12 - Three Decades Too Late

Ryan's hard gaze drops to me. "Hello, again," he greets gruffly.

I shrink a little against his close attention and check behind his shoulder for any other friends. Thankfully, he seems to be on his own. Sorting out the problem, just like Angela told him to.

And I am the problem.

Fucking shit.

"Dad told me where you lived," he says, letting his eyes sweep over the place. Nostalgia tinged with agony lights behind his eyes; a crackling flame. "Christ, it's weird being back here."

Thanks a lot, Cliff. You've led a murderer to my door.

Sam, bless him, crowds in front of me. Putting an incorporeal barricade between me and Ryan.

"Don't you dare," he seethes.

Ryan — who cannot see or hear this show of courage — gazes at me through the smudge of Sam's presence, features tight with discomfort.

"I, uh... I know you heard us, back there. Can we talk?"

I shake my head— a barely perceptible jerk. "No."

Something cracks behind his gaze, and he raises his empty hands as though I hold all the cards and he's the one caught off-guard. Despite myself, I flinch a little anyway, and he notices.

"Kid, whatever you're thinking— I'm not gonna hurt you."

Sam makes a strangled noise of disbelief. "Yeah, right. Theo, tell him to get lost."

"I just want to talk," Ryan tries once more.

I can work this to my favour, I think. I hope.

Hesitantly, I step aside to let him in. Get him to talk, get him to confess, and get him out again. Easy enough.

"Theo!" Sam gripes, turning to give me a lost look leaden with the sort of heavy understanding that can only mean 'this guy is a bit of an idiot'.

"There is no article, is there?" Ryan asks as he wanders inside and closes the door after him, studying the staircase. Something flickers behind his eyes and, with an effort, he drags his focus to me.

I feel small and helpless, caught beneath his piercing gaze. At my side, Sam bristles— but that might have something to do with the fact that Ryan had to just walk through him. I imagine that can't be very pleasant, and he looks as though someone has shaken his brain about.

"I've looked. There's just the article when it happened and the anniversary a few years back. And neither of them mention me or the others— they both say he was there with friends and stayed late. How do you know about us? And why are you digging?"

"I just— I asked your dad," I managed, backing up a little to put some space between us. My thoughts are ablaze; caught between the desire for answers and the horror that this is the man who shoved Sam down the stairs and left him to die.

I owe it to Sam to figure this mess out, so I try my best to square my shoulders and put on a brave face.

Ryan shakes his head. "My dad knows how much it broke us. He wouldn't help you speculate. He likes to pretend we weren't even there— that it happened to other kids."

The words, coaxed out by fury and helplessness, come spilling. "I think what happened broke Sam a little bit more than you and your shitty friends. What, with the fact his head's caved in and he had to die alone while you ran."

Sam hums in agreement— a stern little 'uh-huh' as he crosses his arms that has me biting back a smile in the midst of this chaos.

Ryan goes still. The curtains close behind his eyes, and his features twist with something close to agony. "How do you know that?" he asks softly.

I detect some notes of danger to his voice and, reflexively, step backwards. Swallowing against a lump in my throat, I look at Sam helplessly.

He stands like an echo of a sentry at my side, arms crossed, vague brows furrowed, jaw ticking. He studies Ryan closely. "Tell him," he says.

"What are you looking at?" Ryan demands. His voice startles me into meeting his gaze, and I watch his eyes flicker between me and the empty space where Sam is glowering.

With a steely breath, I begin, "I know what happened because Sam told me. I'm the only one who can see him and, believe me, I thought I was going crazy. But he told me his name and what happened to him here and all about you and the others. He says he died alone and afraid because you all ran off and left him to bleed out. I've been trying to help him figure out who pushed him, because you all got away with it and he doesn't think that's fair, and neither do I."

For a while, there is nothing but silence. It stretches on and on. Ryan's expression flickers through a kaleidoscope of emotions and finally settles on something blank and empty.

Something dangerous. So I retreat back a little further.

"You're telling me you can see him?" Ryan asks. He reaches for his back pocket slowly, to keep from startling me. It doesn't work.

Desperately, I look to Sam.

He meets my gaze, his eyes wide. Brave intentions melt with vague helplessness, pinching his features.

"He's a ghost," I fill in, as though that startling fact will make everything easier.

