This is Your Afterlife (4 page)

“Of course I know. One hundred meters in ten-point-nine seconds.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “You keep stats on me?”

I feel my face start to burn and I find a way to back-pedal. “I have to check facts when I subedit. Some things just stick in my head, that's all.”

“Nice to know
someone
cares,” he says. “Unlike my brother.”

“Of course he cares. He's probably out looking for you.”

Jimmy grimaces. He leans against a thick tree trunk and I wonder why he doesn't get absorbed into the bark. Maybe it's because he
expects
the tree to hold him up. There's still so much about ghost protocols I haven't learned yet.

“I don't know... Last I remember, we got into a fight.”

“What, a fist-fight?” I lean against the tree, too. No danger of me being swallowed up—knock on wood.

“Nah. All I know is that it was about something stupid. Something to do with the newspaper.” He shakes his head as if to jog his memory. “Whatever it was, it made me crazy angry.”

I keep my gaze on the dewy grass. “Like an...exposé of some kind?”

“Exposé,” he says flatly. Crossing his arms, he stands straighter. “Yeah, an article. A hatchet job. On me.”

“You knew about it?”

He stares at me accusingly. “
You
knew? Did you write it, Miss Fact-Checker?”

My defenses rise like a plume of volcanic ash. “No! I didn't know anything until Mara told me about it yesterday. She wasn't going to run it, because she wasn't sure if...if it was true. Are you saying it was a lie?”

Jimmy snorts and frowns at his right leg. “I wish. Guess it doesn't matter anymore, huh?”

My anger dials down a notch. “I'm sorry.”

“I've known for a month or so. Tried to tell myself I'd get better.” Raw emotion drips from his voice. “You know what sucks about all this? I don't even have a real body anymore, but it still hurts like hell.”

I'm completely baffled as to why a ghost can feel physical pain. I've heard about amputees who feel sensation in their lost body parts. Phantom pain. Maybe Jimmy has some form of that. The idea of death not freeing a person from pain fills me with horror. Grandie was in agony in her last days. Is
she
still suffering, too?

I wish I could comfort her. Comfort Jimmy. He's staring at his knee with utter loathing.

“What do you want to do now?” I throw a look at the immense house. “Wait for Dan?”

Part of me—a large, cowardly part—silently begs him to say no. Thankfully, he seems to pick up on it.

He shakes his head. “Can we go back to your house? I don't want to be alone. You know, without someone who can see me.”

Another part of me melts. Big, tough as old boots Jimmy wants me to keep him company. I smile at him.

We get halfway down his street when I see headlights shining over the hill. The vehicle slows, and I make out the unmistakable silhouette of a cop car.

Deputy “Call Me Charlie” McPhee pokes his head out the window and comes to a stop beside us. Me.

“Keira Nolan? That you?” he asks in his gruff voice. “What are you doing out here on a school night?”

Of course he knows who I am. He's a friend of my mom's. You don't need to be a detective to realize he has the hots for Mom. When he sees her around town, he gets this look that reminds me of a puppy looking for a forever home. Rumor is he's had a thing for her since before I was born.

When my so-called father split.

I shoot a glance at Jimmy. I can't exactly tell Charlie I'm walking a dead person to my house. He'd lock me up in a second. Since I'm not in a court of law, I figure a tiny white lie couldn't hurt.

“Insomnia.”

Charlie's jaw twitches. The two-way radio attached to his shoulder chirps. He turns down the volume on garbled chatter. “Go on back home. We don't need another one of you kids going missing.”

“Like...like Jimmy, right?” I stammer. Charlie throws me a grim look.

Jimmy quickly joins me by the squad car and starts yammering at Charlie. “Do you know what happened to me? What are people saying?”

“I heard about it at school.” I gulp hard and avoid Jimmy's gaze. “Is it possible he just...ran away?”

Jimmy holds up his arms in protest. “Hey, I do not run away from anything. Not even from three-hundred-pound linebackers, all right? So don't you even put that out there, you hear me?”

When I don't answer—because I
can't
without coming across like I'm high—Jimmy lets out a furious groan.

