I Can See His Dead Wife

Everyone knew Donovan Blackwood, the king of Manhattan real estate, was devoted to his wife.

The day she died in a car crash, his hair turned white overnight.
From that day on, a darkness settled in him, a violent temper that drove a wedge between him and his son until they were like strangers living in the same gilded cage.

Eventually, Donovan relented. He would find a stepmother for his son.
And somehow, I was one of the candidates.

For the culinary test, the others presented gourmet dishes. I served a greasy chili dog from a street cart on 53rd.
For the talent portion, they played concertos and recited poetry. I performed a strange, modern dance routine I made up on the spot.
For the test of their knowledge of Donovan Blackwood, the others sang his praises, listing his accolades and business triumphs.
I leaned in close and whispered, "Mr. Blackwood, you have a mole on your left ass cheek."

Donovan went silent.

That night, I was the one who was told to stay.
He pressed a gun to my temple, his expression as cold and hard as the steel.
"Tell me who sent you."

I dropped to my knees, my eyes darting to the empty space beside him.
There, a ghost who’d been dead for ten years was flying around in a panic. "This doesn't make any sense," she wailed. "Everything I told you was right!"

Bullshit. She also told me her husband was a big softie under that cold exterior.

1

The moment the muzzle of the gun pressed against my temple, I’ll admit it: I was terrified.

"Wait!" I knelt on the plush rug, all my pride gone. "Mr. Blackwood, you've got this all wrong."

Donovan tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. The wrist of his gun hand twitched, and the cold metal kissed my skin with more pressure.

"Wrong?" He let out a short, humorless laugh. "I clawed my way to the top of this city, Sloane. Do you really think I'm some fool you can play games with?"

I nervously wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead, daring to meet his gaze. His features were sharp, chiseled, a face that belonged on a magazine cover but was terrifying up close. At forty, he held New York in the palm of his hand. He was right. No one could fool this man.

He paused, then suddenly pulled the gun away. He retrieved a cigarette from a silver case on the table and lit it with a casual flick of a lighter. He took a long drag, the smoke curling from his lips as he exhaled, his gaze distant.

"You knew the first thing Eleanor and I ever ate together. You knew her favorite way to exercise. And you knew…" his voice hardened, "…that. It must have taken a lot of work to dig all that up."

He locked his eyes on me. "You have three minutes to tell me everything. Otherwise, I have countless ways to make you talk."

My heart hammered against my ribs. This man was far more dangerous than I had imagined. Deep, gut-wrenching regret washed over me for ever taking this job.

My eyes flickered again to the empty space beside him.
Donovan couldn't see her, but the ghost of his dead wife was spinning in frantic circles.
She kept muttering to herself.
"It shouldn't be like this, what happened?"
"I swear, everything I told you was right! Donovan loved those chili dogs, and he always said my dancing was beautiful…"
"What went wrong?"

The problem, lady, is that a normal person wouldn't know about the mole on his left ass cheek! It was my own damn fault for not thinking it through, for just repeating everything she told me. The second the words left my mouth, I knew I’d screwed up.

The ghost, Eleanor, floated over to me, offering a weak, apologetic smile. "Don't worry, sweetie. I'll think of something. He's probably just trying to scare you."

Scare me?
I glanced over. Donovan was calmly loading a fresh clip into the handgun.
Thump.
I scrambled forward and wrapped my arms around his leg.
"Mr. Blackwood," I blurted out, "I have a secret."

2

I have a secret.
I've been able to see ghosts since I was a child.
After a long and exhausting journey through terror, fear, breakdowns, and despair, I finally came to terms with it. I learned to just ignore them, to look right through them as if they weren't there.

That is, until a month ago, when the ghost named Eleanor found me and wouldn't leave me alone.

"Honey, you can see me? Oh, thank God! Can you do me a favor?"
"Why aren't you answering me? Hello? Helloooo?"
"Please, you're the only one who can help me. I'll give you ten million dollars if you help me."

That’s when I stopped pretending.
I turned to face her. "How much!?"

"Ten million dollars!" Seeing my resolve crumble, Eleanor floated closer, her voice a seductive whisper. "It's a small favor, really. I just need you to check on my husband and my son. Since I died, their relationship has completely fallen apart. They're like enemies. You just have to go to my house and do a few little things for me."

I was hesitant.
She pressed on. "My husband is a good man. He looks cold, but he’s kind and gentle, and he’s a total pushover once you get to know him."
"Don't be scared, sweetie. I'll be right there with you."
"Before I died, I stashed away a debit card. It was my secret little slush fund. If you agree to help me, the card is yours!"
"It has ten million, seven hundred twenty-two thousand, four hundred and eleven dollars on it!"

