than six months."
"Good luck sleeping under that roof," Paul teases. None of them seem particularly friendly as I glance at their eager expressions.
"What do you think the ghosts want?" I ask.
They laugh. "You actually believe in ghosts?" Lotte asks, raising one eyebrow.
I feel like I'm being set up. "I don't know. I want to believe there's something after this. You were the one—"
"I've never seen a blonde goth before." Carla smirks knowingly and I instantly dislike her for her assumptions.
I look down at my black clothes. It's not intentional—I've just been wearing a lot of black this year. "I'm not goth, I'm just pale."
"Sure, whatever," she says acidly. "Let me tell you something—once you're dead, you're worm food. That's it."
The teacher comes back in and shuts the door. I have the fleeting urge to stab my pencil into Carla's forehead but luckily I can curb my violet impulses. And now my thoughts are fixed on my new house, the crime scene.
_________________________________________
"They said he shot them and just skipped town, isn't that insane?" I tell my dad over dinner. It's our third straight night of take out.
"Yeah, insane," he repeats as he eats another slice of pizza and scrolls through his phone with his free hand. He doesn't seem surprised.
I search his expression and frown. "You already knew, didn't you?"
He sits back and wipes his mouth with a napkin, then crumples it on the table. "Yes. The Realtor had to disclose it by law. It's part of why the house was so cheap—apparently there's a stigma attached. But it was a long time ago."
"Why didn't you tell me?" I frown.
"I didn't think you needed to know."
"Oh, yeah, of course." I sit up, glaring at him incredulously. "Some asshole went nuts and murdered his whole family, just a blip in the time line."
My sarcasm seems to sting him. I don't think he has any sense of humor left.
"Apparently you already know all about it." He reaches his hand out for mine, hesitates, and then clenches his fingers together instead. "I didn't want you to be scared."
I let out a deep breath through my nose. "The past doesn't scare me. The future does. It can still happen. The past is already buried."
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, then gets up and shuts the pizza box, taking it toward the kitchen. I throw my napkin on the table in exasperation and drop my head into my hands, rubbing my eyes. I want to ask him why we never talk anymore, but the empty chair across from me answers that question.
CHAPTER 3
I was in the car with my mom when it crashed. We were in the middle of arguing about my grades, and all of a sudden, a pair of headlights blinded us through the windshield. I remember the sound of the impact—metal on metal, squealing brakes—but nothing else.
I woke up in the hospital a day later. She never woke up. That was almost a year ago now, but the pain is still fresh. I can't stop blaming myself—if only I hadn't been distracting her. If only I had gotten my head out of my ass sooner and realized I wasn't the center of the universe.
We all have our ways of coping—my dad's is to only pretend I exist when it's convenient. Sometimes I wonder if it's because he wishes she was here instead.
I take a shower after dinner to clean off the day. I rub my body scrub over my left arm, where a long, ragged scar marks the skin. Glass from the windshield cut into me during the accident. The scar is white and shiny now, but it's still a painful reminder, once I hide under cardigans and sweaters even when it's too warm.
I shut the shower off and dry my feet on the bathmat, wrapping a towel around my body. When I look up, I see a single hand print standing out in the condensation on the mirror. My heart jumps in my chest. Did I touch the mirror? I must have. I follow the outlines of the fingers, causing beads of moisture to roll down over the hand, then smear the print away. I can see the foggy reflection of my blonde hair and green
"Good luck sleeping under that roof," Paul teases. None of them seem particularly friendly as I glance at their eager expressions.
"What do you think the ghosts want?" I ask.
They laugh. "You actually believe in ghosts?" Lotte asks, raising one eyebrow.
I feel like I'm being set up. "I don't know. I want to believe there's something after this. You were the one—"
"I've never seen a blonde goth before." Carla smirks knowingly and I instantly dislike her for her assumptions.
I look down at my black clothes. It's not intentional—I've just been wearing a lot of black this year. "I'm not goth, I'm just pale."
"Sure, whatever," she says acidly. "Let me tell you something—once you're dead, you're worm food. That's it."
The teacher comes back in and shuts the door. I have the fleeting urge to stab my pencil into Carla's forehead but luckily I can curb my violet impulses. And now my thoughts are fixed on my new house, the crime scene.
_________________________________________
"They said he shot them and just skipped town, isn't that insane?" I tell my dad over dinner. It's our third straight night of take out.
"Yeah, insane," he repeats as he eats another slice of pizza and scrolls through his phone with his free hand. He doesn't seem surprised.
I search his expression and frown. "You already knew, didn't you?"
He sits back and wipes his mouth with a napkin, then crumples it on the table. "Yes. The Realtor had to disclose it by law. It's part of why the house was so cheap—apparently there's a stigma attached. But it was a long time ago."
"Why didn't you tell me?" I frown.
"I didn't think you needed to know."
"Oh, yeah, of course." I sit up, glaring at him incredulously. "Some asshole went nuts and murdered his whole family, just a blip in the time line."
My sarcasm seems to sting him. I don't think he has any sense of humor left.
"Apparently you already know all about it." He reaches his hand out for mine, hesitates, and then clenches his fingers together instead. "I didn't want you to be scared."
I let out a deep breath through my nose. "The past doesn't scare me. The future does. It can still happen. The past is already buried."
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, then gets up and shuts the pizza box, taking it toward the kitchen. I throw my napkin on the table in exasperation and drop my head into my hands, rubbing my eyes. I want to ask him why we never talk anymore, but the empty chair across from me answers that question.
CHAPTER 3
I was in the car with my mom when it crashed. We were in the middle of arguing about my grades, and all of a sudden, a pair of headlights blinded us through the windshield. I remember the sound of the impact—metal on metal, squealing brakes—but nothing else.
I woke up in the hospital a day later. She never woke up. That was almost a year ago now, but the pain is still fresh. I can't stop blaming myself—if only I hadn't been distracting her. If only I had gotten my head out of my ass sooner and realized I wasn't the center of the universe.
We all have our ways of coping—my dad's is to only pretend I exist when it's convenient. Sometimes I wonder if it's because he wishes she was here instead.
I take a shower after dinner to clean off the day. I rub my body scrub over my left arm, where a long, ragged scar marks the skin. Glass from the windshield cut into me during the accident. The scar is white and shiny now, but it's still a painful reminder, once I hide under cardigans and sweaters even when it's too warm.
I shut the shower off and dry my feet on the bathmat, wrapping a towel around my body. When I look up, I see a single hand print standing out in the condensation on the mirror. My heart jumps in my chest. Did I touch the mirror? I must have. I follow the outlines of the fingers, causing beads of moisture to roll down over the hand, then smear the print away. I can see the foggy reflection of my blonde hair and green
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