The lavender candle on my desk had burned down to a stub, its flame dancing in the draft from the old window. I twisted my wedding ring around my finger—a habit I couldn't break even three months after Mark's funeral. The gold band caught the candlelight, throwing tiny reflections across the scattered tarot cards I'd been pretending to organize.
"Mrs. Black?" The old woman's voice cracked like dry leaves. "Are you ready?"
I looked up at Mrs. Chen, who sat rigidly in the chair across from my desk. Her weathered hands clutched a faded photograph of a young girl with pigtails and a gap-toothed smile. The photo was worn soft at the edges from handling.
"Of course, Mrs. Chen. Please, tell me about your granddaughter again."
She pressed the photo to her chest. "Lily disappeared six months ago. The police say she ran away, but..." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I know she's dead. I can feel it in my bones. I just need to know she's at peace."
I nodded, settling back in my chair. The old building creaked around us—pipes shifting, wood settling. Down on Pike Place, even at eleven PM, tourists wandered past my second-floor window. Their laughter drifted up through the glass, but it felt like it came from another world.
"Before we begin, I need to explain how this works." I kept my voice gentle but professional. It was the same speech I'd given hundreds of times. "Sometimes the spirits come through clearly. Sometimes they don't come at all. I can't promise—"
"I understand." Mrs. Chen's eyes were fierce. "I've saved for three months to afford your fee. My neighbor says you're the best medium in Seattle."
The best. If only she knew how useless I'd been lately. How I couldn't sense the one spirit I wanted to reach most.
I pushed the thought away and reached for Mrs. Chen's hands. Her skin felt paper-thin and cold. "Hold the photograph between our palms. Think about Lily. Happy memories work best."
Mrs. Chen closed her eyes. I did the same.
The familiar chill started in my fingertips. It crept up my arms like ice water in my veins. The sounds of the city faded. The smell of lavender gave way to something else—something that reminded me of winter mornings and frost on car windows.
"Lily?" I called softly into the void between worlds. "Your grandmother is here. She loves you."
Silence.
I pushed deeper, letting the cold consume me. My breath misted in the suddenly frigid air. Mrs. Chen's hands tightened on mine.
"She's looking for you, sweetheart. Can you hear me?"
Then I felt it. A presence, soft and uncertain, like a child hiding behind a door.
"There she is," I whispered. Mrs. Chen gasped but didn't open her eyes.
But something was wrong. The presence that touched my consciousness wasn't a child's spirit. It was angry. Desperate. Adult.
Ivy.
My eyes snapped open. The voice in my head wasn't Lily's sweet whisper. It was deep, familiar, impossible.
Ivy, you have to listen—
"Mark?" The name escaped my lips before I could stop it.
Mrs. Chen's eyes flew open. "What? Who's Mark?"
The temperature in the room plummeted. The candle flame guttered and died. In the sudden darkness, I felt something vast and furious slam into my consciousness like a freight train.
Pain exploded behind my eyes. Not Mark's gentle presence—this was raw rage, violent desperation. Images flashed through my mind: headlights in rain, the screech of brakes, blood on asphalt. And underneath it all, a voice that wasn't quite Mark's screaming a warning I couldn't understand.
"Mrs. Black!" Mrs. Chen's voice sounded miles away. "You're bleeding!"
I touched my nose. My fingers came away wet and warm. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.
The angry presence pressed closer, trying to force words into my mind. But the harder it pushed, the more my head felt like it was splitting apart. The room spun. Mrs. Chen was saying something, but her words turned to white noise.
Darkness swallowed me.
I woke up on the floor, my cheek pressed against the cold hardwood. Pale morning light streamed through the blinds, cutting the room into strips of gold and shadow. My head throbbed like someone had used it for batting practice.
"Mrs. Chen?" I struggled to sit up. The chair where she'd been sitting was empty.
The fifty-dollar bill she'd paid me was gone from my desk. So was the photograph of Lily. But there was something else—a piece of paper I'd never seen before, placed carefully next to my dead candle.
With shaking hands, I picked it up. Someone had written three words in block letters: HE STILL LIVES.
My blood had dried in dark spots across the page.
I stared at the note until the letters blurred together. Who still lived? Mark had been dead for three months. I'd watched them lower his coffin into the ground. I'd felt the hollow emptiness where his presence used to be.
So why had his voice called my name in the darkness?
The paper crumpled in my fist. Outside my window, Seattle was waking up. Coffee shops opening, early commuters hurrying past. Normal people living normal lives.
But nothing about last night had been normal. In fifteen years of speaking to the dead, I'd never had a spirit force its way into another reading. I'd never lost consciousness during a session. And I'd definitely never heard my dead husband's voice when I was trying to reach someone else's grandchild.
I smoothed out the note and read it again. HE STILL LIVES.
The handwriting wasn't Mrs. Chen's shaky scrawl. It wasn't mine either. The letters were bold, confident, written by someone who wanted to make sure I understood.
But understood what? Mark was dead. I'd spent three months trying to reach his spirit and getting nothing but silence. How could he "still live" when I couldn't even sense him anymore?
Unless...
I stood up too fast, and the room tilted. Grabbing the edge of my desk for support, I stared down at the note.
What if Mark wasn't gone? What if something was keeping him from reaching me? What if that desperate, angry presence I'd felt wasn't trying to hurt me—it was trying to warn me?
My wedding ring caught the morning light as I twisted it around my finger. The gold was warm from my skin, but the rest of me felt ice-cold.
If Mark was still out there somehow, I was going to find him. Even if it meant digging into things that were better left buried.
Even if it killed me.