"Misty," I said, as calmly as I could, "can you smell me?"

"Smell you? Yes, of course I can smell you. You really need a bath."

My breath caught in my throat. I was horrified. Misty smiled in a friendly way as she watched my expression change.

"No, Misty, no!" I cried. "I don't want to die! I don't want to die today!"

She frowned, as she would at a disobedient child. "Marcie, you don't know what it's like. I think you'll like it. And we can be together. We can be BFF: best friends forever, right?"

"Oh, Misty! I can *wait* to find out what it's like, believe me! Besides, we wouldn't be together! I wouldn't be at your house! I'd be stuck in this dirty, disgusting shack!" She looked around the room and made a face. "AND... I'd have to wear this ugly school uniform! It would UCF: ugly clothes forever!"

Her mouth twisted, and she looked at what I was wearing.

"And how do you know, if I'm a ghost, that you'd be able to find me? You said you don't know where we are!"

"I'd just think of you..."

"But have you ever done that with a ghost? Thought about another ghost and just gone to them? Maybe it only works with living people!"

She frowned. "I don't know any other ghosts. But, anyway, it ought to work."

"If it doesn't, I'll be alone here, and you'll be alone back home! Besides that, how do you know that I'd even be a ghost?"

She blushed slightly. "I have a feeling," she said. "I'm pretty sure you will be. I mean, you can see me; I can talk to you. We have some kind of connection."

"Oh!" I growled in frustration. I wondered for a fraction of an instant whether the men downstairs could hear at least my side of the argument, but they were still shouting at each other. Honestly, I didn't care if anyone could hear me at this point.

"Misty, look: YOU might be ready to take the chance that I'll be a ghost who can hang around with you, but I'm not! What if it doesn't work? Then you lose one of the few people who can see and hear you... and I lose everything!"

I thought I was making a strong case... heck, it wasn't just strong, it was air tight! But Misty wasn't buying it.

She just sat there, staring at me, knowing that all she had to do was wait...

I looked into her eyes as I wracked my brain, trying to find something to say, some way to convince her to help me... But the only one time I felt that I'd reached her at all was when I mentioned the clothes.

"Misty," I said, making a huge effort to stay calm, "can you smell me?"

"Smell you? Of course I can smell you. You really need a bath!"

"I know that I do. But I can't have one. They won't let me. Misty, I want you to tell me something: When I die, will I still smell bad? Will I be stinky forever?"

Her gaze never left my face, but she didn't answer. Maybe she didn't know, but if she did, she wasn't telling. I had the distinct feeling that I would smell bad forever. And if she was going to hang around me after I was dead, she was going to be smelling it!

"And Misty, here's something else to think about: We're almost the same size. If I die, would you want to swap clothes sometimes?"

Her face wrinkled into a grimace of disgust.

"Misty, listen to me: if I die in these clothes, dirty like this, smelling like this, I will never be able to wash. Ever. Not me, not my clothes. I will wear these nasty rags for all time. When you were alive, you wore a uniform like this once. Did you like it?"

Again she twisted her mouth to the side, and looked over at the window. "No," she admitted.

"Did you ever wear one for two days straight? Dirty like this?"

She took a deep breath. At last, it seemed I was getting through.

Her eyes flitted over my outfit, and I could see that finally she was wrestling with herself. She looked at my face, then at my uniform, as if they represented the two sides of her dilemma.

I couldn't believe it! My only hope of staying alive was a ghost, and she liked the idea of my being dead! I had to convince a dead girl to keep me alive, and the deciding factor was going to be my clothes!

I gave it one last shot: "I'm *begging* you, Misty. Don't stick me with these ugly clothes for all eternity, please! They're not even clean!"

"You could take them off before they kill you..." she started to say, then thought better of it.

My ghostly friend was silent for a space. Then her face fell into a sad, resigned look. She stared at the floor and she heaved a heavy sigh. After a leaden, sullen, "Okay," she faded out.

