Keep the Ghost

33. The passenger

Something slides around in the trunk every time I turn or stop. It sounds soft and heavy—I don't like this sound; it's oddly familiar.

I drive the streets of Ocala for about an hour, finding something wrong with any space I might park and hide in. I constantly check my speed, hitting the brakes when I realize I'm over the limit.

Something's happening. Jack and Morgan abducted Cole, and I don't know what they're planning. Don't know what to think, and that not-knowing crackles through me—a spark in my blood that won't die down. It just sizzles, circulating.

My face hurts, and I have a headache. My lip is still bleeding. Never had a gun in my face. Never wrestled for my life before. And Morgan's kid—what's the truth? She certainly left that out of her sob story to me. Is Cole as bad as she makes him out to be, or is that a lie, too?

My phone buzzes; I check it. A text from Morgan:

Come to the trailer park, wait outside.

I make my way out of Ocala toward the little rural development. After I park on the side of the small farm road that connects to the trailer park, there is nothing to do but wait.

It's only a few minutes before I see two figures, male and female, walking toward me. Jack in a red hoodie, hands tucked into the pocket at its center, and Morgan in charcoal slacks and a teal blouse. Clothes whip like shrouds in the wind, constant eastbound motion tugging them off their path.

Nothing seems particularly urgent about the way they move. However, a thin stream of black smoke rises from somewhere deeper within the park.

I get out of the car, not even bothering with my crutches, but instead using the vehicle to support my weight as I hop to the back seat and open it. By the time I slide back into my spot, Jack opens the driver's side and climbs in.

Morgan, however, doesn't follow. Instead, she walks around to my window, and motions for me to roll it down. I do.

"I need to ditch Cole's car," she says. Her voice is tired, and wind whips the tips of her dark hair against her neck and face. "Stay with Jack."

"How about Jack hides the truck, and you come with me?" I ask.

I don't get a response—just a look that tells me not to argue.

"Let me come with you in Cole's car, then!" I call at her back.

"It involves a hike." I barely hear her; she's already halfway across the road again. The thin stream of smoke rising from the trailer park grows to a thicker column, hooking up and to the right as wind drags it away from its source.

I roll the window back up.

"We've got a present to return," Jack tells me.

I say nothing as he pulls a U-turn and begins driving back toward Ocala.

Rice fields surround us, saturated in a few inches of water, and the shallow pools glitter in the sunlight. Sprouts shoot up in patches, breaking the gleaming baldness of their surfaces.

"You guys killed Cole, didn't you?" I ask. I lean my head against the hot window and stare at the rubber lining where glass meets metal.

Jack checks his wristwatch. "By now, probably." He glances back at me. "What, you feel bad?"

"He was going to shoot me," I say, aware I'm rationalizing it.

Jack chuckles. "You do feel bad. What's that like?"

"It hurts."

He starts to respond, then looks back at me and seems to reconsider. After a moment, he starts again: "I mean, he probably didn't suffer. We gave him a lot of ether; he'll suffocate before he burns to death. Cole won't even know he's dead."