He half-laughed, a harsh sound. “I never thought it was Zachary. This ghost thing is just oh so romantic…” His knowing gaze blistered her, and she looked away, flushed and angry, caught out. “But it’s bullshit. Someone’s playing a game here. And I know O’Connor’s been pissing around—that stuff with the water heater, and that bogus midterm.”
Robin’s hackles rose at the same old attack on Patrick. She took a step back, about to retort; then her gaze fell on the nightstand beside Cain’s bed, and she lost her train of thought.
Next to the base of the gooseneck lamp, there was a torn yellow strip of paper, folded in a square.
Robin’s eyes widened. She recognized the paper: It was one of the strips they had written that first Thanksgiving night, at Martin’s suggestion—and after Cain had left the room. The purple pen identified it as her strip.
Which meant that Cain had gone back down in the night to get it. Which meant…
“You,” she said aloud. “It was you.” She turned on him. “You went back that first night. You moved the furniture.”
Cain stared at her. “What are you talking about?”
She took three quick steps to the bed stand, grabbed the yellow square of paper, held it out accusingly. “How did you get this? What are you doing with it?”
Cain looked trapped, then angry. “What were you doing writing it?” he slammed back at her.
Robin faltered, suddenly remembering what she’d written. Something no one knows about me….
They stared at each other, both flushed. Then Cain’s face closed off.
“Fuck it. Play your games. You’re all crazy. I don’t care.”
Unable to look at him, Robin turned quickly and bolted out the door.
She ran down the hall, startling a couple of students who stood talking beside another door, and ducked into the stairwell.
In the narrow, dark passage, she stopped to catch her breath, and slowly unfolded the paper to stare down at her own purple writing, the words accusing her from another lifetime:
I want to die.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
It was long past midnight, and Robin saw no one in the halls as she made her way up the stairs to the narrow passageway that led into the attic.
She had never been in the attic, had only been vaguely aware it existed. It was surprisingly large: high-raftered enough in the center for even Patrick to move about without having to watch his head, then sloping down to almost nothing in the corners. But claustrophobic nonetheless, with its unfinished walls and the amazing array of discards, much of which must have been forgotten, gathering dust for years.
Four of them, minus Cain, now hovered in the rat warren of furniture from various time periods, paintings, dusty stacks of boxes with God knows what odds and ends, racks of old Glee Club jackets, even, weirdly, a headless dressmaker’s dummy. Cobwebs hung from the sloped corners; everything seemed ominous in the shadows.
Martin was setting up the new board he’d bought, the familiar commercial version, on a heavy round table he’d found among the detritus. Patrick obligingly lighted the candles Martin had brought with his Zippo lighter.
Patrick likes Martin, Robin realized, surprised and rather touched by the thought. At least he’s fond of him, in some abstract way. Maybe because Martin’s not afraid of him.
She looked over to where Lisa stood off by herself, chain-smoking in the flickering candlelight. Now I know what they mean by “a shadow of herself,” Robin mused, worried. She looks like a ghost.
But that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? To stop all this?
She had not told anyone but Cain of her discovery in the cemetery. She wanted to question the board herself, without suggesting any answers to the others.
She knew Cain was wrong about Patrick—or anyone—setting up a prank. What was happening was far beyond a prank. Cain was clinging to that to protect himself—irrational rationality.
But he was right that there was a game going on. She was sure now: it was Zachary who was playing it.
Almost as if he’d picked up on her thoughts, Martin turned from the board and looked directly at her.
“Where’s Jackson? It’s almost one-thirty.”
Robin started, her heart beating a bit faster. It was quite possible Cain wouldn’t show, and she didn’t know if anything would happen without him.
And would that be such a bad thing?
And then the door opened behind Lisa, and Cain stepped in. He looked around the candlelit attic.
Martin cleared his throat. “We were beginning to think you weren’t coming.”
Cain glanced briefly at Robin, said nothing.
Martin shrugged. “All right, then. Let’s do it.” He stepped to the table and turned on a mini-tape recorder, then took out his cell phone and checked the camera function. “We’ll start with the girls—they’re the best receptors.”
Robin thought, Taking charge again. What does he want out of this? But she sat slowly in one chair, looking at the shiny, smooth, burn-free new board. Will it work with a modern board? Will Zachary come?
Her skin prickled.
Do I want him to?
Martin pulled out the other chair, looked to where Lisa sat on her box. She ground out her cigarette, stood and crossed to the table, and sat, her limbs heavy, her face set. Martin stood beside them with his phone, ready to film.
How official we are.
Robin looked across the table at Lisa, trying to project calm and reassurance. They both stretched out their hands to the planchette in the center of the board.
The pointer moved immediately, almost before they touched it.
Robin drew in a startled breath. She could feel Lisa flinch through the wood of the planchette.
The board spelled out quickly
Martin read the words aloud dispassionately. For the tape, Robin realized. She and Lisa looked at each other, unnerved, as the indicator kept moving under their hands.
The candles flared, hissing with dripping wax. Martin looked at his watch, made a note on his clipboard. Robin spoke sharply. “Waiting for what?” Under their fingers, the pointer flew across the board.
Patrick exhaled a cloud of smoke from the joint he’d just lighted. “But you’ve been around, haven’t you?” He spoke it flatly, to the air.
Robin could feel Cain behind her, prowling the perimeters of the attic, watching everything like a hawk. She spoke aloud.
“And all these things that have been happening to us…that was you?”
She could feel a peculiar intensity, almost a heat in the energy coming through the planchette under her fingers as it moved.
Robin tensed; she saw Lisa stiffen across from her.
Martin stepped forward, spoke beside her. “Did you write O’Connor’s midterm?”
Robin leaned forward, intent. “Why?”
The pointer hesitated… then skimmed lightly over the letters.
Martin deadpanned the words and everyone laughed, startled at the sudden humor. Patrick did a double take, growled back, mock-insulted. “Hey.”