It does not.

"That's impossible, kid," Ryan says gently, pulling out a phone. "I think you need some help."

He's going to send me to a psych ward. He's going to put me away before I can solve this case.

"Don't let him change the subject. Don't let him get away with it," Sam tells me. His eyes go cloudy; a furious storm.

"You killed him," I manage, backing up further. "He told you about his feelings for Nathan and you killed him for it."

My back hits the wall just as the phone slips from Ryan's hands. The resounding clatter makes me startle.

"How the fuck—?" he begins, only to cut himself off when my gaze flickers — once more — towards Sam.

"He thinks I'm crazy," I hiss at his incorporeal self, which doesn't help, I'll admit.

Sam holds up his hands in surrender. "What do you want me to do about it? He can't see me, genius."

"Fucking move something, then! Just leave the chandelier alone, for the love of God."

"Leave the chandelier alone," he mimics with a little scowl, retreating to a little floor vase of feathers and flowers stuffed away in the corner of the hall. Then, with a dramatic flair, he tips the vase with his foot. It clangs to the floor, and a river of feathers comes flowing out. For extra drama, Sam kicks a few feathers across the floor towards Ryan— a decidedly unnatural movement that gravity cannot quite explain.

Sam gives a smug little bow, and I glare at him.

Ryan, though, looks petrified. Staring at the feathers as though they've just spoken to him. "Holy shit, he... he's here? You can see him? Did he just do that?" His stoic exterior melts, and horror seeps through the cracks. For just an instant, he looks three decades younger, watching his friend bleed out and choosing to turn his back and flee.

I nod. "He did."

Any suspicion behind Ryan's gaze is burned to ashes in a blaze of panic. He rubs a tired, exasperated hand down his face and releases a shuddering breath. "He..." He clears his throat and tries again. "He thinks I killed him?"

"He can't remember. Not clearly," I tell him, thinking that Ryan doesn't seem all that vengeful or murderous, at the moment. He looks like he's questioning reality itself, and I figure I'm safe as long as I keep pushing the whole ghost thing. "He remembers telling you about liking Nathan, and he remembers you looked angry. He said he was shoved down the stairs, and you... you all left him there to die."

"I— God," he says, his voice shuddering with raw agony. He covers his face and retreats to sit heavily on the bottom step of the staircase. "I... I've regretted it every day since."

"As you should," I cut in as his attempt at pity dissipates in the air between us. "You pushed him, and you left him, and you and your friends are covering it up."

Ryan fervently shakes his head, and when he drops his shaking hands into his lap, I see his eyes shimmer with tears. "I didn't push him, Theo. But I... I saw it all, and I let them convince me to... to—"

"Wait, what?" Sam and I both blurt out, echoed expressions of startled shock pinching our features.

Ryan holds my gaze steadfast. "I didn't kill Sam."

I scoff. "Are you going to tell me he tripped? Because if you are, I think you should leave. I'm solving this fucking case and you can't stop me from digging— I don't care what your friends say—!"

"It was Em."

It feels, in short, as though he has reached across that impossible space between us and slapped me. Hard. Thoughts stutter to a stop. My heart gives a painful lurch and his words rip the air from my throat.

For a while, all I can do is stare at him.

At my side, Sam has gone rigid. His form flickers as though he's fighting an instinctual urge to disappear.

But he clings. And so do I.

"What did you just say?" I ask slowly, eyeing Ryan for any slip in his expression. Any clue that he's lying.

His features are an open book cracked with pain and streaked with tears. He wipes them away quickly. "Emily pushed him."

Come on, Theo. Think, think, think.

"Are you... confessing, right now? Is that what's happening?" I demand. I think of his understandable dislike towards Angela and her scheming. "Or are you just here to sort out the problem and keep me from digging, like you're their fucking guard dog?"

His gaze drops from mine and he studies his shaking hands closely. "I'm not their guard dog. And I'm done covering for them. Just... please, Theo. Let me explain. I'll tell you everything."

"Are you alright?" I can't help but ask. For want of a better word, Ryan looks ill. I'm not sure whether it's the revelation that Sam's a ghost or the fact he's just let slip that Emily — fucking Emily — was the one to push Sam. Either way, he's not looking good.

