9 - A Tragic Accident & Other Lies

Given my mum is recovering from a night shift and the rain is quickly becoming torrential, I opt for taking the car instead of suffering through a twenty-minute walk down the winding lanes towards Eden's Gate. I send a quick message to mum, so she doesn't think that the car and I have both spontaneously disappeared into thin air, and promise to be back in time if she needs it to get to work.

I leave Sam with the assurance I'll find out what I can, alongside a warning that I can't make any promises that this will end well. I can't point my finger at his old friends — who, by now, are nearing their fifties — say 'I know what happened to Sam' and have the police arrest them all. I have no concrete evidence, and I'm not sure 'seeing dead people' will fly in court.

Still, I've got to try and find something. Because, if I were in Sam's shoes, I'd want someone to help me, too. I wouldn't want the world to think my death was an accident.

I drive out to Lindenbridge, with my phone calling out directions to Nathan's gym. My thoughts are ablaze, considering all the disastrous ways this confrontation could go.

It's a whole lot nicer than Eden's Gate, I have to admit; there's an aura of simple peace compared to the jarring, unwelcome, and frankly hostile atmosphere choking my new home like a dense fog. The people here look genuinely happy to be alive, which is always a bonus. If the townsfolk of Eden's Gate are dawdling their way through life, trudging on like soldiers marching to an inescapable doom, then the residents of Lindenbridge are skipping.

It's quite the breath of fresh air, and I'm not surprised that Nathan and Emily seem to have packed up their lives and moved here. A fresh start in a shiny new town, leaving all their ghosts behind.

Or, rather, one ghost in particular.

I park up, double-check online that the gym does indeed belong to Nathan (it does), and head inside. Hopefully the morning rush will have died down by now.

I can only hope. I don't want an audience if this goes badly.

The gym is all glass and concrete and encouraging posters of people climbing mountains, with glaring spotlights that pierce through my skull and a two-storey lobby looking in at a bunch of people working out on machines lined up specifically for studying from an outside perspective, as though the exercise doesn't count unless everyone has to watch them do it. The gym at my old home was a little more private, a little more inviting, and I definitely prefer it to this.

I recognise the woman behind the counter after a morning of hasty social media scouring. This is Emily Hayes— the goody-two-shoes of Sam's friendship circle. The oblivious competition for Nathan's attention.

Middle-aged and wearing her decades in laughter lines pinching her eyes and the corners of her lips, she tucks shoulder-length platinum blonde hair behind her ears and checks in a customer.

When he wanders off towards the changing rooms, and I step forward, she offers me a welcoming smile.

"How can I help you, doll?" she asks, typing away on her computer. "D'you have a membership card?"

This is going to be awkward.

I clear my throat and idly study the racks of water bottles. "Um... are you Emily Hayes? Formerly Jenkins?"

The clacking of her keyboard goes quiet. "Yes, I am."

I risk a glance and find her watching me cautiously. Her smile has fallen. "I'm from Eden's Gate—" That feels weird to admit— "and I'm doing a project on Solus Estate for college. According to people in town, you knew the boy that died there. They told me I could find you here. Can I ask you some questions? It won't take long, I promise."

A series of noises escape her— each an attempt at words only for them to choke her on their way out. As though the sounds cling to her throat, unwilling to be spoken.

"Honey, has the new shipment arrived yet? Stocks are running low." A man's imploring voice startles us both, and we turn to find him struggling his way through a turnstile with a few empty boxes.

Nathan Hayes, I'm guessing. Six-foot four of auburn locks and pure muscle; the egotistical gym-rat personified. The sort of person who'll either judge you from across the room or shove his way into your personal space to show you how to use something properly. I faced enough of them back home to recognise them in a sort of fight-or-flight response. Or, more accurately, fright-or-flight.

Seriously, Sam? I can't help but think. You chose this guy?

His gaze sweeps from his wife to me and back again. "Hon?"

Emily, instead of simply answering my question with a yes or no, sniffs and wipes at her liquid eyes.

And I realise she's crying.

At once, Nathan's whole persona changes. Whereas at first he was simply curious, now he all but turns to stone. A shadow crosses his features, his jaw ticks, and he levels me with a look of pure danger.

"You'd better start explaining yourself, kid."

I open my mouth, about to do just that to avoid having my head crushed between his fists, when Emily sniffs and manages, "He's asking about— about Sam."

"It's for college," I rush out as Nathan approaches. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset anyone, but I've got a deadline—"

Nathan crowds so close to me that I have no choice but to back up or else have this conversation with his chest. He puts himself between me and Emily, whose face has gone red as she struggles to calm down.

I'm suddenly glad that the lobby is empty, but there's glass everywhere, and I can feel the heat of attention on the back of my neck.

