Like he knew me.

My cell phone vibrates softly in my hand as another alert appears on the screen.

Unknown: I’ll make this easier for you. Do you think of a ghost as something that represents the dead, or do you see it as something that haunts the living?

I clench my jaw, my mind buzzing with the implications of his words. He’s playing with me, drawing me in, feeding off my pain. Except, he shouldn’t know anything about me beyond the surface-level details of my professional life. He shouldn’t know me like this.

I sit there, staring at the messages, my thoughts spinning out of control. In death, my parents haunt me. The memories, the survivor’s guilt, the endless questions. All of it has shaped who and what I am, and why I’m having this conversation to begin with.

But then there’s him…

Ghost isn’t like my parents. He isn’t someone I loved and lost. He’s something else—a living phantom, drifting through my life, possessing my thoughts. He’s alive, yet he feels like a ghost too, haunting me in an entirely different way.

Am I tormented by the dead or the living? The answer comes to me. Or maybe it’s been there all along, and that’s his point.

Geneva: Both. I think of a ghost as both of those things.

Unknown: The dead and the living, always overlapping.

Unknown: It’s my reality too.

His reality too?

A sense of understanding rises in me before I can stop it. His response is very telling. Vulnerable in a way that humanizes him. I mentally rail against viewing him in this light, knowing this could be nothing more than lies designed to manipulate me. To force compassion from me in a way he doesn’t deserve.

How many times do I have to remind myself that he’s a serial killer?

Unknown: You feel it, don’t you? The connection between us?

I should call Detective Harris right now, delete these texts, or throw the phone across the room, anything to break this fragile bond between us. It pulses within me like a slow-burning ember, not ablaze but still hot enough to provide warmth. And pain.

I want to believe that I’m not reporting this in order to discover more for Ghost’s psych evaluation. But right now, this interaction isn’t about professional curiosity. No, this is something more. Something personal.

The ember of connection flickers and for a moment I can feel myself drawn to Ghost in a way that’s stronger than before. His words echo in my mind, each one dragging me deeper into a shared darkness, into a space where his ghosts and mine meet.

Fourteen days, twenty-two hours, seven minutes, and twelve seconds since I’ve seen Ghost…

Come Monday morning, I’ll be back at zero.

CHAPTER 11

The inmates look at me like I’m a donut and they’re on a diet. It’s uncomfortable but not enough to deter me. Meanwhile, the guard barely glances at me as he guides me down the long, dim prison hallway.

Every step takes me closer to Ghost, to the conversation I know I shouldn’t be having but can’t stop myself from seeking out. Even Detective Harris was perturbed this morning when I told him about my plan.

“What are you hoping to get out of this, Gen? What more could you possibly need from him?”

I didn’t have a good reason for Allen. Or maybe I just didn’t want to say it out loud. The truth is that I need answers only Ghost can give me.

Out of all the billions of people in the world, why am I the one he’s fixated on?

I run my fingers over my hair, making sure my bun is secure and there are no flyaway strands. My clothes still hold the starch from the dry cleaners, and paired with my ballet flats, I embody propriety. And to some, monotony.

No one would say I’m fascinating.

Except Ghost.

“Remember,” the guard says, coming to a halt outside the room, “don’t say anything to provoke the inmate. Don’t give him any details about other cases, and absolutely no personal information.”

I almost burst out laughing. Ghost has already proven he knows more about me than I’ve ever shared, or made public. It’s not as though I gave him my cell number and asked him to text me.

“I got it.”

The guard unlocks the door, and I steel myself as I walk into the interview room. The lights are harsh, too bright for the darkness I’m about to face. Ghost is already sitting behind the glass, chained to the table, his white hair made blinding by the fluorescent lights framing him in a soft glow. It gives him an ethereal quality, but he’s no ghost.

Just a man who haunts me with only a few words.

Our eyes meet as I sit down. The hazel in his glitters with amusement. And that smile… It’s there, curling at the corners of his mouth like he knows a dark secret.

I’m quick to speak first, wanting to take charge of the conversation. “Why are you in this room before me? Last time I was here, they brought you in after I arrived.”

Ghost nods slowly, his smile growing just a fraction. “Very perceptive, Dr. Andrews. You see, things changed around here, especially after the latest incident.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Incident?”

His eyes flash with that familiar glint, the one that tells me he’s enjoying every second of this. He leans back slightly, letting the chains on his wrists clink softly against the metal table. I try not to become distracted by the muscles of his large chest expanding under the orange material. “The inmate closest to this room. He met an unfortunate end. An apparent suicide. Gruesome, they said.”

My body tenses, and I take a deep breath to loosen my muscles. “Did you have anything to do with it?”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “Such accusations, Dr. Andrews. Do I strike you as the type to get my hands dirty?”

I nod. “Yes, actually.”

“Then, you’d be correct.” He rests his elbows on the table. His eyes gleam with a twisted amusement, and the smile never leaves his lips. “I may have given him a few choice words to remind him of… unpleasant truths. Sometimes, when you look at yourself too closely, you don’t like what you see.”

He tilts his head, eyes still locked on mine before continuing. “It’s amazing what the mind is capable of when it’s pushed in just the right direction. Wouldn’t you agree?”

My stomach tightens. He didn’t need to lay a finger on the inmate. Ghost has a way of planting seeds in the heads of others—seeds that grow into something far more dangerous.

Case in point: I’m sitting here talking to him when I know I shouldn’t.

His grin widens at my silence, and he nods slowly—almost as if reading my mind and praising me for connecting the dots. “The truth is powerful. You, of all people, should know that. And sometimes, the truth is enough to destroy someone.”

I fold my arms across my chest, trying to create some distance between us. “Did you know him?”

Ghost shrugs, the motion casual, as if we’re discussing something trivial. “Not personally, but we had commonalities. He had his ghosts, just like you, just like me. I simply helped him face them.”

I stare at Ghost, my skin crawling at the ease with which he speaks about manipulation and murder. “Why did you do it?”

“Don’t you ever get tired of asking ‘why’?”

“Don’t you ever get tired of killing people?”

His smile fades, and his eyes darken. “Nope. And to answer your question: I did it because I could.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence between us, the tension thick in the air. I can’t tell if he’s being honest or if this is just another one of his games. But I can feel the weight of his words pressing down on me, and the disturbing part is… I almost understand. I’ll never stop asking why. It’s my obsession, the same way murder is his.