"Just, uh—" he begins haltingly, rubbing at the messy stubble shadowing his jaw. He offers me a weak, brittle smile and asks, "You don't happen to have any cans here, do you, kid?"

When he's not drinking his way through the town's beer supply, Angela's gravelly, unpleasant voice whispers in my ear.

I grimace and turn to retreat into the kitchen. "I've got coffee, since it's barely gone midday and you drove here."

He laughs; a breathless sound. "Alright. That'll do."

Sam shadows me, but he keeps his eyes on Ryan. "Get him to talk if you can, but please be careful. He's, like, twice your size," he tells me, bracing his hands on the counter at my side and glaring at Ryan as he takes a seat at the breakfast table before the window.

I send him a subtle nod. As I'm making the drinks, I slide my phone from my pocket and hit the record button once more. Whatever it takes, I'm going to get him to admit what happened, and have it all on record.

Sam looks at me strangely — he's never quite grasped the concept of my phone — but doesn't say anything as I slip it back into my pocket.

I take the drinks, set them down on the table, and sit opposite Ryan. Sam, features twisting with strain, nudges a third chair closer to me and settles on it, fidgeting with his hands.

Ryan startles so badly he almost drops the mug, and he takes a long gulp before setting it down.

I stay quiet and idly set my phone down before me; disconcerting in its obviousness. Perhaps Ryan will think it's merely there for a hasty phone call to the police if he tries anything. He'd be right— even if he wasn't the one to push Sam, he seems the sort to get dangerous very quickly. I'm taking no chances.

After a pause, he begins to speak.

"After... after Sam told me about liking Nathan, I was pissed. He's an asshole, and I was angry at Sam for not seeing that, but..." He trails off, glaring down at the mug. "There were things I suppressed about myself, back then. Things I've only just come to terms with, after some counselling. And I know now that anger was actually jealousy. I liked him, and I was annoyed he'd chosen Nathan. I stormed off, and Sam went inside. Nathan went to fetch some beers from the car, and I ended up round the other side of the house. I heard voices— one of the upstairs windows was broken, and I heard Angela, Emily and Sam shouting. I... I only got the gist of the conversation— that Sam had caught them doing something, and he was threatening to tell Nathan. Saying he deserved to know. Emily was crying, saying stuff about her reputation and her parents. Angela was being Angela and trying to be the loudest one in the room. I thought Sam had gotten himself in trouble again, so I went back inside to sort it out like usual, and..."

At my side, Sam has gone deathly still. His vague eyes flicker as though some shade of what happened to him plays behind his gaze.

Ryan takes a steeling breath and forges on. "Sam was just coming down the stairs, and Angela and Emily were behind him. He saw me and started to say something— I can't remember what, I only know that Emily just... she flipped. She shoved him. Hard. And he lost his footing and tried to grab the handrail, but he... he fell and hit his head on the post," he manages, his voice shuddering. "I've never forgotten the sound. It... it'll stay with me forever, that impact. The girls were screaming, and Nathan came running in behind me, but he didn't see what happened. Sam was bleeding out. His eyes were open but he was... God, he was so still. Angela said it was all an accident, that he fell and that we needed to leave or else the police would have us rot in jail."

"And you left him," I say softly.

He fervently wipes at his eyes and takes another gulp of the scalding coffee. "I argued. I said he needed help, and that we couldn't leave him. But Angela, she threatened to tell the police about— about some stupid shit I did that she's held over my head ever since. I was a coward, and I followed them out the house. I convinced myself he was just knocked out, and I'd call an ambulance when I got home. But I couldn't do it. They found him a few days later, and they called us in for questioning. I was scared, so I lied. I told them Angela's story— that he stayed later and must've tripped after we left. They let us go. They called it all an accident."

"What was more important to you than getting help?" I demand, fury sharpening my voice into a knife's edge.

"I stole things. I did drugs. Sold them, too. I was a shitty kid and Angela knew about it and she used it against me. But there's no excuse for what we did. What I did."

"And you've suddenly decided to clear your conscience?"

Ryan meets my gaze at last, and I see something broken and cracked behind his features. "I came up here because I knew you'd heard what they said in the library, and I knew you'd jump to conclusions. I wanted to clear my name, but... you're telling me he's still here, and you can talk to him."

