Free See Me by Susan Hatler

so hold perfectly still.”
    “Okay,” I said, then shivered as its fingers brushed across my skin. I sucked in a breath, tingles skittering up my arms at the feather-like feel of its fingers against mine. I closed my eyes, confused by my racing heart.
    “Got it.” The zombie’s tone was soft. “You’re free.”
    A moment later, my wrists separated. Tiny pricks attacked my hands as if being poked by thousands of needles. I held them up in front of me as the blood flowed back in with a vengeance. “I guess I should thank you.”
    “My fault to begin with. Remember?” It set the scissors on the counter, reached for my hands, then gazed at the red marks around my wrists. Its eyes clouded. “Does it still hurt?”
    “A little,” I said, getting chills where its thumbs trailed across my wrists, which made no sense. It was acting so sweet now. Almost human. I had to remind myself this body snatcher wasn’t exactly my friend.
    Pulling my hands away, I swallowed. “You took over my body.”
    It nodded. “I know.”
    My throat tightened. “That was wrong on so many levels. I got flung against the ceiling—no, make that through the ceiling—at school, freaked out because I thought you might hurt my friend, and didn’t know if I’d ever be myself again.”
    Wait . . . I rarely opened up to people. Why was I being so honest with this zombie? Maybe because he actually seemed to be listening to me. Like my parents had done when I was little. I’d forgotten how good that felt.
    “I’m sorry.” It blew out a breath, then leaned back against the counter. “But you’re the only one who seemed to notice I existed and I had no other way to communicate. I tried to write you a note, but controlling a pen with my mind proved kind of difficult.”
    A vision of the ballpoint standing on its own and sliding toward me flashed through my mind. I glanced down at my feet, then looked up again. “I thought you were trying to stab me.”
    “No.” A hurt expression crossed its face. “I just wanted to talk to you.”
    “Why?” I studied its face—Owen’s face, I had to remind myself, because this “thing” acted so different than the geeky hottie whose body it currently inhabited.
    The vein on its temple throbbed and its eyes flicked to mine. “To ask you to help me.”
    My chest went hollow. “With what . . .?”
    Its gaze traveled down to the dirty shoelaces in its hands and it shrugged. “Doesn’t matter now.”
    “You’ve invaded my friend’s body,” I said, pointing out the obvious. “I’m thinking your problem matters a lot to Owen until you give his body back.”
    “I-I do have my own body.” It glanced away, sucked in a breath, then turned back to face me again. Its eyes pierced mine. “The problem is that it’s buried six feet under right now.”
    Huh? Did that mean the zombie used to be human?
    An eerie feeling settled over me. “Do you mean buried, like the dead?”
    “I’m not exactly dead, I guess.” It shifted from one foot to the other. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
    “How can you be not exactly dead?” My brows rose then something nagged at the back of my mind. The Internet article the zombie had pulled up on my laptop. Maisy’s Meow creator Jacob Miller’s son had been nailed by a big rig on his way to school. It made perfect sense now. The zombie hadn’t caused the car wreck. He’d been in the accident. I gasped. “You’re the guy from that newspaper article.”
    It avoided my gaze.
    I rubbed my forehead, unable to believe I hadn’t pieced this together sooner. “You’re Jonathan Jacob Miller.”
    His gaze lifted until his eyes met mine. “In the flesh.”
    Only not his flesh, Owen’s flesh. Because. . . .
    “Oh, my . . .” My eyes burned and my hands flew to my mouth as I remembered a line from the Internet article, which stated that Jonathan’s burial had been scheduled for this morning. “Y-You died last Friday.”
    We stared at each other in silence as the