“Tell you what?”
“Why the idea of psychics and ghosts makes you so angry.”
“When people die, Raye, they don’t come back.”
No matter how much we might want them to.
“They don’t come back, no, but some of them might hang around.”
“And go bump in the night?”
“Has anything gone bump in your night?”
“Just you.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What do you mean?”
Her eyes flicked to his, then to the far corner of the room. Though her lips curved a little, she seemed sad. “You’re haunted, Bobby.”
The chill that had been pressing on his chest jolted through his blood. “What?”
Her gaze returned to his. “You’ve lost someone.”
“Everyone’s lost someone.”
“Not like you have. It hurts.” She set her hand on his cold, cold heart. “Here.”
He couldn’t help it. He tangled their fingers together. Hers were so warm and alive. “You’re psychic now?” He put all the scorn he felt for the “profession” into the word.
“I’m not.” Silence fell between them. She drew their joined hands to rest on his knee. “Tell me,” she said, and though he’d sworn never to speak of it again, he did.
“Everything started with Audrey.”
A crease appeared between Raye’s eyebrows.
“We weren’t married,” he said quickly, and the crease deepened. “You asked if I was married, if I’d ever been married. I wasn’t. We weren’t.”
“Okay.”
“I arrested her.”
“For?”
“What I arrested her for in the first place isn’t the issue. The issue is what I should have arrested her for later and didn’t. Then she died. End of story.”
“That isn’t the end of her story.”
“It was for me.”
Raye’s lips tightened, released. “How did she die?”
“Overdose.”
“Accidental?”
He shook his head, swallowed.
“All right,” Raye said slowly. “You feel guilty that you didn’t know what she was doing? You didn’t stop her? You weren’t there? What is it?”
“I wasn’t there because I knew. I couldn’t stop her from using. I did try.”
Raye peered into his face. “There’s more.”
Bobby tried to pull away, but this time she wouldn’t let him. “I…” he began, meaning to tell her that he hadn’t just left Audrey, but also— “I can’t. I—” To his horror, his voice broke. He had to swallow or choke, and then he had to keep swallowing or sob.
“It’s all right,” she said.
“It isn’t,” he managed, his voice both dry and damp—hoarse and brimming with tears.
“I know.”
She pressed a kiss to his temple, lifted her palms, and cupped his face. He stared into her eyes, and that cold weight on his chest shifted. It didn’t go away, but it lightened. He didn’t understand why. He hadn’t shared his burden, but still she seemed to understand.
He couldn’t help himself. He kissed her.
And then he couldn’t stop.
*
I should have pulled away, backed away, run away. I’d been so close to getting Bobby to tell me everything. If he stopped now, would he ever share? And if he didn’t admit everything, everyone, that haunted him, how could I admit everything and everyone that haunted me? How could we have a future if we didn’t?
We couldn’t and we wouldn’t, which meant I should stop this. But at the first brush of his mouth I was lost. I wrapped my fingers in his shirt and held on.
I tasted tears, though he’d shed none. Perhaps if he had, he wouldn’t taste of desperation too. He needed me, needed this, needed us. Whether to forget or to avoid, I didn’t know. Right now that distinction didn’t matter.
Later, I promised myself. Later.
He licked my lips, lifted his own. I opened my eyes to his frown. My fingers tightened. “Don’t.”
I wasn’t sure what I was protesting, then he lifted a hand, traced my cheek, turned his finger upward and I understood the taste of tears had been my own.
“Why?” he asked.
I shook my head. How could I tell him his daughter followed his footsteps every day, sat next to him in the night, worshipped him, ached for him, and would not leave until he let her go?
“Raye,” he whispered, and the sound of my name in his broken voice only caused more tears to flow. He kissed them away as if I were a child, making me think he’d done the same before.
Though it wasn’t the same; it couldn’t be.
“He’s always so sad.”
I jerked at Genevieve’s voice, closer than she’d been before.
“Hush.” Bobby pressed his lips to my hair.
I rested my cheek on his chest and met Genevieve’s gaze. She was still crying. Poor kid.
“Tell him it wasn’t his fault. Mommy fell asleep and I ate her candy.”
I shuddered in sudden understanding, and his arms tightened. “Are you cold?”
I was so cold I’d probably never get warm, but I shook my head.
“He likes you,” Genevieve continued. “He’s never liked anyone before the way he likes you. Can’t you make him happy?”