Chapter 9: Ghost Lessons and Old Wounds

On the 24th hour after my death, I stand by Derek’s bed.

In my building, I met a ghost girl who jumped to her death. She told me that as a new ghost, I can’t move cups or make noises like experienced ghosts can.

She was young—barely twenty. Purple streaks in her hair, chipped nail polish, a permanent eye roll. She floats above the laundry room most days, muttering about ex-boyfriends and finals. "At least I never have to pay for spin cycle again," she jokes, grinning.

All I can do is wait until he’s asleep, when his energy is at its lowest, and try to scare him by entering his dreams.

Ghost etiquette, she called it. "You want to spook someone? Wait until they’re drooling on the pillow. Trust me."

At 1 a.m., I lean over Derek’s bed, but he’s not there.

Because he’s still working in the study.

Of course he is. The glow of his monitor spills down the hall, blue and cold.

I yawn, sighing to myself: If you want to shine in public, you have to suffer in private.

Being a CEO really isn’t for everyone.

Even ghosts get tired watching him. I stretch and float to the study, only to find he’s not working, but sitting at his desk, lost in thought.

Derek is naturally cold, and the house is all black, white, and gray—the study is no exception.

It’s like a West Elm showroom—minimalist, not a speck of dust. The only warmth comes from the desk lamp, its glow highlighting the lines under his eyes.

He has only the desk lamp on. His sharp features are half hidden in shadow, half illuminated by the cold light, making him look even more inscrutable.

He sits with his eyes lowered, the computer screen glowing before him. His expression is heavy with melancholy.

I float behind him and accidentally glance at his screen—he’s not working at all.

On the screen is his Facebook Messenger chat with Lillian West.

Lillian says: "I’m coming back on the eighth."

Derek replies simply: "What time is your flight? I’ll pick you up."

Lillian sends her flight number and time. Derek says: "Okay."

He’s always like this—always doing his best for Lillian.

Standing behind him, looking at this brief conversation, my heart tightens, though it’s not as painful as when I first learned about Lillian.

The old wound throbs, duller now but still there, like a scar you can’t quite cover up.