Page 72 of Mirror Image

I sigh and drape an arm over my eyes, blocking out the lamp’s glow from across the room. I’m too wiped to get up and turn it off.

“No. But you could’ve given me a heads-up about what I was walking into.”

“Stef only called me this afternoon.”

“Plenty of time for you to let me know my mother’s dead—her ashes desecrating the sanctity of my grandparents’ grave.”

“Jenn . . .”

“No, seriously, Gabe. In what world is that okay?”

“Is what okay? The part where I didn’t tell you? The part where Stef did? Or the part where your family honored your grandparents’ wishes?”

“All of it,” I mutter. “None of it. I just—I feel like I got ambushed tonight.”

He pauses, long enough that I can almost hear him choosing his words. Then, softly:

“Wanna know what I think?”

“Not really.”

He goes on anyway.

“I think you walked right back into the haunted house that used to be your life—only you didn’t expect there to still be ghosts living in it. But they’re there, Jenn. Right where you left them. And you know better than anyone they’re not going anywhere. The only thing you get to choose is whether you keep running from them . . .”

A breath.

“. . . or you finally turn around and face them.”

For a moment, I don’t say anything. I just lie there, staring at the ceiling through my forearm, my chest heavy with the kind of exhaustion that goes way beyond physical.

He’s right, of course. This is exactly why he didn’t want me to come down here—too many ghosts, too many memories waiting in the dark.

“Get some sleep,” he says finally, his voice softening. “You can fight the ghosts in the morning.”

I nod, though he can’t see me.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Good night.”

When I end the call, the lamp is still burning across the room.

I’m still too tired to turn it off.

Sleep takes me fast and hard. Too deep. Too dark.

I drift downward into the undertow I’ve been fighting for a decade, letting it pull me back to that time. To that day when the sun is a white coin burning overhead.

The air smells like funnel cake and suntan lotion.

Jess is beside me, bouncing on her heels, ponytail swinging. “One more ride!” she begs. “The new one—Freefall Fury!”

“No way.”

“Oh, c’mon! Don’t be such a chicken. I dare you.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. But we’re getting funnel cake after.”

The line snakes forward, inch by inch, metal railings scorching our palms. The heat makes everything shimmer. When it’s finally our turn, we’re strapped into the circular gondola—fifteen seats all around the tower, bright-red harnesses clicking into place.