Damn. She had it down to the dollar. It had to be real.
I was tempted. Insanely tempted.

I'm the "other" daughter of the wealthy Peterson family. And while I have the name, I'm treated worse than the maids. I'm the product of an affair, a stain on the family's reputation that everyone wishes would just disappear. I was desperate to get away from them, to leave the country and go to college, but that required money. Lots of it.

After weighing my options, I gritted my teeth and agreed.

3

And now, I was regretting it. Deeply.
I clung to Donovan Blackwood's leg. "Mr. Blackwood, the truth is… your wife has been visiting me in my dreams."

It was better than saying I could see ghosts. Both were insane, but the dream angle was slightly more palatable.

Donovan froze, his gaze dropping to the top of my head as he processed my words. Just as I was about to breathe a sigh of relief, his hand shot out and clamped around my throat.
"You're a liar," he rasped, his voice raw. "If she could visit someone's dreams, why wouldn't she come to mine?"

His grip was crushing. Air refused to enter my lungs. My face flushed, dark spots dancing in my vision.
Eleanor shrieked, zipping around us in a panic. "What do I do? Donovan was never like this!"

I clawed at his hand, forcing the words out one by one.
"Because… she's… still… angry… with… you."

Donovan's pupils contracted. His hand went slack.
He stared at me, either not hearing me or not believing what he heard. "What did you say?"

I collapsed to the floor, coughing violently until I could breathe again. I looked up at him, my voice hoarse, and repeated, "Because she's still angry with you."
"You know exactly how she died, don't you? You had a fight. She stormed out to get away from you, and she walked right into the path of that car."
"If you had just let her win that one argument, she might still be alive."
"Mr. Blackwood, your wife blames you. That's why she won't come to you in your dreams."

The cold, hard mask on Donovan's face cracked. His expression shifted into a complex storm of doubt, regret, and soul-crushing guilt. The veins on the hand holding the gun bulged, his breathing ragged.

I was terrified. I scooted back, praying he wouldn't accidentally pull the trigger.
He stood there like a statue for several minutes before his entire body seemed to deflate. The rigid posture that defined him slumped. He scrubbed a hand over his face.

"I deserve this," he muttered to himself.
Then, looking like a ghost himself, he turned and left the room.
I heard the housekeeper ask, "Sir, what should we do with the young lady?"
"Find a guest room. Let her stay."
"Very good, sir."

4

Lying on the impossibly soft bed in the guest room, I was still trembling from my near-death experience.
Eleanor, however, was muttering beside me. "But I don't blame him. He looks so sad. It makes me sad, too."

I shot up, exasperated. "Lady, if I hadn't said that, I'd be dead right now!"
"I know, I know, I'm not blaming you. It's just… it makes me sad."
"..."
Right. I reminded myself that the longer a ghost sticks around, the fuzzier their thinking gets. I could forgive her for being a little scrambled.

I ignored her and tried to sleep, but the fear was still thrumming through me. After a while, I saw her, a lonely, translucent figure perched on the windowsill. I felt a pang of pity.

"Hey," I said, breaking the silence. "You never told me. What were you and Donovan fighting about that night?"
Eleanor paused, her form drooping with sadness.
"It was because…"

BANG!

A loud crash echoed from downstairs. The sound of the front door being slammed open.
It was followed by a raw, teenage voice, spitting the foulest words.
"Donovan Blackwood! You bring another woman into this house? How dare you! Do you have any respect for my mother?!"
"Come out! Or are you too much of a coward?"
"Donovan! You gutless bastard!"

Ah. The little demon of the Blackwood family was home.
Eleanor had told me that when she died, her son was only seven. Now, ten years later, he was seventeen and in the throes of a brutal rebellious phase. It was common knowledge throughout New York that the Blackwood father and son were at war.

As I was processing this, a frantic pounding of feet charged up the stairs. It stopped right outside my door, followed by a series of violent kicks.
"Is the woman in here? Get the hell out!"

The housekeeper's voice was strained. "Young master, please! The person inside is a guest."
"Guest, my ass! She's the little bitch Donovan brought home."

Hey! Who is he calling a little bitch?
That did it. I shot out of bed, marched to the door, and yanked it open. I glared at the boy in front of me.
"What do you want?"

We stared at each other for a few seconds, and it struck me how much he looked like his father. The same nose, the same mouth, practically stamped from the same mold. But his eyes were Eleanor's, softer and warmer around the edges. Not that his handsome face excused his rotten behavior.

Liam Blackwood gave me a dismissive, head-to-toe scan. He sneered. "Someone like you thinks you can set foot in my house? Get lost."