Charlie taps the steering wheel. “No trace of his car. He's not the kind of kid to take off from what I hear.”

“Thank you. Thank
you
,” crows Jimmy.

I'd hold off on the celebrations if I were him. There's still one world-shattering fact to deal with—he's dead.

“But we're checking into that and a few other avenues. We tracked down his parents. They're on their way back from Hawaii. Some vacation,” Charlie adds solemnly.

I glance between Jimmy and Charlie. What other reasons for Jimmy's disappearance could there be? Is Charlie saying he was abducted? Murdered? It's so senseless, so vile to think anyone would harm a guy like Jimmy. The thought of it makes my stomach go topsy-turvy.

“Keira, you look kinda green. You okay?” Charlie asks.

“No, not okay. But Jimmy's worse off than I am,” I blurt, then clap a hand over my mouth when I realize how easily my statement could be misconstrued.

“What?” Charlie peers at me. I duck my head, which probably makes me seem even more suspicious. “How do you know?”

My brain goes into overdrive. How many white lies can a person tell a cop in one night? Do they add up to one giant damning lie that's enough to warrant an arrest? I force myself to look at him directly, innocently. “I...I'm guessing. I mean, he's gone...missing. He could be lost in the woods. Cold. No food or water.”

Charlie's eyes don't leave my face for a second. He's usually the kind of cop who puts donuts first, perpetrators second. Halvertson isn't a high-drama town. Since when did he get so sharp? “How well do you know Jimmy? He a friend of yours?”

I glance at Jimmy pacing in front of the car. Strange how the headlights shine straight through him. “Um, we don't know each other well. But if there's anything I can do to help with the search...”

The two-way radio chirps again. “There is something. Put your mom's mind at rest and go home. I'll give you a ride.”

Nodding faintly, I tell Charlie, “Thanks, but Mom's at work. I'll keep walking. It'll clear my head.”

He gives another one of those long, analytical looks. Finally, he says, “Don't let me catch you wandering around aimlessly again,” and rolls on down the road.

Without warning, Jimmy staggers like he's been punched in the gut. “Ughhh!”

“What's wrong?” I ask, alarmed by the spasms visibly rocketing through his body. This is a person who can walk in a straight line after being slammed by a row of ferocious linebackers.

His face contorts and takes moments to recover. “That splitting headache is back.”

A split head is what he's got. Jimmy convulses, and that sends warning bells clanging inside me. The shimmering aura around him contracts and expands. It pulses in shades of red and purple. Intense, furious colors. They make
my
head ache, like someone's taken a mallet to my skull.

“Let's just go back to my house,” I say, trying to sound reassuring, even though I'm completely freaked out by what's happening to Jimmy. And me. I'm feeling some kind of sympathetic pain to a lesser degree.

There must be something I could do for him. I can't give him a little white pill, but there was something else I could try. The imaginary bubble. It always has a calming effect on me. Maybe it'd work just as well on Jimmy.

Concentrating hard, I visualize an orb of brilliant white light. I picture it getting bigger and bigger until it surrounds us both, all the while taking in deep shuddering breaths. Eventually, my headache subsides, and those violent colors vanish into the darkness.

I glance at Jimmy. He seems disoriented again, as if he'd just stepped out of a tornado.

“Yeah, yeah. Your house. That's a good idea,” he says.

Back home, he asks for aspirin. So much for my trick of white light. I remind him gently he's beyond medicine now.

“If I'm really dead, I shouldn't have a headache, right? Why is this happening?”

“I wish I could give you an answer. I'm new to the other side of death, too. It could be mind over matter.”

“You mean I'm imagining this torture?” He leans forward in my desk chair and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Dying is a big adjustment, not just emotionally. Your mind is hanging on to old habits and it's going to take a while to get used to being disconnected from your body.” The words come to me from out of nowhere. This philosophy certainly never crossed my mind before. I almost sound wise, like Grandie. Is it possible she's guiding me?

“That's pretty deep,” Jimmy says, staring into space.

“Yeah.” I watch for signs of the headache's return, but none appear. The clock on my bedside table says it's two A.M. My body reacts accordingly by slumping onto the bed. “Do you think you'll be okay by yourself while I sleep?”

