Famous Last Words

“I think I’ll get a — another glass of water,” I said, ducking back into the kitchen as he went up toward Jonathan’s office.

But I wasn’t thirsty, so I simply stood in the kitchen, waiting.

And listening to the last sound I wanted to hear in all the world.

Drip … drip … drip …

That night, I sat in my room, my homework done, staring at the clock. It was only nine, and going to sleep so early felt like committing myself to nine solid hours of staring despairingly at the ceiling. I’d convinced myself that calling Leyta Fitzgeorge would be a fool’s errand. It would waste her time and my own. Worst of all, Wyatt would be proved right.

Drip … drip … drip …

The sound had followed me around the house through di

My fingers itched to take some concrete action. But what action can you take when your problems are the furthest thing from concrete?

When your problems are caused by a …

You know what it is, said some tiny, traitorous voice from someplace in the back of my mind.

In a fit of frantic, frustrated energy, I dug my fingernails into my palms, trying to suppress the thought — but it was too late. The word was in my head, and there would be no getting rid of it.

I grabbed the journal out of the drawer next to my bed and flipped it open. I took the pen, determined to let everything inside me come out on the page.

But despite how complicated my feelings seemed, it all came down to one simple thought:

GHOST, I wrote.

IT’S A GHOST.

And just like that … the dripping stopped.

I set down the pen and picked up my phone.

Willa?” Wyatt was winded, his cheeks pink and a lock of sweaty golden-brown hair stuck to his forehead.

I pulled my French textbook from my locker and then shut the door, turning to face him. “Yes?”

He looked like he’d run all the way from the parking lot. “I have to ask you a question.”

“Go ahead,” I said.

“No.” He glanced around at the almost deserted hall. “Not here.”

“Wyatt, I’m not going to run and hide in the library every time we have four words to speak to each other. First bell’s going to ring in like three minutes. If you need something, now’s your chance.”

He didn’t look happy about it, but he conceded. “About yesterday — about that woman —”

“Leyta Fitzgeorge,” I said.

“I just wanted to ask you not to call her.”

“Too late. I called her last night.” I almost said sorry, but I stopped myself. Because I wasn’t.

For a moment, Wyatt seemed too dismayed to speak. “What did you ask her?”

“If I could go see her today.”

He was so jittery that it almost made me nervous. “What? Why? What did she say?”

“She said yes,” I said.

“But that’s —” He stood up straight. “You need to cancel.”

I let out a surprised laugh. “Um, no. You weren’t willing to help me, so I’m helping myself. And now you don’t even want me doing that?”

“You’re not supposed to have that information.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I’m not supposed to have that information. If she complains to the police about you getting in touch …”

I waited for the second half of that “if,” thinking he might reveal something about his source. But he clammed up.

“Why would she go back to the police?” I asked. “According to you, they ignored her before.”

He huffed unhappily.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t tell her where I got her name. Although she’s a psychic, so …”

“You’ll be wasting your time.” There was a hint of presumptuous authority in his voice. “She’s a crook.”

I felt oddly protective of Leyta Fitzgeorge all of a sudden. “Why would you say that? You don’t even know her.”

“It’s obviously true,” he said. “Psychic abilities? More like made-up nonsense.”

I shrugged. “I guess I’ll find out for myself.”

“So … wait. You actually think she could be right about something? All that stuff about water and the roses and …”

“Henry?” I said.

“Right, Henry.” He rolled his eyes. “You know what she said? She said she got a ‘feeling’ about the name, but she couldn’t be sure if it was a first name or a last name or even a middle name. Hey! Maybe it’s the killer’s dog’s name! Ridiculous.”

“It’s a first name,” I said.

For a beat, Wyatt was surprised into silence, which I found extremely rewarding.

Then he squinted at me. “How would you possibly know?”

“I know because I’ve … seen it. And heard it.”

Wyatt adjusted his glasses. “What are you saying?”

“That Leyta Fitzgeorge might be right.”

He shook his head and laughed nervously. “So you believe in psychics?”

Be careful, Willa. Where you’re going, you can’t come back from. “Well … I don’t know, actually,” I said. “But I do believe in ghosts.”

He spluttered. Like, “Spluh!” Only he didn’t say the word aloud. You could just see it coming out of his brain.

I hadn’t quite meant to break it to him that way. On the other hand, it was a bit of a relief to have part of my secret out in the open. Even if I was telling it to someone who assumed everything I said was a lie.

“Excuse me?” he said.

“I said, I believe in ghosts,” I pressed on. It felt like riding a bicycle down a steep hill — I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to, but there was something exhilarating about it. “Specifically, I believe in a ghost who’s living in my house and refuses to leave me alone.”

A blend of emotions swept across Wyatt’s face: disappointment, curiosity, and stubbor

“A ghost,” I repeated. “In my house. Want me to say it again?”

“No. Thanks.” He started to turn away. “Good luck with that.”

“Wait,” I said, grabbing the strap of his backpack. “You’re seriously walking away from me right now?”

“Yeah, I’m seriously walking away.” He looked flustered and upset. “I have no idea what you’re doing. For all I know, this is all some bizarre prank that Marnie put you up to … And I’m not playing along anymore.”

“It’s not,” I said. “Marnie wouldn’t —”

“Oh,” he said, and he laughed, a single bleak ha. “Oh, I can assure you, Marnie would.”

“She didn’t!” I said. “Nobody put me up to this — unless you count the stupid ghost who’s giving me horrible visions about the murders and leaving me messages and trying to drown me —”

“A ghost tried to drown you?” he repeated, incredulous.

“In the pool,” I said. “The night I moved in. I went swimming and I couldn’t surface and —”

His eyes went mockingly wide. “Are you sure you actually know how to swim?”

I glared at him, and he shrank back a little. “I’m an excellent swimmer,” I said. “My dad and I used to swim every morning. I know the difference between not knowing how to swim and not being able to swim. Something held me under the water. And I saw —”

He was listening raptly, but I cut myself off. I wasn’t sharing any more with him until he stopped being a jerk, which basically meant never.

“What?” he asked, interested in spite of himself. “What did you see?”

“Never mind,” I said. “I was starting to think maybe you would listen to what I had to say without judging me. But I guess I was wrong.”

“I’m not judging you,” he said. “I just don’t believe you.”

“Fine.” I could feel nervous, angry sweat beading at my hairline.