun is secure and there are no flyaway strands. My clothes still hold the starch from the dry cleaners, and paired with my ballet flats, I embody propriety. And to some, monotony.
No one would say I’m fascinating.
Except Ghost.
“Remember,” the guard says, coming to a halt outside the room, “don’t say anything to provoke the inmate. Don’t give him any details about other cases, and absolutely no personal information.”
I almost burst out laughing. Ghost has already proven he knows more about me than I’ve ever shared, or made public. It’s not as though I gave him my cell number and asked him to text me.