"Listen very carefully," Nathan spits, fury sharpening his voice into a knife's edge. "These are people's lives you're messing with. Get out. And if I catch you speaking with my wife again, I'm calling the police."

He doesn't need to tell me twice, but he shoves his finger at my face anyway. Pointing out the nose he's going to break if I don't do as he says.

"Stay out of it, kid. Now get lost."

I do, in fact, get lost. I get lost right back into my car, where I sit and quietly fume. What a prick.

It seems like Sam's death is a soft spot for them both, and whereas Emily resorts to tears, Nathan resorts to bullying a teenager out of his gym just to wrestle back some control. I know the sort a little too well.

I don't have long until my shift at the library, so I decide to let the happy couple worry over the chaos I've stirred up. I'll get back to them with evidence, with demands, and I'll get something out of them. The truth, hopefully, instead of more tears.

With a risk of sounding melodramatic, driving back into Eden's Gate feels like entering one of the lowest circles of hell. It doesn't help that the clouds are angry and grey and bulging with rain that slaps insistently against the windshield; an onslaught of ice and misery.

I park up as close to the lane where Angela's bakery and the library huddle in amongst other stores as I can possibly get.

It takes a lot of effort to coax myself out of the car, but I eventually manage it. I pull my hood up and race down the lane, splashing through puddles on the cobbles, until I stumble into Bec ett's Bakery (one of the letters has fallen off) to the twinkle of an announcing bell.

A woman behind the counter kneading a ball of dough glances up at the noise. She's got dark hair shot through with grey and pinched features that give the impression she's just eaten something sour.

I've met her before, I realise. She's the woman I saw in the library, the day I ventured out to get a job. It seems like ages ago, not a mere couple of days, and I see she looks just as miserable now as she did then.

"Help you?" she mumbles, her eyes narrowing with clear distrust and flickering with recognition.

I launch straight into business, eager for a win after the disaster in Lindenbridge. "Apparently you knew the boy that died in Solus Estate."

"Oh?" she says. One of her brows looks exceptionally sceptical. "Who's told you that?"

"An article I'm studying for college," I lie. "It just seems a bit... lacking in the details, so I thought I'd ask someone who was there. For clarity, you know? It'll help my grade."

"I don't give a damn about your grade, kid. If you're not buying anything, you know where the door is."

"Are you always this cheerful?" I ask lightly, approaching to study the cakes and muffins and loaves on display.

"Listen," she insists, kneading the dough with a little more force than is perhaps necessary. Her features are set in stone and her eyes are hard as she glares down at her flour-dusted hands. "I don't know who gave you the right to come snooping and asking questions, but I'll have no part in it. What happened to Sam was a tragic accident. That's all."

"What happened, then?" I venture, resting against the counter. "I mean, you were there, right? The article said so."

This imaginary article holds a lot of power, I realise. And she won't know it doesn't exist until after I leave with some answers.

Angela lets out a heavy sigh, tipping her head back forlornly, even as her hands continue their ceaseless assault of the dough. "There's not much to say, kid," she allows, fixing her unwavering glare on me. "Me and a few friends went home. He stayed late, and he must've tripped, fell, hit his head, and died."

I blink, startled by the bluntness of her words. To say Sam was supposed to be her friend, she doesn't seem all that torn up about what happened to him. Sam says he was pushed, but Angela's claiming he stayed at the house later than her.

Perhaps reading this doubt in my expression, catching the fleeting ghost of suspicion across my features, she shrugs. "It happened a long time ago."

"So he must've died on impact? Just— like that?" I ask, pouring innocent curiosity all over my voice like honey.

Finally — finally — I see some flicker of humanity behind her eyes. A spark of raw pain. There and gone like a candle's flame caught in a hurricane. As if to make up for the slip, her features go hard and stoic and she closes off completely. Shutting the door in my face. "Just like that," she echoes simply, turning her focus back to her work. Liar. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm busy. Go bother someone else."

I bite back a few choice words, as well as the desire to admit to knowing what really happened. I know Sam was pushed because he told me. I know Angela and her shitty friends left him to bleed out alone and afraid because he told me. Her name isn't in the article, and I know she was his friend because he told me.

She wouldn't believe me. I'm just the new guy prodding a cold case hoping for fire to catch. Ghosts aren't real. Sam's death was an accident. I'm just having a psychotic episode.

But psychotic episodes don't coincide with reality, and even without Sam's insistent presence, without his finger jabbing at the word 'murdered' in my book, there's something off about the whole case.

Who is she trying to hide? Is she covering her own back — like she always seemed to in school, according to Sam — or is she protecting one of the others?

Angela Beckett is a cold trail, and I'm wasting my time with her.

