To The Grave

Chapter Five

Just keep walking, I tell myself.

If you don't see him, he won't see you.

I take a deep breath and speed-walk through the hallway, following the signs to the Katherine G. Johnson building. My skin tingles as I pass each door leading into classes, where eyes shoot through the glass panels like bullets and conversation erupts as soon as I pass. Sure, if I were in their position, I would also look at the girl who burned half the school down, but I've gotta admit – being in her position sucks.

It's not like I didn't expect the lingering glares or the hissed whispers, but when you enter a room and everyone's already talking about you, it doesn't do much for your vote of confidence. Especially when part of the reason why it happened is following your trail around school, echoing your footsteps even as you turn corners and close doors.

Who knew dead people could walk through walls, right?

Pulling my coat over my head, I prepare to step back into the rain. It's only a small alley walk between this door and the next, and it's covered by a little roof so I won't get soaked. But it's still raining hard enough to make me uncomfortable later, when I'm sitting in class and my clothes are rubbing against my skin, making me itch in places I'd rather not itch.

I'm just about to reach for the door handle when all my papers suddenly drop from my bag. They fall to the ground, releasing a sound like breath passing lips. I curse and throw my bag to the floor, bending over to pick the sheets up.

Of course, this would happen to me.

Nothing good ever comes to Lea Cartwright without a catch, and this point is proved within mere seconds, because if I'd seen the dead guy bend over too, I obviously wouldn't have reached out.

And then our fingertips wouldn't have touched.

Ice.

That's the first thing I feel. It ebbs and flows through my body like a punch of wind, shooting through my veins and freezing the blood blue. My skin crawls from his touch and it's like I've absorbed every bad thing that's happened to this guy.

I see images of his life flash before my eyes – a Ferris wheel and its view on top, the sea at sunset, a pair of dark eyes widened with fear. A scream erupts in my mind, blood-curdling, but it doesn't come from me. It comes from him – from his memories.

If I didn't know any better, I'd shout for someone to help. Perhaps I'd even be scared of being caught by the rush of students leaving their classes. But, as frost crackles over the window and the air around me grows still, I know nothing can help me now.

Not now that I've entered the Other Side.

Biting my lip so hard I taste blood, I look up through my lashes and finally meet the pair of eyes that stubbornly glare back. My heart still pounds from being tossed around his memories, but the pure blueness in those orbs draws me back to reality, to what's happened.

For a second, I let myself just stare.

Were his eyes like that this morning?

All spirits who live here have the same discoloured hue, but this one holds the blue so naturally, I assume they didn't change after death. There's a desperation in them, one an innate part of myself recognises, and certain relief is evident in his parted lips.

The blood on his face is gone and everything about him, from his tousled dark hair to those stark blue eyes, suggests that this boy was normal once. Here, in this world, he doesn't appear as he did in death, but as he lived.

And he must have lived beautifully.

'You can see me.'

His voice is deep and firm, the kind of voice accustomed to having people listen. I'm surprised at the effect it has over me; most spirits in the Other Side are weak. They've been here for so long, days rolling into weeks, hours into days, that it's no surprise they begin losing touch on what life used to be. Some of them can't talk while others lose their sight, stumbling around blind with no idea of where they are or who they used to be.

But this one? It's like I've bumped into him on the street. Like he's a normal person, just trapped here like something went wrong. His voice is lyrical, each word rolling into the next with a fluency even I can't manage.

'I thought I was going crazy,' he continues, 'but you really see me.'

My stomach rolls with nausea. 'You need to let me out of here,' I say, a fog of blue ice passing my lips. 'If you know I can see you, then you also know humans and your world don't mix. I can't survive here.'

His eyes scan me from top to bottom, and I try not to shuffle my feet. If you show the dead you're nervous, who knows what they'll do? That was the first lesson I learnt here – at the ripe age of seven. This world, this hell, is their domain.

And you?

You're an intruder in their home.

'I heard it was possible, you know.' He moves forward and I counteract by stepping back. My fingernails dig so hard into my palm that my skin wells with blood. 'There are rumours here. Rumours of humans who can see us. I just never thought –'

And that's when I see it. In his hand is my sketchbook.

'How did you get that?' I interrupt, my voice sharp. Without even thinking, I reach out to grab it, but his grip is strong and it barely moves an inch. I look up at him, eyes narrowed into little slits. 'Give it back.'

For a second, he's silent, considering me with those unnatural eyes. The moment between us is heavy, weighing on my shoulders like a bag of bricks. I try not to notice how ice spreads across the floor, crackling like a log on a fire, or how the wind outside has picked up, rattling the floorboards and creating a draft that ebbs through the gaps between windows.

But even as I try to ignore it, I can't. These are all signs of the clock ticking – of my clock ticking. Signs that tell me if I stay here any longer, I won't be able to leave.

I release a slow breath, gritting my teeth. Just when I think he won't let go of my sketchbook, his grip loosens.

I nearly fall back from the force of it.

'You're a good artist,' he says simply, eyes lingering on the pages and then rising up to meet my eyes, 'but it's dark work. Have you always been so sad?'

I scoff. 'Excuse me?'

'I said, have you always been so sad?'

'This is ridiculous,' I reply. 'You're not even supposed to be able to touch things in my world. How did you do that?' I shake my head – partly in awe, partly in fear. But then the windows begin to crack, and the latter takes over. 'Actually, no. I don't care. You have to let me go now. I don't have much time.'

I watch as his jaw begins to tick. His skin is pale, but not the kind of pale you'd expect it to be. He looks like a person living in London during Christmas: cold and grey, but not devoid of spirit. No, there's a spark in those eyes. A dangerous one – one that makes every nerve inside of me electric with fear.

'Okay,' he releases a nervous breath, 'then this'll have to be quick.'

I frown. 'What will have to be quick?'

He looks me straight in the eye. 'I need you to solve my murder.'