Layla

“How do you know Aspen will know what to do?”

“She’s a nurse. She saves lives every day.”

I don’t like this. “What if it works and we bring your body back? How do we know Sable won’t come back instead of you?”

“I won’t let her, Leeds.” Layla says that with such conviction I can’t help but trust her. I pull her to me and rest my chin on top of her head. For the first time since finding out ghosts are real . . . I’m terrified.

“I love you.”

Her words are muffled against my chest when she says, “I love you too. So much. That’s how I know this is going to work.”CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

It’s been two hours since we came upstairs to prepare for Layla’s drowning.

Two hours since it started to feel like my world might be coming to an end.

She has everything planned out. She even wrote down instructions and is making me study them like this is some kind of fucking college exit exam.

Hold me under until I’m no longer struggling for air.

Check my pulse. When it stops, call 911 immediately.

Wake up Aspen.

Start resuscitation.

You only have five minutes to save my life.I let the paper fall to the bed. Five minutes. I can’t read it again.

“Do you need more time to look it over?” she asks me.

“I’m going to need years before I’m ready to do this.”

She lifts a hand and touches the side of my head. “I know you’re scared. I’m scared too. But the longer we let this go on, the weaker I’m going to be. We need to do it now before we have more slipups. Before Aspen becomes even more suspicious.” She grabs the sheet of paper and folds it up. Then she walks to the bathroom and flushes it in the toilet. On her way back into the bedroom, she grabs my laptop and sets it on her side of the bed. She clears her throat and then says, “I typed up a suicide note. I think it’s important to have, just in case.”

I cover my face with my hand. “A suicide note?” I can’t keep my voice down. “How are you so calm about this? You just wrote a suicide note, Layla.”

“I don’t want you to take the fall if this doesn’t work. I scheduled it to send as an email for four hours from now. You know the login to my email. If I don’t make it . . . allow the email to send. But if I do make it . . . delete it. Because it’s going to everyone, Leeds. You, Aspen, my mother . . .” Her voice is even—mechanical, almost—as if she’s completely detached from the reality of what we’re about to do.

She grabs my hand, wanting me to stand up. Wanting me to follow her.

The next several minutes feel surreal. I follow her out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and to the backyard.

She walks calmly into the pool, and so much of this moment is wrapped in the night we met. The first time we spoke was in this pool. Our first kiss was in this pool.

Why does it feel like our final goodbye might happen in the pool?

My pulse is frantic. I can’t catch a breath. The reality of what we’re about to do may not be absorbing into her, but it has taken over every part of me.

She’s standing in the middle of the pool, in the same spot where I found her floating on her back that first night we met. And by some miracle, she has the same expression on her face. Serene. “I need you in the water with me, Leeds.” I realize she’s remaining as calm as she is because she knows if she doesn’t, I’ll talk her out of this. I’ll talk myself out of this.

But she’s right. We need to do it now, before she becomes even weaker from lack of sleep.

I’m reluctant as I make my way toward the pool. The water is warm when I step into it, and it hits me that she had me turn on the pool heater yesterday—not so we could swim but for this very purpose.

We keep our eyes locked together as I make my way to her.

When I meet her in the middle, I have to close my eyes, because I finally see a trace of fear in her expression. She snakes her arms around my waist and presses her face against my chest. “I know you don’t want this, Leeds. But I want my life back. I need it back.” Her voice is shaking. “Every time I have to leave my own body, it’s like a brand-new heartbreak.”

I kiss her on top of her head, but I say nothing. I couldn’t speak if I wanted to. The fear is too thick in my throat.