Free Dust to Dust by Melissa Walker Page A

longing for is a ghost, someone I can never be with. Having Nick near me, even if what we are to each other is changing, makes that feeling of loneliness somewhat bearable.
    When I search my soul and try to sense Thatcher’s presence, nothing is there and a tear trickles down one cheek. I wipe at it angrily, feeling like I’m a terrible person.
    â€œAre you okay?” Carson hands me a tissue.
    â€œI’m fine!” I snap at her, but when I see her hurt expression, I soften.
    â€œIt’s not your fault, Cars,” I say. “Things are just . . . complicated.”
    She reaches over to give me a squeeze, and I accept it, feeling a little less horrible about myself, thanks to her hug. “You know what might help?” she asks.
    â€œPlease not a Hallowed Hauntings marathon.” I groan.
    â€œI wouldn’t do that to you!” says Carson, but she knows that’s her favorite show.
    â€œ Roman Holiday ?”
    I smile. “Yes.”
    I want things to be like this, simple. Like before. So I try to push away my memories of the Prism for tonight, just like Thatcher wants.
    We change into pajamas and tuck under Carson’s covers, side by side on her bed as she streams our favorite sleepover movie.When Gregory Peck comes on the screen, his cheekbones remind me a little of Thatcher . . . and my mind leaves Carson’s room once again, floating into a wish where he comes back to me for more than just a speech about moving forward.
    I fall into a fitful sleep before the scooter scene, and when I wake up in the morning, Carson is already dressed and sitting on the end of the bed, looking at me intently.
    â€œWhoa, stalker,” I say. “Why the crazy stare?” I push a wavy mass of my dirty-blond hair out of my eyes. Then I yawn and meet her gaze. Her lips are pursed in anticipation.
    â€œWhat?” I ask again.
    â€œYou were talking in your sleep.”
    I try to play it cool. “And?”
    â€œJust one question: Who’s Thatcher?”

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    HarperCollins Publishers
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Eight
    OUT ON THE PORCH, over a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and biscuits and gravy cooked by Carson’s mother, aka the best cook this side of the Mississippi, I finally decide to spill it. The Prism, the Guides, Thatcher, my mission to heal my loved ones—Carson included—by haunting them in a subtle way, a soulful way.
    I don’t tell her how I felt, how I feel, about Thatcher. I can’t put that into words yet—it’s too painful. And I’m not sure now is the right time to talk about Reena’s possession, and what she and Leo and the rest of the poltergeists were up to. I don’t know how Carson would handle it. She has always believed in an afterlife but not necessarily one where people here could be actually threatened by those who have left the physical world.
    â€œI was looking for signs from you everywhere ,” says Carson, hereyes glowing with excitement. “I knew you weren’t trapped in that hospital. I could feel it.”
    I smile at her. I’m a little afraid to be sharing all of this, but it is so nice to be able to tell someone. And she takes everything I say as absolute truth, which is a relief since some of it sounds downright cuckoo.
    â€œWere you hanging around with me a lot?” she asks. “Even when I went to the bathroom and when I was reading that romance novel I have tucked under my mattress? Oh! Were you with me when I googled my face crossed with Ryan Gosling’s to see what our baby would look like?”
    I laugh and throw my balled-up greasy napkin at her. “Of course not! I didn’t have time to watch your every move. I would just visit you . . . sometimes.”
    Like Thatcher does with me now.
    â€œLet me think,” she says, and I know she’s trying to recall the moments when she