I had no idea how he was doing this. What mechanism he was using. If it was a spirit, I didn’t feel its presence. Unless it’s the fucking spirit of Christmas past. Or, in my case, the last night at The Mule Kick. What if it’s not the lie I’m thinking about, though, and I spew it out and we’re still stuck in here, but now with a vile truth unearthed from such a deep grave we’ll choke on its putrid stench? Bring it back to life like some fucking zombie that will eat our brains, if not our hearts and souls.

“You know he’s watching us right now, don’t you?” I said. He had to be. How else could he have made the planchette respond so concisely to our questions? How else would he know whether or not I confessed to my most damning sin?

Cassie sat there in silence, watching me, waiting. Still wearing the same dress she’d picked up off the floor in a rush to get in a car with fake cops. Arms crossed, legs scratched to hell. On the precipice of a revelation that will alter the way she looks at me forever. And she looks nonplussed. We humans are adaptable, if nothing else. Or maybe she’s just a master of her emotions. Or maybe she’s just so scared she’s afraid to show it because then it will set off an avalanche of hysteria that will crush her and me both.

“All I care about is getting Rox back,” she said.

And that should have been my only concern as well, but I was more focused on myself. Trying to prolong my past mistakes. Protect the present image I’d fabricated. The alliance we’d built on top of a lie.

“I know,” I said. And I almost said, ‘Me too’, but I had to stop lying if I was going to start telling the truth.

I took a deep breath. “I think I know what I’m supposed to say.”

She nodded, began kneading her hands.

“Or what I’m supposed to tell you.”

As little as I wanted to say this, I could tell she didn’t want to hear it either. The truth will set you free? Fuck that. The truth will burn you alive.

“Look, whatever it is, it’s okay,” she said. Goddamn, she’s an angel. “I know you. I know who you are. Nobody’s perfect. In fact, there’s no such thing. You’ve done some fucked-up things, so have I. There’s nothing you could do that would make me turn my back on you. What, did you cheat on me, or something? Please don’t tell me you murdered someone.”

“Honestly?” Because that’s what this is about, isn’t it? “I may have done both in the last forty-eight hours, but that’s not what this is about, I don’t think.”