I was so angry my organs started to ache.
Eleanor floated over. "Oh, my baby boy is so big now," she cooed. "Isn't he just the cutest?"
I rolled my eyes. Before I could think a sarcastic thought, I heard her next whisper.
"Sweetie, slap him."

I froze for a second, then a grin spread across my face.
My hand flew up and connected squarely with Liam’s handsome cheek.
SMACK.
His head snapped to the side. He was completely stunned. Then, his eyes widened in disbelief as he turned back to me. "You… you hit me?!"

The housekeeper looked horrified. "Miss Sloane, you may be a guest, but striking the young master is highly inappropriate!"
"You fucking hit me!" Liam exploded, lunging at me like a wild animal, his face contorted with rage as if he wanted to tear me apart.
The housekeeper, fearing it would get worse, threw his arms around Liam's waist. "Young master, please calm down!"

I stumbled back a few steps.
I looked at Eleanor and whispered, "Okay, now what?"
Eleanor blinked. "Huh?"
I scowled. "After the slap, what was the plan? You didn't think that far ahead, did you?"
The ghost just stared at me with a blank expression.
I almost fainted. I’d been tricked again.

The commotion was loud enough to finally draw Donovan out.
"What is going on here?"
The moment his voice cut through the air, Liam stopped struggling. He shrugged off the housekeeper, his eyes red as he turned to face his father. Well, his eyes were red, and so was half of his face.

Donovan saw the red handprint and his expression darkened instantly.
Liam’s voice was laced with hatred. "You're a real piece of work, Donovan. Mom's death anniversary is in two days, and you pick now to bring this woman home and let her hit me… Aren't you afraid of my mother watching you from the great beyond?"

Donovan's gaze shot to me like a dagger.
"You hit him?"
"Who gave you the nerve?!"

Liam scoffed. "Why are you pretending? As if she would have dared to touch me without your permission."

All three of them—the father, the son, and the housekeeper—were now staring at me.
I blinked a few times, then dramatically crumpled to the floor.
"Oh, what happened? I think… I think I was dreaming. Wasn't I just sleeping? Why am I on the floor?"
I looked around in feigned confusion. "Why are you all here? And you, handsome, what happened to your face? It's all red."

Liam looked at me with disgust. "What the hell are you playing at?"
I shook my head, looking lost, then my eyes lit up. I scrambled to my feet and rushed to Donovan's side.
"Mr. Blackwood, I dreamed about your wife again."

Donovan's eyes were cold. It was clear he didn't believe me anymore.
I swallowed hard and kept bluffing. "It's true."
I pointed to the windowsill. "In the dream, she was leaning on the sill, looking at the flowers. She said the climbing rose in the yard was a gift for the young master, that she planted it herself for his fifth birthday."
"She looked so sad. She said her son was going down the wrong path, and she wished she could do something to guide him. She even asked if she could… borrow my body for a little while. It scared me so much that I woke up."
"Master Liam, did I really hit you? Oh my God, I'm so sorry, I think I was possessed…"

As the words tumbled out, the three men in front of me froze.
Donovan instinctively looked at the housekeeper.
The housekeeper immediately said, "Sir, I never said a word about the rose bush."

But Liam was the one who became agitated, focusing on the wrong detail. "What are you talking about? How do you know about the roses? Who told you?!" He paused, his gaze snapping to his father. "You told her? What right do you have to talk about my mother?"
"Donovan, my mother must have been blind to ever fall in love with you!"

SMACK.
Now his right cheek was red, too.
His father had hit him.
The atmosphere turned to ice. Even Eleanor stopped drifting and stared blankly at her son.
Liam touched his face, a twisted, humorless smile spreading across his lips. The look he gave his father was terrifying. He seemed completely unhinged.
He shoved the housekeeper aside and stormed downstairs.

"Sir, it's raining outside! The young master is furious. If he goes out like this, something could happen!"
"You go find him!"
The housekeeper hesitated. "Sir, if you don't go, I'm afraid we won't be able to bring him back. You know his temper. What if he gets hurt…?"

Donovan closed his eyes, his chest heaving. Before he left with the housekeeper, he gave me one last, unreadable look.
I immediately bowed my head. "I'll be good and stay right here. Don't you worry, Mr. Blackwood."

5

This was a house of lunatics.
This father and son were both completely insane.
This place was dangerous. I had to leave.
In a matter of seconds, I made up my mind. I turned to Eleanor. "What exactly is this favor you need? Tell me now. I'll do it, and then I'm out of here."

