Shade by Jeri Smith-Ready Page A

Tell them to call home. Now.” Dylan hung up. “It’s such bullshit we can’t get Mom and Dad.”
    “They don’t have cell towers in the middle of the ocean,” Megan pointed out.
    “Call Aunt Jean,” Siobhan said, sniffling. “Or Aunt Rosemary. They’ll know what to do.”
    “No way.” Dylan clasped the phone to his chest. “Mom and Dad should find out first. And the cops won’t call anyone, since you and Mickey are eighteen. You’re taking care of us.” He flinched. “Of me, I mean.”
    Siobhan moaned, burying her face in Connor’s chest. Dylan sank deeper in the chair and covered his face with the end of a Halloween throw blanket. Its black and orange tassels fluttered as he breathed out a heavy sigh.
    “Does anyone want a drink?”
    We all stared at Brian, who shoved his hands in his pockets.
    “I don’t mean—jeez, I meant like soda or something.”
    “I’ll help you.” Megan gave me a worried glance and followed Brian toward the kitchen.
    I sat back on the sofa. My hand slid over something cold and wet. I lifted it to see a brown-yellow stain on the creamy beige cushion. Spilled Guinness, no doubt. My cheeks flamed at the memory of Logan’s last several drinks.
    I excused myself with a mumble, then slunk away to the downstairs bathroom.
    Locking the door, I left the light off before remembering that, like all bathrooms, it would be BlackBoxed. That’s why Logan wasn’t in here. If he was a ghost, he’d come back to me, right?
    I splashed cold water on my face until my contact lenses stung from the smeared eyeliner. I dried my face and hands, avoiding the mirror. One glimpse would start me sobbing again.
    I opened the bathroom door and stepped into the foyer. From above my head came the noise of a heavy zipper.
    I looked up the stairs, then wished I hadn’t.
    The paramedics had placed Logan’s body onto a stretcher. One of them was sealing a long, greenish black bag.
    I imagined the last glimpse of Logan, his bleached-blond hair, disappearing inside. My knees turned liquid, and I let out a little cry.
    He can’t breathe in there.
    “Aura.” My aunt waved her hand over the banister as if to shoo me. “Sweetie, you shouldn’t see this. Go wait in one of the other rooms.”
    I wanted to launch myself up the stairs, rip open the bag, and cling to the only part of Logan I could still touch. I wanted to scream at the paramedics not to take him. Not yet.
    Instead I ran into the den and slammed the door.
    Light from the street filtered through the sheer curtains, glowing silver on the desk and bookshelves, and the globe that Mr. Keeley had insisted on buying, even though it was outdated by the time it arrived.
    But it was dark enough for ghosts. “Logan,” I whispered. “Don’t let me remember that. I want to see you the way you are now. Please come back.”
    Nothing to hear but the pulse pounding in my temples. Nothing to see but ambulance headlights sweeping across the window.
    Nothing to feel but alone.

Chapter Five

    In my dream, Logan was red.
    So red and so deep, I could see him in full sunshine. We lay on the beach, facing each other, with no towels between our bodies and the sand.
    “You look like blood,” I teased him.
    He laughed, his mouth a dark chasm. “That’s because I’m made of blood.”
    He stroked my face. His fingertips were warm and way too soft. He wasn’t solid like a person, or air like a ghost. He was liquid—liquid that now dripped from my cheek and chin.
    “Don’t,” I told him.
    “What are you afraid of ?” Logan drew his hand over the strap of my bikini and down my arm, leaving a glistening scarlet trail. “I won’t hurt you. I just need to touch you again.” His slippery-slickhand took mine. “Don’t you want to touch me, Aura?”
    I let out a whimper that verged on a moan. “You know I do.” To prove it, I reached forward. My hand plunged into Logan’s chest.
    His limbs spasmed, and he threw back his head. “Not there!”
    Something