Grave Phantoms by Jenn Bennett Page A

know,” Bo said.
    â€œHow come I don’t feel that way?” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard to get the rest of the words out. “I messed up everything at school, Bo. Everything! You don’t even know the half of it. And I . . . God! I was supposed to get over you. All my friends said I’d find someone new—that college would change my feelings.”
    After a long pause, he asked, “Did it?”
    She didn’t respond. Couldn’t. The answer stuck in her throat.
    â€œI told myself we’d grow apart, too,” Bo said softly. “I wanted to believe we could. Because I can’t keep hoping and wanting. It is killing me, Astrid. I’ve been a goddamn wreck since you’ve left, and now that you’re back . . .”
    They stood in the transitional space of the pantry, soclose. The dark dining room to one side, the bright kitchen on the other. And them in the middle, in the gray area between. Not dark nor light, not friends nor lovers, this
betweenness
wasn’t stable. Crossroads never were. The two of them must choose to go forward or remain as they’d always been. And Astrid was all at once filled with a soaring hope, and yet utterly, numbingly terrified.
    â€œI don’t know what to do,” she whispered, gripping the marble counter behind her as her fingers trembled. “What do we do?”
    His whispered answer came seconds later along with the gentle swipe of his thumb across her cheek, where a stubborn tear was falling. “Let’s—”
    A clang made her jump. Bo pulled away. They both peered into the glaring light of the kitchen, where Greta stood in her nightdress, silver hair falling down her back. She was moving the noisy teakettle off the burner.
    Astrid had never even heard it whistling.
    â€”
    Bo reluctantly left Astrid and Greta alone in the kitchen. Now that the house’s resident nosey parker was up and about, he’d get no chance to finish his conversation with Astrid. And maybe that was just as well, because he’d almost gone too far. Been too greedy. Too weak. His pulse pounded like he’d been running up Lombard Street with a sack of bricks, and his head was spinning with possibilities. He prowled through the dark house with her words repeating in an endless loop.
    What do we do?
    He didn’t know. At least, not what they should do. He certainly knew what he
wanted
to do, and that was what had crouched on his tongue, ready to springboard, when Greta had interrupted.
    But was it the right thing? Or did he even care what was right anymore?
    He just wasn’t sure.
    One thing he
did
know was that Astrid wasn’t safe, andthat was something he could fix. Would fix. He jogged downstairs, but instead of turning right to head to his room, he took a left and stole into the community room. A black candlestick telephone stood on a table in the corner. He picked up the earpiece and waited for the operator to answer. Asked her to connect him to the Saint Francis admitting desk and prayed that a particular admissions-desk nurse he’d talked to the night of Astrid’s hospital trip was working the same late shift. He knew her outside of work, vaguely. They’d crossed paths in a small speakeasy near the hospital once before. Her boyfriend was a second cousin of Hezekiah from Gris-Gris; sometimes he thought half the people in this town were related.
    And as luck would have it, she was working tonight.
    â€œNurse Sue, this is Bo Yeung.”
    â€œOh, hello, Bo,” she said, cheerful and open. “What can I do for you?”
    â€œIt has to do with those survivors of that missing yacht. I was wondering if you could tell me whether they were still at the hospital.”
    â€œYou and everyone else wants to know,” she said in lower voice. “Reporters been calling here nonstop. But no, they were discharged a few hours after we spoke. Police chief allowed them to be