“I might feel better if I lie down next to you.”

My heart jolts at the thought of Jimmy sleeping in
my
bed. Even in ghost form. I open one eye and then the other. The smirk on his face says it all. Death and a killer headache haven't dented his sense of humor.

“Correct me if I'm wrong, but ghosts don't sleep,” I retort.

All traces of mischief vanish from his expression. It's clear he's still coming to terms with the practicalities of death. I throw him a sympathetic smile, which he ignores, before flipping the light off.

After a while, the desk chair creaks softly as he shifts from position to position. Despairing sighs erupt at frequent intervals. I always thought death was hardest on those left behind. Not anymore.

“I don't think I'll ever get used to being dead” is the last thing I hear Jimmy whisper as I drift off into dreams of fathomless darkness.

“Time to get up, Keira Nolan.”

Jimmy's shimmery face is barely an inch from mine. My heart skips, forgetting for a moment that last night I had somehow been allowed an exclusive glimpse into the next realm.

“You're lying. My alarm hasn't gone off yet.” I hadn't drawn the curtains properly and now one annoying beam of sunlight shines right on my face. Groaning, I roll onto my stomach. I feel pressure on my shoulder and a jolt, and I realize he's trying to shake me.

“Sleep is very important for those of us with bodies,” I mumble. The pillow rips out from under my head. “What are you doing?”

“Get up.” He stares at me solemnly, and I feel awful for making the jibe about having a body.

“What's wrong?” I scramble out of bed. Jimmy's blue plaid shirt and faded jeans are dry now, as opposed to sopping wet a few hours ago.

His head wound has closed up a little. Which is confusing, because how can an apparition heal? Whatever. I'm seeing less of his brain, and that is a blessing before breakfast.

“What's wrong is that I had to listen to you snore all night,” he says. Before I can deny snoring, he goes on. “But while you were sleeping, I discovered a whole new skill set. I can move things now.”

With a single finger, he pushes my chair around like it's no big deal. Yet it's pretty amazing that a person who doesn't have living muscles, nerves and bones can wheel a chair.

“How did you do that?” I ask, wide-eyed. Pity I don't have a football or any kind of sports equipment to keep him entertained.

He plants his fists on his hips like a superhero. “It starts with a thought. Total concentration. I can mess around with computers, make cameras go fuzzy. Really useful shit. Yeah, I was pretty busy last night. You slept through it all.”

“I had a hectic night of dreaming,” I tell him in all seriousness. Night after night, my subconscious treats me to vivid, movie-like dreams. Sometimes I wake up exhausted. This morning, for instance, my leg muscles feel weak because I spent the good part of a dream running from a pack of golden-eyed wolves.

Jimmy grows serious. “It felt like a dream. When I realized I'd left my body. That I was a goner.”

“I'm sorry.” I bite my lip, and focus on tossing gum wrappers and broken pens from my bag.

Smirking, he says, “Why are you sorry? It's not like you killed me.” After a pause, “Did you?”

“Hell, no.”

His gaze flicks over every contour of my body. I feel exposed, even though I'm wearing my faded, stretched-out Jimmy Hawkins T-shirt. My cheeks burn with a red-hot blush.

“You're wearing a nightshirt with my face on it, so I guess I should believe you.” He stifles a laugh.

Folding my arms across my chest, I stammer. “E-exactly. If I hated you enough to want to kill you, I'd probably stick your picture on a dart board.”

“Boy, am I glad I found you instead of the wide receiver I crushed in last week's game.”

“The crowd went nuts then,” I say, remembering their deafening cheers. Jimmy helped the guy stand up and made sure he was okay.

He looks surprised. “You were there?”

“Along with the rest of the town. And a
lot
of people wore official Jimmy Hawkins shirts.” I somehow manage to get the words past a big lump in my throat.

He flashes a grin and studies the floor. “Who could've guessed that my winning touchdown against Linden High would be my last one ever, huh?”

Tears start to well, but I blink them away. First I lost Grandie. Now Jimmy's dead. They were good people who meant so much to everyone around them. It's just unfair.