Detective O’Malley’s broad frame fills the doorway.
“Alana.” The words wheeze from my lungs. “She’s here. She has a gun.”
O’Malley turns down the hall, holds his weapon steady.
“You’re burning up, Piper.” Mariano’s hand is like ice on my forehead. “We have to get you to the hospital.”
“Get Alana.” My mouth is so dry, it’s like talking through a mouthful of cotton. “She’s here. She . . .” The rush of oxygen has made me dizzy. There seem to be two of Mariano. “She has . . . She has a gun.”
“We know. We’re getting her, Piper. You’re safe. Just relax. It’s all going to be okay.”
And I find that, miraculously, I believe him.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
The sunlight that filters through the stained glass windows of St. Chrysostom’s Episcopal Church is soft and pink. The casket on stage is open, but I don’t move from my spot on the front pew.
I already know who I’ll find inside. Even from here, I can see the honey color of my hair. Can make out the profile I’ve seen countless times in my bathroom mirror.
Lydia reaches for my hand. She presses her palm against mine, wordlessly, just as she did all those years ago when we stood by my mother’s grave.
“It doesn’t feel so bad, does it?” I say.
She turns to me. It’s clear that she’s not a mere mortal—she’s glorious, so bright that my eyes ache—yet somehow she still looks like herself. “You mean death?”
I nod. “I thought it might hurt, but . . .” I shrug. “I feel just fine.”
Lydia’s teeth gleam like pearls. “It’s splendid, actually. Like you’re finally whole. Finally perfect.”
“I don’t feel particularly perfect, but—”
Her laugh tinkles like a wind chime. “That’s because you’re not dead, dear Piper.”
“Then what am I?”
“You’re dreaming.”
I stare at the casket. Empty. “How long do I get to stay here?”
“I’m not sure.” Lydia shrugs. Her movements have a fluidity to them, rather than the labored grace she had on earth. “But you’ll wake up eventually.”
A sigh leaks out of me. “And then what?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, what am I supposed to do? All I’ve thought about since you went missing is figuring out what happened to you. Now what am I supposed to do with my life?”
“Whatever you like, of course.” She smirks. “Though I wouldn’t suggest anything that involves sewing.”
I giggle. “Now there’s a disappointment.”
“What did you want to do?”
“You mean before you . . . you know.”
Lydia laughs, the sound radiant and sweet. “You seriously think you’re going to offend me? I know I’m dead, Piper. You can say it. Yes, what did you want to do before I was dead? Go to a university, right?”
“I don’t know. It sounded bold and smart at the time, but I don’t know.”
“You wanted to find something that would help people. You didn’t want to be just a wife.”
The pew seems to feel harder as we talk. “It all seems so pointless now.”
“No, it isn’t. Giving away your life—helping people—is what will matter most in the end.”
“I wanted to help you.”
“I know you did, Piper.” Her tone is one of amused appreciation. Like when an adult thanks a toddler for helping with a household chore—they didn’t really help, but their effort was sweet. “However, only the living need help.”
A headache creeps up the back of my neck. I move my arm to rub at it, and wince from the pain. “At the time, I thought you were the living. I hoped you were, anyway.”
“I know.” Lydia’s voice has gone soft, and her image is nearly transparent. “But I’m okay. And you will be too.”
A stab of pain hits my ribs. I’m waking up, I can feel it. “No! I’m not ready!”
“You are.” Her voice is wispy, reassuring.
“I’m not ready!” But my words only echo off the high ceiling of the church.
She’s gone.
Wherever I am, it’s nighttime. Gray moonlight casts long dark shadows on the walls. My mouth feels as though it’s filled with sand. The back of my head throbs, just like in my dream, and when I stir, pain blossoms all over my body.
I wince as I turn my head to the right. There are several empty cots—hospital beds?—and a window that reveals the city is asleep.
“Piper.” My name is a breath of excitement from my left. Mariano jumps to his feet with enviable ease, a smile lighting his face. “You’re awake.”
The words scratch their way out of my throat. “Is there water?”
“I’ll get you some. Be right back.”
When Mariano seems to return half a second later, I realize I had dozed off.
He fumbles for the crank on the bed. “Let me help you sit up.”
My body groans in protest, but it’s worth it when the water washes over my tongue and down my throat.