Famous Last Words

He looked nervous, which was unusual.

It made me a little nervous.

Then he spoke. “A normal, healthy adult won’t have a heart attack from an isolated burst of anger.”

“What?” I said, almost laughing. It was so random….

And then the words sank in, and it wasn’t random anymore.

“Wait,” I said. “What?”

“Your dad.” His smile was long gone. “I know what you think happened, but you’re wrong. You didn’t kill him.”

It was like my body had turned to stone. My voice had turned to stone, too. “What do you know about my dad, Wyatt?”

“Um,” he said, “I overheard Leyta last week … when she said his name. So I Googled him, and saw how he … he … passed away.”

With every word, he seemed to be growing sorrier and sorrier that he’d brought it up. But, because he was Wyatt, he kept pushing forward.

“The morning of May sixteenth,” he said. “When you guys were at the YMCA for your regular morning … swim.”

He’d caught sight of my face. I don’t know, honestly, what he saw there. I wasn’t really occupying my own body at the moment. I felt like I’d been launched into outer space without warning. Or oxygen.

Unwisely, he took my silence as a cue to continue. “You had a big argument about something, and the desk clerk saw you storm out of the natatorium —”

“What is a natatorium?” I asked, my voice low.

“A room with a swimming pool.” He waited to see if I’d ask anything else.

I did not.

“And after you went back in, she heard you screaming for help, and then she ran in and saw your …” It was like he couldn’t stop. It was like he was a machine, a heartless, cold, meaningless creature whose only actual purpose is to spew information, and if he stopped, he’d short-circuit and explode. “She saw your dad. And then the ambulance came, but it was too late. It was a heart attack. And you blame yourself, and that’s why you’re so afraid to be angry.”

I let my stare slide from his face to the floor.

“But it couldn’t have been your fault,” Wyatt said. “Healthy adults don’t have heart attacks provoked by anger or stress. That’s not a normal physiological response to —”

“Enough.” The word was like a concrete wall, twelve feet thick. “Enough, Wyatt. Stop.”

“I’m … sorry,” he said.

“All right,” I said. “You’re sorry. Great. Just do me one favor.”

“Okay.”

“Never speak to me again.”

“But …”

I turned away. My eyes burned like they were fighting back a million tears, but the rage inside me was so hot that the tears vaporized. I felt pressure in my face, and electrical currents flooding my fingers with every thump of my heart.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, sounding helpless. “I thought you’d want to know.”

I stood abruptly. “I should have listened to Marnie,” I said. “She told me you were a stalker. But I thought, nah, maybe she misunderstood something you said or did — maybe she was exaggerating.”

The light had gone out of Wyatt’s eyes. He stared up at me, but he didn’t answer.

“Here it is,” I said. “Proof. She was right. I must be the dumbest person on the planet. I was actually starting to trust you, Wyatt. I thought we were … friends or something.”

He didn’t say a single word.

“I’m leaving,” I said.

Somehow, I got out of his room and down the stairs and out the front door without losing my mind. And then somehow I made it home and ran upstairs and locked myself in my bedroom before Mom could see the look on my face.

In my room, I melted to the floor and stared at the ceiling.

And somehow — but I don’t know how — I didn’t die of a broken heart.

The next couple of days passed in a dull blur. At school, I wouldn’t even look at Wyatt. He followed my instructions and didn’t try to talk to me, either. At home, the ghost was mercifully silent, which was good, because my nerves were down to their last gasp.

My investigation had been on hold since Sunday morning, but I knew I couldn’t pretend the calm was going to last forever. Regardless of my feelings about Wyatt, I had to figure out what was going on in the house.

Thursday, as we sat at our chemistry table and studiously ignored each other, it hit me that I didn’t actually need Wyatt’s help to figure out what the ghost wanted. I could do it alone. Yeah, it might take me a little longer, and maybe I didn’t have his freakishly honed detective skills, but I could do it. And then, by figuring it out and unlatching the spirit, I would also unlatch myself from Wyatt forever.

So after di

As the computer booted up, I summoned as much courage as I could (not much) and said, “Diana?”

There was no answer.

“Diana Del Mar,” I said. “Hello?” For a moment, I thought of getting out the moldavite ring and the candles. Would those make it easier to reach her? If they had attracted her in the first place, why shouldn’t I just use them now? It seemed counterproductive to ignore the most effective means of getting in touch, just because some near-stranger was feeling overly cautious. Leyta Fitzgeorge wasn’t the one being awakened in the middle of the night and shoved into a bathtub.

I was about to dig the box out of my closet when the computer finished booting up. Since I was there, I might as well do a little research before opening the portal again. To be honest, I wasn’t all that excited about disregarding Leyta’s warning. On some level, I believed she knew what she was talking about.

I clicked on the web browser. Explore every lead, I thought. Leave no stone unturned.

So I decided to start with something easy — I Googled Paige Pollan.

That’s when I realized that there would never be a reply to the email I’d sent.

Because Paige Pollan killed herself last August.

On Friday morning, as I stood at my locker, Marnie raced toward me, a blur of green and white. She grabbed me around the neck and jumped up and down.

“Willa!” she squealed. “Willa, seriously!”

“What?” I asked, trying to peel away from her. I was exhausted from the sheer hopelessness that had descended on me after I discovered Paige’s fate. I almost wished I could talk to Wyatt about it — but not badly enough to break our silence. It was lab day in Chem, so I was already pla

Marnie put her hands on my shoulders and beamed at me. “It’s so awesome, I don’t even want to tell you. I want you to bask in the anticipation for a minute. Could you bask, please? I need to see some baskage.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, smoothing my cardigan where Marnie’s embrace had flipped it up. “But okay, I’m basking.”

“What if I said … I had something amazing to show you?” she asked, hooking an arm around my waist and leading me toward the courtyard.

“That would be … nice?” Her excited energy was actually starting to make me antsy.

“Feast your eyes … on THIS.” She pulled her phone out of her pocket and handed it to me.