Eleanor's expression was melancholic. She sat on the windowsill, gazing down at the roses in the yard. The rain was battering the delicate petals, making them look pitiful.
"I wanted you to help them mend their relationship…"

What? An abstract favor like that? No way I could pull that off.
I was about to refuse when she continued, "But I never realized things had gotten this bad between them. Asking you to do this now… it’s too much."
Good, she understood.
"So, you…"

"I don't know," Eleanor said, her voice faint. "I'm lost, too. I don't know what we can do anymore."
I fell back onto the bed with a sigh.
Whatever. I’d just take it one step at a time. I was starting to realize I was stuck with a thoroughly unreliable ghost.
That ten million dollars wasn't going to be easy money.

Since I couldn't sleep, I tried talking to her again. "You still haven't told me why you and Donovan were fighting that night."
Eleanor floated over and lay down beside me on the bed. A wave of cold washed over me, but I wasn't scared. I was ready for the gossip.
Her pale, thin lips parted.
"I… I don't remember."

"..."
You wasted my emotional energy.
Time for sleep.

I wasn't too mad about not getting the story. I knew this was how it worked for ghosts. The longer they wandered the earth, the more their memories faded. The first things to go were always the moments surrounding their death.

"I'm sorry, sweetie. You should get some rest."
Eleanor didn't need to sleep. Bored, she floated out of the room to explore. A few minutes later, she was back.
Seeing that I was still awake, she knelt by my bed and began to hum a soft melody.
I stilled. "What song is that?"
"Oh, just something I made up. I used to sing it to Liam to help him sleep. Is it bothering you?"
"No." I buried my face in the pillow. "It's beautiful. Can you sing it again?"
"Of course."

I grew up in an orphanage and was only recently taken in by the Petersons, where I was treated with nothing but contempt. Being sung to sleep was a luxury I'd never known. To think that the first time would be at the hands of a stranger, a ghost… it was a strange feeling.
As Eleanor's gentle voice washed over me, I finally drifted off to sleep.

6

I didn't see Donovan again after that night. The housekeeper said he was away on a business trip.
Fine by me. I was happy to have the place to myself. I spent two days doing nothing but eating and sleeping.

On Monday evening, the housekeeper knocked on my door.
"Miss Sloane, the master has instructed that while he is away, you are to pick up the young master from school."
I sighed. "…Fine, I'll go."
Mainly because Eleanor was staring at me with those big, pleading puppy-dog eyes. I couldn't say no.

On the way to the school, she chattered nonstop in my ear.
"Liam used to be such a sweet boy, really!"
"I used to pick him up every day. He'd give me a huge hug before going inside and tell me he loved me."
To avoid suspicion from the driver, I didn't respond. Not that Eleanor seemed to care. She was pressed against the window, looking out at the city with a happy expression.

When we arrived, I spotted Liam almost immediately. He stood out in any crowd. I got out of the car and was about to call his name when I saw him block the path of a girl pushing a bicycle.
The girl had a sweet, innocent face and a high ponytail. Her eyes were red, as if she'd been crying.

"Tessa, why are you crying?" Liam stood in front of her, glancing down at her bike. "Is that a flat tire?"
"Guess you can't ride that home."
The girl, Tessa, bit her lip and said nothing.
Liam bent down and smiled. "You can ride with us. My driver should be here any second."

Eleanor had a proud, motherly smile on her face. "My son is so kind. Always helping others."
I snorted. "Kind, my ass. He's the one who let the air out of her tire."
"What?"
I tilted my head. "Look at his right index finger."
There was still a smudge of black grease on it.
Eleanor's eyes widened. "That little brat!" She flew over and started throwing phantom punches at Liam's face.
Liam looked around. "Why does it suddenly feel so cold?"

I walked through the crowd, grabbed the collar of Liam's uniform, and pulled him away from the girl. Then I waved the driver over and had him put the girl's bike in the trunk.
"Hey there," I said to the girl. "I'll have him give you a ride home. Just tell the driver your address. Don't be shy!"
Tessa was still stunned as I ushered her into the back of the Rolls-Royce.
Liam shot me a death glare. "What are you doing here!?"
Tessa looked over. He immediately changed his tone, hissing at me through clenched teeth, "We'll settle this later."
He tried to get into the car, but I held him back by his shirt.
I slammed the door shut and told the driver, "Please make sure this young lady gets home safely."

7

The car sped away, leaving Liam and me standing on the sidewalk, glaring at each other. Just as he was about to explode, I smoothed my hair.
"Kid, that's not how you get a girl's attention."
Liam's face flushed crimson. "What are you talking about?"
"Oh? So you don't like her? Then why'd you flatten her tire?" I paused, feigning realization. "Oh, I get it. You hate her. In that case, I'll be sure to tell her to stay away from you so she doesn't bother you anymore."