"What's Ryan up to, these days?" I ask casually. "The article doesn't say much about him."

Angela goes rigid, and her glare snaps up towards me once more. She takes a deep, steadying breath, squares her shoulders, and says, "He helps out in the library with his dad, when he's not drinking his way through the town's beer supply."

Ice scuttles down my spine on many tiny legs, sending shivers coursing through my veins. Ryan's dad is Cliff?

"Now will you leave me alone?"

"Thanks for your help," I say, sarcasm dripping from my voice. And then I turn and stalk out of the bakery without giving Angela a second glance.

So far, this whole murder investigation thing isn't going too well.

The library is on the opposite side of the lane and only a few doors down, but even still the rain manages to soak me and cover my glasses with thick droplets. I'm still fuming when I barge my way through the front door.

My frustration is doused at the sound of raised voices, and I falter in the doorway. Anger gives way to the cold shock of familiar panic— like a wave of ice breaking over me.

"—told you to get your act together! It's not healthy—!" I recognise Cliff's scratchy timbre, shuddering with emotion.

"You think it's easy to get work in this shit-hole? I'm trying, dad!"

"Obviously not hard enough! Where are you going?"

I hear the thud of nearing, angry footsteps, and a man stalks out from amongst the shelves. Ryan, I'm guessing. Radiating pure, unchecked fury as he strides for the door and — by extension — me.

Dark memories have me cowering a little against his advances. I know all too well how people can act in the heat of an argument, so I'm quick to dart out of his way. He doesn't give me more than a fleeting, furious glance.

He slams the door shut behind him with such force that it rattles in its frame and sends the poor bell clattering side-to-side.

The library descends into a silence thick with choking tension. Nothing like the peaceful aura I'm used to here.

I watch, frozen with echoes of fear, as Ryan turns his collar up against the rain and marches off out of sight.

A heavy sigh makes me startle, and I whip round to see Cliff gazing out the window, his features cracked with anguish. "I'm sorry, Theo. That was my boy, Ryan. He's, ah... well, let's just say he's a complicated man."

"I didn't mean to intrude—" I begin hastily, taking off my glasses to give them a quick wipe. My efforts are futile, and I only succeed in smudging them further.

"Nonsense, lad. It's looking like a quiet day— I'm going to work on binding up that old copy of mine, and you can do some restocking. The window display needs updating, too, I think, but I've never been any good with that sort of thing, so I'll leave that to your expertise."

As he rambles on, he shuffles his way back through the aisles, clearly having given his son up as a lost cause. His overly casual attempt at normality coaxes me into following, and I'm glad to lose myself to the familiar, comforting routine of organisation.

Time melts away from me, and I find myself thinking of how little I've actually found for Sam. Nathan scared me off before I could get any solid answers, Emily's reduced to tears at the mere mention of him, Angela's a cold-hearted bitch who clearly couldn't care less about what happened all those years ago, and if my introduction to Ryan is any indicator, I don't want to get close to him lest I burn myself.

This is not going well.

So I settle into something I can do well, and I work, and work, and work. Sweeping the floors, organising the shelves, trying to goad Cliff into talking about his son. But just as I avoided all talk of my life before Eden's Gate, he's just as keen to steer conversation away from Ryan.

Disappointment is a cold weight in my chest as I reorganise the library's window display. I find myself idly studying the people bustling through the streets, going about their normal, ghost-free lives. They don't have three-decade-old cold cases to solve. They don't have a ghost waiting impatiently for them to return with a signed confession. All they have to worry about is the rain.

Twinkling chimes pull my frustration towards the bakery just in time to see Angela emerge. She huddles against the frame, safe from the worst of the rain under the cover, and lights a cigarette.

She idly studies the street, blowing out clouds of smoke, and I stay still to avoid her gaze. She doesn't look in the window, though. She stares up towards the top of the lane attentively.

Two figures part from the crowds and approach, and she hastily drops the cigarette and puts it out with a stamp of her foot. They've both got their hoods up against the onslaught of rain, but as Angela fumbles with the door, they glance around.

I know them. I saw them this morning.

Emily and Nathan scour the darkening streets before following Angela inside the bakery. The sour-faced woman closes the door after them and switches the 'we're open!' sign around so it reads 'we're closed, sorry for the inconvenience'. As Nathan wanders out of sight, Angela tugs Emily into a brief, tight hug, and they both disappear after him.

I check the time on my phone. Half four. What few stores there are still lining the lane stay open until six, earliest, stretching their opening hours until something snaps in the hopes of enticing customers inside.

Hmm. I'm not one to be paranoid, but that looks an awful lot like a suspicious meeting.

The wayward band of misfits disappear into the depths of the bakery. And I note with some discomfort that there's no sign of Ryan.