In spite of my fear, shock, and desperation, I found myself wondering how Misty could sigh if she didn't breathe. Ghosts don't breathe, do they? I realized I'd had this question a couple times before. At some point, I had to ask her.

In the meantime, my captors' argument had shifted to the ground floor. Aside from that movement, it didn't sound like they were getting anywhere.

In a minute or less, an unsmiling Misty returned with my cell. I switched it on, wondering why phones take forever to come up, and praying that the men didn't hear the loud, stupid startup music.

While waiting to see how strong the signal was, I noticed a strange symbol that usually I ignored. "GPS!" I softly exclaimed.

"What's that?" Misty asked.

"It's a locator. It lets people see where the phone is. The police will be able to find me!"

The phone had a strong signal. There must be a tower nearby, or on a hill or whatever. I called 911. It took a little work to convince the operator that I really was Marcie Donner. She already knew my name and that I'd been kidnapped. I explained about the GPS.

"I'm going to leave my phone on so you can find me," I told her, "but I have to hide it so the kidnappers don't find it. If they find the phone, they'll turn it off. So I'm not going to be able to talk to you, and I'm going to turn the sound way down. So PLEASE DON'T TALK, okay?"

As if she hadn't heard me, the operator replied, "Marcie? Marcie? I'm going to ask you to stay on the line. Please stay on the line with me. I need you to stay on the line..." Instead, I turned the volume as low as possible, and put the phone inside the sleeping bag to muffle the sound.

I returned to the door to listen. The argument had gotten more heated. There were blows and thuds and scuffling. The driver shouted, "No! No! Don't do it!" almost like a scream. Furniture was knocked over and heavy objects were thrown. I flinched with each bang and crash, as though I was the one being struck.

I know that my words can't communicate the horror of listening to the fight downstairs. It may not sound like much, the way I describe it like, but it was like listening to the end of the world. Things were wildly out of control down there, and I was scared nearly out of my wits. Do you know why? Because all of that violence, once it finished downstairs, was going to come upstairs for me.

At last, there was a gun shot, a sickening thud, some scuffling, a gun shot, and a second lifeless thud. Then silence.

My blood froze inside of me. There was no way on earth that anyone could reach me in time. Now that the two brothers were dead, there was no one left to defend me.

"Misty, please don't leave me," I whispered. "I don't want to be alone when this happens."

She nodded in a cold, almost clinical way, and stood next to me, watching. Now she was perfectly solid, like a real live person. For a moment, she put her hand in mine, and squeezed it.

I could almost feel what was going through her head. She knew there was a strong chance that soon I'd be walking through walls, too. At the same time, she must have seen – or at least known – that a lot of people had died during the time she was dead, yet she was still alone. She was hoping the two of us could be ghosts together, but she'd probably been disappointed many times before.

I'd already told the 911 operator that Honororia's brother was the bad guy, so even if he killed me, they would know who'd done it. It was a small consolation, but at least he wouldn't get away with my murder, and now the murders of the two brothers.

He came upstairs, unlocked the door, and walked inside. Misty was standing next to me, but he didn't see her.

"He looks familiar," Misty said. I didn't reply.

He motioned with his gun, and said, "Let's go downstairs." He grinned. "It's kind of a mess, but don't worry. It's going to get messier."

I walked slowly toward him, looking for some sort of opening, for something I could do, but there was nothing. If I tried to hit or kick him, he'd bring the gun down on my head. I descended the stairs ahead of him. All the furniture was up-ended. Some of it was broken. There were knickknacks and books and things thrown everywhere. Worst of all were the bodies of the two brothers. My stomach heaved and I wretched loudly. The two men were lying in their own blood. Even worse, blood was still pouring from their wounds. I tried to looked away, but the man pushed me and I had to grab the stair rail to keep from falling.

He shoved me toward the kitchen, where things were slightly cleaner. "Have a seat," he said, and he used his foot to turn a kitchen chair upright for me. He straightened another for himself, still using his feet, and sat down near me, facing me. Not close enough for me to hit or kick him, but he had longer arms and legs, so even if I couldn't reach him, he could easily grab me. He seemed relaxed... happy, even.

