Chapter 7

“Do you still believe in ghosts?” I asked Charlie.

He was staring out the window, no response, but I was dauntless—­totally like that chick in that movie everyone was talking about. Couldn’t remember her name, but Theo James was in it, so score.

“I remember us playing with the Ouija board stuff,” I continued, sitting in the chair across from him with my legs tucked under my butt. “But we were, like, thirteen, and a year before that, we swore we saw the chupacabra outside, but whatever, I think my apartment might be haunted.”

Charlie blinked slowly.

I took a deep breath. “The remote control ended up in the fridge last Saturday, and when I came home from my shift, the dishwasher was running. Then, after my shift on Thursday, I came home and the TV . . . in my bedroom was on. I didn’t leave it on when I left. So, either there’s a ghost in my house, someone else is living there that I’m completely unaware of, or I’m losing my mind. And I know, going crazy doesn’t seem too unbelievable.”

My nervous laugh echoed around the otherwise silent room, taunting me. Truth was, whatever weirdness that was going on in my apartment was freaking me out. I’d told my mom about it when I talked to her this morning on the way to visit Charlie, and she was totally convinced it was a ghost. Although, I’d never seen one, I believed in them. I mean, way too many ­people—­healthy, normal, and completely sane ­people—­in the world had claimed that they’d seen a ghost for some cases not to be real. But nothing had happened in my apartment before. Why would it start messing around with stuff now? Or maybe it had done things before, and I just never noticed? God, it was super creepy to think that my place could really be haunted.

I needed to get some salt the next time I was at the grocery store, like a bucket’s worth of salt. That seemed to work for the guys on Supernatural.

I sighed as I pulled out the painting I’d brought with me and showed it to Charlie. I’d done another landscape, this time of Rehoboth Beach, where our parents would take us for the summer. The sand glittered on the canvas, like a thousand tiny diamonds had been sprinkled over it. The ocean had been fun to paint, but wasn’t entirely accurate.

Because no ocean was as deep as Reece’s eyes.

I needed help.

Charlie didn’t acknowledge the painting, so I got up and tacked it to the wall, next to the one of Devil’s Den. Then I turned, scrubbing my hands down my face. Without my glasses, I felt weird. Naked even. Mmm. Naked. That made me think of Reece.

I seriously needed help.

Dropping my hands, I resisted the urge to bang my head against the wall. Several moments passed as I stared at Charlie, wishing that he’d turn and look at me, if only for a few seconds. But he didn’t.