“It’s not a trick, and she’s not there. She’s over by the fountain, playing with my nieces. You can’t see her. But trust me, she’s there. She’s dressed in riding clothes and carrying a stuffed horse.”
Becca inhaled sharply. Something I’d said had struck a chord. I wasn’t sure what, but she was squinting toward the fountain. “How come you can see her but I can’t?”
“It’s a genetic thing. But trust me, she’s there. She’s the one who tore up the office the other day.”
Becca was so startled she stopped crying. “Wh-what?”
“You heard me. That was no earthquake. Lucia didn’t like it when I tried to touch you, even though I was only trying to help.” Becca’s eyes, behind the lenses of her glasses, had gone as bright and shiny as the coins the girls were fishing from the fountain and holding toward the sun. “What can you tell me about how Lucia died? She hasn’t exactly been illuminating on the subject. She seems to be mostly concerned about you.”
For the first time since I’d met her, Becca smiled—really smiled, with her whole face. It transformed her, turning her from an average-looking girl to a very much above-average, almost startlingly attractive girl.
“I can’t believe she’s worrying about me. I don’t understand why, since she’s the one—” Becca broke off. The smile hadn’t lasted long.
“Yes, I know, Becca,” I said, gently. “She’s the one who died. But the dead aren’t always known for their logical reasoning skills. If they were, I’d be out of a job. Why is Lucia so worried about you, especially now, so many years after her death?”
“I don’t know,” Becca said, her eyes filling once more with tears. She reached up to clutch her horse pendant. “Or . . . or maybe I do. What happened to her was my fault.”
“Your fault? How was it your fault? I know you went to school together, but you were little when—”
“She died because of me,” Becca said, the sides of her mouth trembling. “That’s why I wear this necklace. To remind me that it’s my fault she’s dead, and that I . . . that I have to live life for the both of us. She was my best friend.”
“Okay,” I said skeptically. “But you told me the other day that you hate yourself. If you really want to live life for Lucia, you might want to start by living it for yourself.”
Her fuzzy eyebrows furrowed. “I am living life for myself.”
“I don’t think so, Becca. You don’t treat yourself very kindly. Did you get your stepmom to take you to see a doctor for that cut? I know you didn’t, since you’re still wearing that nasty old bandage.” She attempted to hide her wrist in embarrassment, but there wasn’t really anyplace she could put it, except folded under her opposite arm. “That thing is going to get infected if you don’t keep it clean, you know. And what is with these glasses? They’re filthy.” I plucked them off her face before she could stop me, then peered through the lenses, getting a surprise after I did so. “Becca, these aren’t even prescription! What are they, a disguise?”
She snatched them back. “No. Why are you saying all these mean things? I thought you were supposed to be helping me. These glasses make me feel more comfortable.”
“As what? The girl no one will ever notice? Look, Becca, I get it. Your dad married a woman who’s barely ten years older than you and looks like a supermodel. I’d feel insecure, too. But don’t expect me to believe this bullshit about you living life for Lucia when you barely live at all. Now how exactly did Lucia die because of you—which, by the way, I highly doubt?”
Fuming, Becca threw her glasses into some nearby milkweed, disturbing a pair of butterflies, which took off into the air in indignation. “Why don’t you ask her, if you really can communicate with ghosts . . . which, by the way, I highly doubt?”
“I already told you, the dead aren’t known for their logical reasoning skills. Lucia will barely speak to me. And I’m pretty sure when Father Dominic tried, she tossed him down a flight of stairs.’ ”
Becca blanched. “Oh, my God. Wait, he—”
“Yes. Father Dominic is also one of us—and it almost got him killed. See why being a mediator isn’t all it’s cracked up to be? Lucia’s dangerous, Becca—not because she’s evil, but because she’s afraid. Afraid for you. Now you’ve got to tell me why, so I can keep her from hurting anyone else.”
Becca shook her head hard enough to cause her hair to whip her cheeks.
“I can’t. Don’t you see? I told Lucia about him, and she died.”
“Him?” I was confused. “Him who?”
“Him,” she whispered. Her eyes weren’t only tear filled anymore. They were fear filled. “He killed her, just because she was going to tell them what he did to me. If I’d done what he said and not told anyone, she’d still be alive today. That’s why it’s all my fault.”
And then I did understand. Of course. Him.
Wasn’t there always a him? I had a him. Why wouldn’t Becca, as well?
Only Paul Slater was just a manipulative creep, not a child killer.