10 - Spiderwebs & Secrets

Sam manifests as a shadow in my bedroom window, lit from behind, as I drive in a wide arc and park up. For a moment or two, I take deep breaths, close my eyes, and fervently ignore the notes scrawled into the pad on the passenger seat.

He's going to expect a miracle, and all I have are more questions. Well, those and a substantial hole in my chest where my pride used to be.

I'd never known social interaction could be so taxing, and all I want to do is curl up under a blanket, shut my eyes, and pretend today never happened. My investigation was a huge fail and I'm feeling more vulnerable than I care to admit after the shouting match in the library and Sam's tornado last night. They've dredged up dark memories.

Rain pummels the roof, and my world descends into a maelstrom of metallic clanging and distorted views out the windscreen. It's dark out, and trees shudder and groan beneath the force of a howling wind. Leaves torn from their branches smack onto the windows, pleading for help.

Even the short run to the front door has me soaked through, and once I escape inside, I pull off my glasses to clean them as best I can on a damp jumper. My efforts are futile, but at least the house is marginally warmer than being outside— a small victory.

"Theo, darling, how was your day?" mum asks, her voice like a breath of fresh air as she emerges at the top of the stairs. She's dressed in casual clothes, with no sign of her nurse's uniform despite the hour.

Behind her, flickering and jittery, Sam appears and buzzes against the urge to race past her. The only rule I've enforced when it comes to our friendship is that I cannot speak with him directly when there's other people about. He has to wait a little while longer for direct acknowledgement.

"Um—" I begin, donning the glasses and squinting up at the light to check for smudges. There's loads, but it's the best I can do right now. "Busy. Have you got another night shift?"

"No, not tonight. I thought we could watch a film, or something. I feel like I haven't seen you."

I know she doesn't mean to hurt me, but guilt spears my chest. If I'm not supporting a ghost, I'm supporting my mum through a tough move— I have no room spare for self-pity. So I smile and I say, "Sounds good."

Sam makes a little noise— a squeak of bewilderment. He looks at me as though I've just slapped his incorporeal self.

I forge on, noticing his desperation. "Let me get changed, first, I'm freezing."

Mum smiles. "Alright. The water's warm, too, if you want a shower."

"Oh, finally. We're blessed," I gush, tugging my hands through my damp curls. My fingers catch on a few strands. "It's been so long since I've known what it's like to be warm."

"Theo," Sam hisses, gesturing wildly in the vague direction of my bedroom. "Please, please, please—"

"Please don't pick another chick flick, I'm begging you," I tell my mum as I head for the stairs.

She laughs, bustling into the lounge. "Don't give me any ideas."

Sam shadows me as I escape into my room, and the instant the door closes, he explodes.

"Did you find anything? Did you see them? Did you speak to them? What happened?"

"Sam, I need you to lower your expectations," I tell him, shrugging off my jumper and changing it for a warm, dry one. "I don't have anything we don't already know."

"That... that's okay," he says haltingly, and when I glance at him to check what's wrong, he's determinedly staring up at the ceiling. I get a vague impression of blurred disappointment or embarrassment, or something in-between.

"I'm sorry," I tell him. "Look, I wrote everything down. I'll leave the notebook open on the coffee table for you. I've got to be with my mum right now, but after this film, we'll talk theories and I'll tell you everything. I promise."

"Alright," he mumbles sullenly, crossing his arms.

I realise, as I watch his features crumble with leaden dismay, that I cannot win. If I stay up here and tell Sam about my day hunting murderers, my mum will be upset with me for ditching her. And if I go down to spend some time with her, then Sam will be upset, too.

So guilt burrows deeper in my chest either way; gnarled, tangled roots.

But I've just spent all day chasing leads (unsuccessfully) for Sam, so I grab my notebook and march back downstairs.

All through the film, my thoughts swirl. Sam sulks as he sits cross-legged at the coffee table to read through my notes, mum interrogates me about Jamie until I'm blushing so hard it feels as though my face has a heartbeat, and once she turns her focus to the film, she's so invested that she barely notices I'm sat next to her.