"Are you insane?!" Liam yelled.
I just looked at him with a smirk.
He was probably mortified that someone he disliked had figured out his secret. He turned and stomped away in a huff.
I followed him at a leisurely pace.
"You know, when you like someone, you're supposed to be nice to them. All you're doing is causing her trouble. That's just going to push her further away."
Liam's pace slowed, but he didn't stop.
I kept going. "Let me guess. You probably pull her hair at school, 'accidentally' bump into her desk, steal her pens, and—"

"Shut up!" Liam stopped dead in his tracks and spun around to glare at me, his face still red.
Ah. So I was right.
"Fine, I'll stop." I held up my hands. "I was just about to tell you the right way to win a girl over…"
I shook my head and walked past him.
Eleanor kept me updated. "He's scuffing his shoes on the pavement… he's looking over here… he's scratching his head… yes! He's coming after you!"
Hah. I've been navigating the real world for over a decade. You think I can't handle a teenager?
I smirked and hopped onto a city bus that had just pulled up. I called out to him, "Hurry up! We're taking the bus home tonight!"

He was clearly fascinated, probably his first time on public transit. He touched everything, looking around with wide eyes.
Finally, he tried to act casual. "Hey, you didn't finish what you were saying before. I hate it when people leave things half-said."
What a proud little brat. It was kind of amusing.
I dropped the act and got serious. "When you like someone, you don't have to bully them to get their attention, just to make yourself 'special' in their eyes."
Liam was listening intently. "What else?"
"Shoot your shot," I said, clapping him on the shoulder. "At this age, when everyone is awkward and shy, being direct is a superpower."
"As long as you're sincere, she'll feel it."

8

The driver was already back by the time we got home.
Liam walked over to him. "Did you get her home okay?"
The driver smiled. "Watched her walk right in the door."
"Oh."
Liam was still a bit awkward about it and went straight to his room without another word.
The housekeeper, however, looked surprised. "It seems you and the young master are getting along well, Miss Sloane."
"It's alright," I said with a yawn, heading upstairs. The main reason for our truce was that I promised him on the bus that I had no intention of staying in the Blackwood house or becoming his stepmother.

We ate dinner separately, with maids bringing trays to our rooms. My room was on the second floor, his on the third, so we didn't bother each other.
That evening, I was chatting with Eleanor, listening to her tell funny and embarrassing stories about Liam as a child. As I was laughing, I heard faint footsteps outside my door.
I stopped, exchanging a look with Eleanor. I got out of bed.
The moment the footsteps stopped in front of my door, I pulled it open.
A guilty-looking Liam froze in the hallway.
I leaned against the doorframe. "You're the one who's been pacing outside my door the last few nights, aren't you?"
"Spit it out. What do you want?"

Liam pursed his lips and looked up at me. "Before… when you said you dreamed about my mom. Was that true?"
I was a little surprised. "You'd believe me?"
Liam nodded.
"Actually," he said, his voice soft, "I think I saw her once, when I was little."

9

Liam told me that when he was ten, he was playing around and climbed out onto the third-floor balcony. A stray cat startled him, and he fell.
The moment before he hit the ground and blacked out, he thought he saw his mother. She was calling his name frantically, telling him not to fall asleep…

"I broke my leg in that fall. Everyone said I was lucky to be alive, but I think… I think my mom saved me."
He took a deep breath, then looked at me, his eyes pleading. "So, besides dreaming of her… can you see her?"
Instinctively, I was about to look over at Eleanor.
But I heard her voice in my head. Don't tell him.
I paused.

I understood her reasoning. Liam couldn't see her. Telling him she was here, when they couldn't talk or touch, would only create a painful obsession. If he got too caught up in it, it would be impossible for him to move on.
I shook my head. "No."
Liam's face fell with disappointment, but there was also a hint of relief in his smile.
"It's okay. Dreaming of her is good enough."
"Sloane…," he started, a bit awkwardly. "Can you do me a favor?"

Just for him calling me by my first name like that, I was all in. "Anything."
"The next time you dream of my mom… can you tell her that I miss her?"

That was it. My eyes started to water. I admit, I can be a real softy sometimes. My whole perception of Liam shifted.
"Of course," I said, my voice thick. "I'll tell her."
As he was leaving, I called out to him.
"Have you ever thought that maybe your mom would want you to grow up happy? And that she'd want you and your dad to get along?"
Liam stopped, his back stiffening. His voice turned to ice.
"That's impossible. I'll never forgive him. Not as long as I live."

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