Chapter 7: The Ghost’s Trick

My head was buzzing, my mind blank, the train’s horn still echoing in my ears.

For a few seconds, I couldn’t remember where I was, or even who I was. Everything felt out of sync, like I’d just woken up from a fever dream.

"What’s wrong with you? Did you run into something nasty last night, or did a rival set you up?" Rick turned to look at me.

His eyes searched my face, concern warring with suspicion. He’d seen men crack under less.

I really wanted to say—wasn’t it you who set me up?

The words burned on my tongue, but I bit them back. There were bigger things to worry about now.

But I swallowed the words.

I pressed my lips together, glancing away. Trust was in short supply.

Although Rick was my mentor, he wasn’t much older than me. We’d grown up together, and I always felt he wouldn’t harm me.

We’d survived hurricanes, heartbreaks, and hangovers together. Deep down, I still wanted to believe he was on my side.

"Last night, Lillian came to see me."

I forced the words out, my voice barely above a whisper. The sky over the tracks was a cold, muddy blue.

I glanced at the sky, which was just starting to lighten, and spoke quietly.

The first rays of dawn broke over the city, painting everything in pale gold. The world felt washed out, unreal.

"R-really?" Rick’s eyes widened like saucers, his mouth hanging open.

He stared at me like I’d grown a second head. It was the first time I’d seen fear in his eyes since the night of the fire.

I nodded. "Really."

I couldn’t say more. My throat closed up.

Rick slapped his thigh. "That woman’s already dead—been dead for three days."

The words landed like a punch to the gut. I staggered back, mind racing.

A chill swept over me, every hair standing on end.

I remembered her cold hands, the dead eyes. It all made sense now, in the worst way.

No wonder—how could a living person look so dreadful?

The reality hit me like a freight train. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to hold in the panic.

"What did she come to you for?"

Rick’s voice was low, almost reverent. He looked at me like I was cursed.

Rick patted his pockets, shakily pulled out two cigarettes, handed me one, and lit one for himself, taking a few deep drags.

His hands shook as he flicked the lighter. The flame danced, small and nervous. I took the cigarette, surprised by how much I needed it.

"Asked me about the tattoo. She suspects I harmed her."

I choked out the words, the weight of them crushing. Rick sucked in a lungful of smoke, staring at nothing.

I hadn’t smoked in a while, and after two puffs I started coughing.

The smoke burned, hot and acrid. My lungs protested, but I kept going, needing the distraction.

But then I realized something was wrong.

It took a moment to register—the old memories flickered, and unease crept in.

Rick doesn’t smoke.

Years ago in Arizona, he’d smoked a stranger’s cigarette, got drugged and set up, and his fiancée died tragically. Ever since, he had a psychological block and quit smoking for good.

I remembered the story—he’d told it with tears in his eyes, vowing never to touch another cigarette. My hand froze halfway to my mouth.

If this wasn’t Rick, then who was it?

My skin crawled all over again.

I crushed the cigarette under my heel and stared at him, heart pounding. Something inside me screamed—run.