My chest feels too tight and those roots of guilt tangle in my veins. Well, guilt lined with self-pity, but I shove that particular emotion right back into the depths. I don't have the right to self-pity. I'm Sam's only hope, and I'm the only one who can help my mum settle in this shitty town. I don't have time to feel sorry for myself on top of all that.

I feel as though I'm walking a fraying tightrope.

By the time the film ends, mum and I unite under the decision to make some dinner. We find, upon looking in the fridge, that we really don't have much in. We've blown through our groceries in record time— mum only got the essentials.

"I'll do a food shop," she decides with a responsible, devout little nod. "And I can pick us up a takeaway on the way back."

When she's gone, with the gate creaking closed and the hum of her car's engine fading to thick silence, I retreat into the lounge.

"Well?" Sam demands the moment he realises we're alone.

I sigh heavily and fall back onto the sofa. "Your lover boy tried to pick a fight with me because I made his wife cry."

"Don't call him that," he complains, crossing his arms and looking sullen as he settles on an armchair; an incorporeal smudge. "What did you say to them?"

"I asked about what happened to you — said it was for a college project — and Emily just burst into tears, and Nathan got up in my face and practically shoved me out onto the street, saying I had no business getting involved."

The way we're arranged right now, with me lying forlorn on a sofa and Sam sitting attentively close by, gives the impression of an odd little therapy session.

Vaguely, I consider that therapy wouldn't be a bad option, right about now.

"What about Ryan? And Angela? Did you find them?"

I pull a face and sit up abruptly to cut him a scathing glare. "Ryan is Cliff's son. Thanks for the warning."

Sam holds his hands up in surrender. "Who the hell is Cliff?"

"My boss. At the library."

"Oh." An almost comical expression of understanding settles over his features. "He never talked about his dad— how was I supposed to know he's your boss?"

"I didn't speak to Ryan— he and his dad were arguing and he stormed off. Angela just said you stayed later than them and must've tripped and fell. She says you must've died on impact."

Sam snorts. "Oh, yeah. It was immediate," he grumbles, glaring at the notepad. "I wasn't lying in a pool of my own blood begging for help whilst they ran, or anything. I didn't feel myself going cold, and weak, and... a—and I didn't feel myself slip away only to stay put. They were there, Theo. I know they were. Fucking assholes!"

The lights above us flicker, and Sam's shoulders rise and fall with a determined, steady breath to calm down. Somewhere in the depths of the house, a wailing creak sings in harmony.

"Sorry."

"Don't say that," I cut in swiftly. And, before he can fall any further into despair at his supposed friends covering up his murder, I pick up the notebook, flick through the pages, and ask, "Why would one of them push you? Do any of them have a motive?"

Sam shrugs. "I told you, I can't remember. Not clearly. I know... I know I was speaking with someone, and I remember going upstairs feeling upset— but I don't know why. Then I'm at the top of the stairs, and someone shoves me. It's all blurry."

I write his recollection down hastily as he speaks. "And you don't know who you were speaking to?"

"No. It... it's right there, but I just can't remember."

"That's alright. I'll go out tomorrow and find Ryan— see if he can give us something. Then I'm trying Angela again. I want to know why she rehearsed the whole 'Sam stayed behind' story. We'll figure it out, I promise. Worst case, I start a conspiracy theory to get the college kids curious."

"Thanks, Theo," Sam tells me, but his eyes are clouded and his expression forlorn. His sadness gnaws at the already substantial hole in my chest, digging deeper and deeper, the more I watch his features slide towards despair.

So, as always, I rush to assure him. "I'm sorry. It's not fair— what they're doing. And I'm sorry I couldn't find out more for you, today."

"No, it's not that. I appreciate what you're doing to help me. It..." He trails off, messing with his vague hands. "I feel like I don't know anything about you, and you know everything about me."

I pull a face, not expecting this change in subject. "Not everything."

The face he pulls to match has a touch more melodrama. "You know how I died. You're running around trying to solve my murder for me. I know your name's Theo and you like books. That's so not the same."

"What do you want to know, then?" I ask, settling back against the sofa and giving myself over to his close attention.

He studies me for a long moment, where the silence between each heartbeat stretches on and on and on. "You know about my friends. Tell me about yours."

I think for a while, considering, and toss the notebook onto the coffee table. "Well, my friends are a lot less murderous than yours, for starters."