"I need a story here," he said. "and I think I have it... almost. Because, see, I was never here. Eventually someone's going to find you three, and it has to look like you killed each other."

He smiled and leaned back. "What I'm thinking is that somehow... doesn't matter how... you got hold of a gun. You heard the two of them fighting... probably when they realized they got the wrong girl. You came down the stairs, see? and you shot the two of them from up there." He pointed. "That explains why the angle is high, get it? Then, hmm..."

He turned his head as he pondered, and glanced at the front door. The bald brother was lying face down, one arm reaching for the door. He was obviously trying to get outside when he was shot. "Ah – oh, now I got it! You shot him, see? but you didn't realize that you hadn't quite killed him. Right! So he's lying there, and you don't know it, but he's not dead. You go out the door, and he shoots you from behind, from the floor. Yeah! That way, I can let you run from me, and it will look good." He grinned at his invention. "If you're really fast," he laughed, "you might even get away! I could count to five or even ten. Maybe even fifteen. Give you a sporting chance."

"I won't run," I told him.

He shrugged. "Facing the house works too," he said.

"I won't stand up," I replied.

He thought for a moment and shrugged. "It doesn't matter. Sitting, lying, it will all work. Even if I have to knock you out first and then shoot you. I can make it all work." He looked at me and smiled. "If you walk out the door, though, you get to go out as a hero. Isn't that important to you?"

I frowned at him and shook my head. What in the world was he talking about? I didn't care about being a hero.

"People will say, What a brave girl! If only this-or-that, she'd still be alive. Still, she did what she could. That's what you want, isn't it? Have people think you're strong and fearless? The girl crime-fighter?"

I shook my head.

He shrugged, smiled, and continued.

"After that, all I have to do is put a gun in your hand and one in Frank's hand and fire them so you both get gun residue on you. Then I'm clear."

"What about your tire marks outside?" I asked.

He nodded approvingly at me. "Not bad. Good thinking. Maybe you would have made a good detective, if you'd lived." He laughed. "It's Frank's car. I'm just going to drive it back to his house. The tire tracks won't mean a thing."

I suddenly realized that Misty was gone. She hadn't followed us downstairs. A chill fell over me, and the cold coming through the open front door seemed to pass into my bones.

"I've covered every angle," he gloated. "In half an hour, I'll be home free. I'll have to work up a new plan for the money, but I can do it. I've got time. And here..." he glanced over the wreckage, "it will be an unfortunate, but very closed case."

"It won't work," I mumbled.

"What?" he asked in a patronizing tone, "I didn't hear."

"It won't work," I said, after clearing my throat. "I called 911 and told them you're involved."

His eyes widened. "You're lying," he said. "There's no way!" Still, he turned his head to the side when he looked at me. I knew he wasn't sure.

"Believe what you like," I told him.

He studied my face, weighing the possibilities, and said, "Your phone is in your purse, in the van, outside."

I looked him in the eyes, but didn't respond.

"You couldn't get to it," he said, but I saw his certainty crack.

I smiled.

"Shit!" he barked, and jumped to his feet. He paced back and forth for a moment, then shouted, "Up!"

We walked upstairs, back to my prison cell. He scanned the room, but saw nothing. He listened, and heard — as I did — the 911 operator's little voice chirping. His eyes stopped on the sleeping bag. He pushed me into a corner, far from the door, and still pointing his gun at me, stuck his hand into the sleeping bag. In a moment, he fished out the phone.

His eyes widened as he saw 911 on the display. The call was still active, and the woman's tiny voice was asking, "Marcie? Are you still there? Marcie, answer me! Are you all right? Marcie? Marcie?"

He hung up the phone and turned it off. Holstering his gun at the back of his belt, he took out a handkerchief and carefully wiped his prints off the cell. Then he dropped it back into the sleeping bag.

"You're done," I said to him. My face went all jerky, and my arms and legs were spazzing.

"So are you," he sneered, and reached for his gun.

© 2007 Kaleigh Way