Ashes to Ashes by Melissa Walker Read Free Book Online

Hartley now .
    When Carson and I were little, Ella was in our ballet class—I remember she had the most incredible violet-colored eyes. She died last month when her body rejected the kidney she’d been given. It was huge news in town because everyone had been so hopeful when they finally found a donor. But it didn’t take. Her friends decorated her locker with flowers and photos and poetry. Carson even added a sachet that included marjoram because she believes the herb brings serenity to the recently departed. I thought it was pointless to leave tributes for someone after they died—I thought the gestures were more for the Living than the dead.
    Now I wonder if Carson will gather funeral herbs for me.
    Thatcher and I sit on a bench near the very dock I sped down in my new BMW, and I watch Ella and her family motor in.
    The Hartleys tie up their boat and step off, one by one, near where we’re sitting. Ella trails after them with a soft smile on her face, lit up by that singular radiance. They walk right by us, unseeing, but when Ella passes, she gives me a slow nod, like we’re in the hallway at school or something. I wave back, hoping my face isn’t etched with the heartache that consumes me at the sight of her. Her eyes appear hollow, blank—their color muted. As she walks by, her long brown ponytail swings to the side and I see a small, green, half-moon-shaped tattoo on the side of her neck.
    Immediately I shift my gaze back to the old woman on the bench. Her tight perm hovers over the same green moon symbol, but hers is a crescent. The little boy has an identical mark. My mind reels as a realization unfolds while I take in the full length of the dock and all the people on it.
    In between the families strolling, the couples holding hands, the kids racing up the wooden planks, are some people who seem to be lit from within. They’re in Technicolor—it’s almost like I’m watching a movie where certain stars are in 3D while the others are flat. And the radiant ones . . . they share the moon mark. Their eyes reflect a mirror of placidity, an eerie calm.
    â€œThey’re dead,” I announce with certainty.
    â€œGhosts,” says Thatcher, nodding.
    â€œThey seem so tranquil.”
    â€œThey’re echoes of their former energy.”
    â€œThey glow,” I say. “And they have a . . .” I move my eyes to his neck. He bends his head and turns slightly. His skin looks soft and radiates warmth as I lean in, wondering how this dead boy can seem so alive. And I see it. He has one, too—a nearly full moon mark. Was I so drawn to his face that I didn’t notice it before?
    He must decipher the question in my eyes, because he says, “You can’t usually see it when we’re in the Prism. Down here, though, the glow and the green moon are how we distinguish who’s living and who’s not.”
    â€œBut we can see the Living, too, right?” I ask, grabbing onto the first glimmer of hope I’ve had since waking up in the gray mist. “The people I see without the . . . the moon and the glow . . . they’re real?”
    â€œThey’re alive ,” he says. “We’re all real.”
    I don’t find that as comforting as he seems to expect me to. “And I have the mark, too?”
    Thatcher looks down at my neck, and I pull back my hair. I can feel his eyes on my skin and it makes me shiver.
    â€œYours hasn’t shown up yet,” he says, backing away. “It will. Sometimes it takes a little while.”
    â€œI always wanted a tattoo,” I say lightly.
    Thatcher studies me curiously.
    â€œIt’s a joke.” I can’t believe I had to explain it to him. Nick would have gotten it immediately, but then he’s not uptight. He’s always finding the fun in any situation. Nick. I want to be with him. I want him comforting me. But then Thatcher gives me a