"That's nice."

"They're all back home— well, where I lived before Eden's Gate. Probably sorting out uni applications, and meeting new people, and becoming accountants and doctors and lawyers."

"Sounds boring," Sam gripes with a wry grin. "And here you are talking to a dead guy."

I snort, rolling my eyes. "What a life."

"How about your family?" he asks, leaning forwards with intrigue. "I mean, your gran was alright, to say she blatantly ignored all my hilarious jokes—"

"Which has nothing at all to do with the fact she couldn't see or hear you—" I cut in.

He waves me off. "Nothing at all. And your mum seems nice. But what about the rest of your family?"

All at once, the shutters go down behind my expression. All emotion closes off; defensive walls build up. "She is my family," I say in a firm, dismissive voice. The tightrope wavers. "Can we get back to the whole murder case, please?"

"Oh, because that's a cheerful subject. Excuse me for wanting to know you a little better." He sulks, glaring at me as though my deflection has cut him. "What about your dad? Have you got any siblings?"

I tip my head back, glare at the ceiling, and say, "My dad is a piece of shit and I don't want to talk about him, alright? No, I don't have siblings. My favourite colour is green, I want to be a publisher when I grow up, and if I could go anywhere in the whole world, it would be away from this shit-hole of a town. Anything else?"

By the time I've finished, my voice shudders and my throat closes up as raw emotion threatens to choke me. Tears sting my eyes. Anger seeps like tar through my veins.

The tightrope beneath me wavers again, but this time it shudders and snaps.

All at once, everything catches up to me. The scramble to pack the car, uprooting my entire life to run with my mum, moving to Eden's Gate, to a house that's old and freezing and haunted, Sam's hopeless murder case from three decades ago— every shitty thing settles on my shoulders.

Sam has gone silent. When I tilt my head to check he's still there, and he notices an eager tear sliding down my cheek, he shrinks in on himself, his eyes going wide. "Did I upset you? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry, honest. It just gets so lonely, and— no, no, there's no excuse for it. I'm sorry. I... I'll shut up."

It's as though every word he speaks is a sledgehammer to my wavering control. By the time he falls quiet, the dam breaks, and I suddenly can't hold the tears back.

I hug my knees and cover my head and sob.

An enveloping sensation of ice breaking over me like ocean waves clues me in to Sam's presence. His embrace is a mist enshrouding my form, and it's clear he either doesn't know how cold he really is, or he doesn't care. He just throws his incorporeal arms around me anyway.

"It's okay, it's okay," he says in a hushed, soft tone. A shudder scuttles down my spine as sobs hiccup out of me. "For fuck's sake," he hisses. "I can't even touch you without making things worse. Imagine I'm warm, right now. Like, a hot water bottle. Or— or something else that's warm."

Sam's ramblings summon a little flame in all that choking darkness. A glimmer of light in smothering shadow. He stays exactly where he is, even as shivers squirm up and down my arms.

And, as I choke on sobs, he begins to hum. A tune I recognise from the radio during that long, dreary drive to Eden's Gate. The sound is a tether, keeping me from falling too far.

"I'm sorry," I gasp out. "I didn't find any— anything useful."

Sam's humming falls quiet. "I don't care. You're helping me, and that's enough. Am... am I helping? If you want to be alone—"

"You're helping."

"Okay."

We stay there for a while, until the sobs begin to slow and until the chill of Sam's embrace has settled in my bones.

Only when I fall quiet, Sam pulls away. "Are you okay?" he asks softly.

I nod, wiping my cheeks with a little hum. My glasses are all smudged, and I can almost imagine that Sam isn't a ghost but someone who's alive and sat next to me, and the only thing vague about him is the lens between us.

"Come on," he says, standing up. "Grab your notebook and that thing—" He points at my phone on the coffee table— "and take a shower and we'll talk theories upstairs until we figure something out, or we can talk about nothing at all— your choice."

I sniff and nod, feeling helpless and childish and guilty for snapping at him.

He told me about what happened to him— the most raw memory he has. And I feel as though I owe him something raw in return.

