Chapter 4

My mind snapped into focus, shoving a decade of my grandmother' s spooky teachings aside for cold, hard practicality. Alex was alive. The Dubois couple wanted him dead. And I was the patsy they' d hired to take the fall.

The peephole. The locked door. Taking my phone. It all made sense now. They weren' t just watching a ritual; they were waiting for me to be their alibi or their next victim.

I had to wake him up. Quietly.

I leaned close to his ear, my lips almost touching his skin. The faint scent of his cologne, a scent I hadn' t smelled in five years, hit me like a physical blow.

"Alex," I whispered, my voice urgent and low. "Alex, wake up. It' s Lisa. You' re in danger."

His eyelids fluttered but remained closed. He was drugged, but not deeply. The dose was probably meant to keep him unconscious until the "grief counselor" finished her work and left, after which they could administer something more permanent.

I needed a jolt, something to cut through the haze of the drugs without making a sound. My bag. I fumbled inside, my fingers bypassing the incense and oils, searching for the small, lead-lined pouch where I kept my "emergency supplies."

I found it: a small vial of concentrated smelling salts, a concoction of my grandmother' s that could wake the near-dead. I twisted the cap and waved it under his nose.

His body jerked. His eyes flew open, wide with confusion and fear. He tried to sit up, a strangled gasp in his throat.

I clamped my hand over his mouth, hard.

"Don' t scream," I hissed, my face inches from his. "They' re listening. They think you' re dead. They want you dead. Do you understand me?"

His eyes, the same intelligent eyes I' d once fallen for, stared into mine. The confusion slowly cleared, replaced by dawning horror and recognition. He gave a slight, jerky nod.

I slowly removed my hand.

"Lisa?" he breathed, his voice raspy from the drugs. "What are you... how?"

"Later," I cut him off. "Right now, you need to play dead. Can you do that? Can you lie perfectly still and not make a sound?"

He nodded again, his jaw tight. He was a survivor; I could see it in the way his mind was already working, catching up. He sank back against the pillows, his breathing becoming shallow and controlled, his body going limp. He was a much better actor than his supposed parents.

I straightened up, my mind racing. I needed a plan. I couldn' t just walk out of there. They' d go in to "check on him" and finish the job. I had to get him out.

I glanced around the room. The windows were sealed. The door was my only option, and it was undoubtedly guarded.

That' s when I heard it. A faint scraping sound at the door. The lock turning.

My heart hammered against my ribs. They were coming in. It was too soon.

"They' re coming," I whispered to Alex. "Don' t move. No matter what you hear."

I quickly pulled the sheet back up to his neck, then took a step back from the bed, positioning myself so I' d be the first thing they saw when they entered. I needed to look like I was in the middle of my ritual.

The door creaked open. Mr. Dubois stood in the doorway, that predatory smile plastered on his face.

"Is everything alright, Ms. Li?" he asked, his voice oozing false concern. "We heard a noise."

"Everything is under control," I said, my voice cold and steady. I gestured vaguely at the bed. "The spirit is... resistant. As I warned you it might be. His connection to this world is strong."

It was the perfect double-speak. He would hear it as confirmation that Alex was dead and his ghost was being difficult. Only I knew I was talking about the living, breathing man in the bed.

"I see," he said, his eyes flicking from me to the form on the bed and back again. He didn' t believe me. He was here to check, to make sure his plan was on track. "Perhaps you need assistance."

"No," I said firmly. "I told you. No interruptions. Your presence is contaminating the space. Get out. Now."

I channeled every bit of my grandmother' s authority, the intimidating presence she used on unruly clients and nosy officials. For a moment, it worked. He hesitated.

But then his eyes narrowed, a flicker of suspicion turning into certainty. He was a man used to being in control, and I had just challenged him.

"I' m afraid I must insist," he said, taking a step into the room. "My wife is terribly concerned. She wants to see him."

He was calling my bluff. He knew something was wrong.

My mind raced, searching for an escape route, a weapon, anything. My eyes fell on the heavy brass censer on the bedside table, the incense still smoking. It wasn' t much, but it was heavy.

"I warned you," I said, my voice dropping to a low threat. "You don' t want to see what happens when a ritual like this is broken."

He just smiled. "Oh, I think I do."

He took another step. And I knew the performance was over. The violence was about to begin.

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