I look at Sam, trying to gauge whether Ryan's telling the truth or making shit up to excuse himself, but he won't look at me. He's lost to his thoughts, smudgy and vague and distant.

"Sam?" I prompt.

My voice startles him, and he flinches and levels me with a look of dawning understanding. "He was there," he murmurs, his voice a mere echo. "In the doorway. They... they were kissing. And I thought Nathan deserved to know." He shudders and hugs himself. "He's telling the truth, Theo. She cried when you talked to her about me. Her dad was a priest— very, uh... y'know righteous. She'd want to keep the whole kissing-Angela thing a secret."

"Angela hugged her last night, when they met up at the bakery. When Nathan wasn't watching, " I add, my brows tugging together as all the pieces begin to fit together. "Holy shit, this is a mess."

Ryan's telling the truth. Emily shoved Sam down the stairs to save her reputation.

Vaguely, I wonder if there was anyone in that friendship circle that didn't fancy anyone else.

"Can he hear me?" Ryan asks softly. "Is he here?"

I hum in assent and jerk my head to the seat at my side. "He's been here the whole time. Fact-checking you."

With a shuddering breath, Ryan looks in the vague direction of Sam's form curled up beside me and says, "Sam, I... I am so incredibly sorry. You didn't deserve what happened to you. You didn't deserve such shitty friends. I lied to protect them, and to protect myself, but... I can't keep lying anymore. Honestly, if the truth doesn't come from me, Theo may actually murder me and I'll be stuck here, too. Which would only be fair."

I make a noise of agreement, grateful that he seems just as scared of me as I am of him.

"I'm going to make things right. It's the least you deserve. I'm sorry, Sam."

I grab my phone from the table and end the recording with deliberate slowness, and I feel the heat of Ryan's gaze on me as I do it. Sam uncurls a little to watch, intrigued.

"Alright— here's what's gonna happen," I say, rolling my shoulders and fixing Ryan with a withering glare. "You are going straight to the police station, you're going to admit to everything and have them reopen the case. I don't care what strings you have to pull to do it, because if you don't, then I will go to them. It's your word against your own. Do you understand?"

Sam is buzzing at my side, grinning. He punches the air and exclaims, "Yes, Theo! God, I love that weird thing!"

Ryan's lips twitch up into something vaguely resembling a smile. The kindest expression I've seen his features make so far.

"You'd make a great detective, you know," he muses, downing the rest of his coffee. "Did you poison this, too?"

"No," I allow. "Because then you couldn't tell the truth."

He laughs— a sharp sound. "Right, of course. I just... I can't believe you're seeing him, right now."

"Me, neither."

"Are you... like, psychic, or something?"

"Not that I know of. I think, if I was, I'd see more, and feel more. But it's just Sam," I tell him. "I can't believe you're not sending me away in a straitjacket."

"This is Eden's Gate, Theo. Stranger things happen every day."

"And you... you're going to fix this?"

He nods, steely and determined. "I will. None of us are innocent in this mess. I think it's about time the others get what's coming to them. I don't care what happens to me, as long as the truth gets out. It's time Eden's Gate knows what happened to Sam."

"And you don't care if you get arrested, or anything?" I ask, suspicious.

He levels my look with one of dawning acceptance. "I'm tired of lying for them and getting nothing but shit back. I want to leave this behind me, and I can't. I haven't been able to for over thirty years. And... Well, if you're so keen on solving this case, I'll throw my load in. Help you out. Maybe now I can sleep without seeing all that blood and hearing that impact."

I grimace a little at the thought, nudging my glasses further up my nose from where they've slipped. "I don't think it's that simple."

"No, I suppose you're right," he muses, and I catch a glint of something almost... youthful behind his gaze. Youthful and afraid. "I'll speak with the police first thing tomorrow, but I make no promises on how they handle this. It's a cold case from three decades ago— they might not even take my statement."

"I don't care," Sam says, giving an insubstantial little shrug. "As long as he tells someone. As long as he tries."

I relay this to Ryan, who swallows thickly and blinks back tears. He leaves quite soon, after that.

I watch him go with Sam at my side, until he swings the shrieking gate closed and until his car disappears round the bend in the lane.

Once the grumble of the engine fades, there is silence for one, blissful moment.

"Holy fucking shit," Sam murmurs.

"Holy fucking shit, indeed."