I do as he says. I follow him up into my room, grab some pyjamas, take a shower whilst he consults the pages of the notebook I've left open for him, and return to collapse into bed at his side.

The words come flowing.

"My dad's a manipulative asshole," I say. "He cut my mum off from her family and her friends, so she had nowhere to go and no one to turn to for help."

At my side, Sam has gone silent and still as cold stone.

"He, uh... he hurt us. When he came home drunk, he'd turn on me for being too loud, and my mum would get between us. Or if he went for my mum, I'd try and stop him, and we'd both end up hurt. When he, uh... found out about Jamie, he just... exploded. I... I thought he'd kill me. Mum kicked him out of our flat. She filed for a restraining order and a divorce and we changed the locks but... he knew where we were. There was no escaping him. I'd get back from college and find him waiting outside almost everyday. He'd apologise at first, and promise he'd do better, but when I didn't let him in, he got violent. Mum and I started saving like hell to get out of there, and she got a call from an attorney saying her mum had passed away and she'd left the house to us. So we packed up and moved here."

For a while, there's nothing but the creaks and wails of the house in its endless endeavour to settle. I stare fixedly down at the sheets, collecting all the fraying threads of my mind and weaving them together into some semblance of armour.

"I'm so sorry, Theo," Sam murmurs at last, melting against the headboard. I feel his eyes on me; the heat of his close attention warring with the icy chill seeping off him in unrelenting waves. "You've already got so much to worry about and here I am, like, 'solve my murder for me'. Fuck."

I shrug helplessly. "I'm the one that told you I'd help. I wouldn't have offered if I didn't want to. I don't like to talk about him, because it upsets my mum. But you've told me all about what happened to you, so now we're even."

"Hey, if I ever ask a question you don't want to answer, just tell me to shut up. I don't have boundaries, and those are kind of important, you know?"

I laugh— a small, brittle sound. "Enough of the tragic shit. Let's solve your murder."

"The tragedy of all tragedies," he agrees solemnly, even as he grins and shuffles closer.

We descend into chaos, throwing around suspects and odd behaviour during the day and Sam's bygone school days, thinking up theories that get progressively more outlandish as time crawls on.

We've got next to nothing to work with, and I vow again and again to venture out and find something solid for us to work with, tomorrow. He assures me, again and again, that we already have a whole lot more to go on than he ever did before I moved to Eden's Gate.

"This is messy," I say, rubbing my temples. My hands have ink stains and the notebook is a mass of jagged lines and potential motives. Exhaustion crawls through my mind, dulling my thoughts.

Sam merely shrugs. "You should've seen the floor."

Abruptly humbled, I wince and send him an apologetic look. But he's smiling wryly, and I figure he must be one for dark humour.

"So we've got ourselves a big spiderweb of suspects and a shit tonne of secrets," Sam concludes, looking over our diagrams of potential motives.

I hum in groggy agreement, melting against the sheets. The day has dragged on and on, and I'm ready for it to be over. Distantly, I recall the takeout mum's bringing back, but I can't quite find the energy to sit up, let alone to go downstairs and check if she's back.

At my side, Sam scours over my notes, absently rubbing at his temples as though trying to coax the memories forward.

"Maybe Nathan found out about my, uh... y'know, infatuation."

"Infatuation," I giggle, severely sleep-deprived. "Maybe Emily fancied a rebellious streak. Maybe Angela copied your test answers and had to take you out so you couldn't dispute the grade."

"I know you're joking, but I wouldn't put it past her."

"She's a bitch," I mumble blearily. "And Nathan."

As Sam studies my notes, hoping the answers will emerge from all the scribbles, I feel myself start to fade. I let my eyes fall closed and listen vaguely to his theories.

"It's like there's this mental block, you know? All the memories are there, I just can't reach them."

"Mm-hmm."

"I'm not ruling anyone out. One of those fuckers pushed me, and I want to know why. And who. I can't believe Angela— as if I'd stay behind and just conveniently trip and die. I distinctly remember hands shoving— not pulling me back, Theo, actually shoving me. Some friends they were, running off and leaving me there instead of, oh I don't know, calling an ambulance? Assholes."

I fall asleep at some point during his ramblings, and my dreams are a maelstrom of chaotic scrambling for something just out of reach.