Eve tugged once on the hem of her blue t-shirt and let go. Harvey circled her feet as she leaned against the kitchen counter and tapped her fingers. She wasn’t nervous, so why was she acting like it? It was a public memorial service/candlelight vigil, not a funeral. She checked her phone again, pulling up the post on the Blackwood message board. Set to start just before sunset, the memorial would be held at St. Jude’s, the church Chelsea Horton and her parents went to.

“All are welcome,” it said. Which was good, because Eve knew exactly no one involved. She spun around and leaned her elbows on the counter. So why was she going?

As nice as the cold patch of air that followed her through the apartment was on hot days, Eve was getting sick of having a ghost roommate. Especially the ghost of someone so sad and miserable and naggy all the time. Sure, poor Chelsea had gotten the worse end of the stick, but Eve hadn’t asked for this, and she didn’t want it. So despite how weird it was to go to a memorial service for a dead girl she hadn’t known, she was going.

And maybe that would be enough. Maybe Chelsea would feel fulfilled by the outpouring of love and blah blah blah, and she would leave. Pass on, or whatever. It was worth trying, at least, because if Chelsea didn’t move on, Eve had no idea what she would do. Live with the constant ghost bullshit and moping? Move back in with her parents? Eve grimaced and stood up straight. She liked living alone, not having to think about anyone else. She liked Harvey, she liked the henges, she liked the way the surrounding ridges reflected on Blackwater Lake like a dark mirror. But she didn’t want to be involved with Chelsea and her murder investigation and her all-consuming, ghostly despair.

“Fucking ghost,” she muttered, kicking the cabinet with her bare foot. Her toes stung, but the chilly, reproachful silence that followed was worse. She glowered at the floor as she put on her shoes and grabbed her phone.

She speed-walked away from her stupid, ghost-infested apartment, slowing as she got closer to the crowd that lingered in front of St. Jude’s. A police car and barricades blocked off the roads leading to it, and Eve slipped past them and into the murmuring crowd as seamlessly as she could. That tense, heavy feeling from the day before lingered. People spoke in low voices, dread and anticipation rising through the hushed susurrus. The air was clear, and golden sunset light hit the stained glass of the church in thick rays. For some reason, Eve felt her chest clench.

The murmurs cut off abruptly, and Eve looked up. A red-eyed couple in black stepped up to a podium and mic, connected by extension cords to the church. Behind them stood a priest, a handful of people in formal clothes, and Detective Ishida.

“Hello, everyone,” the man said. “Thank you all for coming to honor our daughter, Chelsea, and giving us your support tonight.” The woman brought her hands up to her face and started crying quietly. Eve blinked and looked away. “Obviously, this wasn’t what we’d hoped would come of the investigation into her disappearance, but she’s in a better place now. She’s not hurting anymore.” He frowned and cleared his throat.

“Chelsea was a helper, ever since she was little,” he said after a moment. “She was studying to be a nurse for that reason, to help as many people as possible.” Mrs. Horton cried harder, and Mr. Horton reached out to hold his wife’s hand. Eve turned her head to watch the sun setting red and pink. The crowd stood still and quiet, apart from sniffling and the soft sounds of crying.

Eve hated this. She shouldn’t have come. All of these people had known Chelsea or at least known of her. They were grieving with each other and with her parents, and now Eve was there, an intruder on their pain. She had none of it to add, and watching felt invasive.

Mr. Horton was still speaking about Chelsea when Eve turned back toward the church. “And I know that if she were here, she’d ask us all to take that on in her name. She would want her life to influence the people around her to do what she always hoped to do: help.”

He stepped back from the mic and looked at his wife. Mrs. Horton clutched her husband’s hand tightly, looked out at the crowd, and sobbed. She shook her head slightly, and Mr. Horton nodded. He looked back at the priest, young-looking and somber, and at Ishida. Ishida took a deep breath and switched positions with the Hortons, taking their place at the podium. It was hard to tell from so far away, but Ishida looked even more rumpled than she had the day before. She passed a hand over her wavy hair.

“First of all, I wanted to say thanks to the community as a whole for your efforts in helping us try to locate Ms. Horton,” she said in her raspy voice. “They say it takes a village, and you all did your best to help this young woman out.” Eve huffed a breath out her nose. And how much had that helped Chelsea? She looked away, swallowing around the thick lump in her throat. “Even though, in the end, it didn’t work,” Ishida continued. “We didn’t save her, despite our best efforts. But we tried, and that’s what we should go forward with. We can’t undo the past. We can’t go back in time and save Chelsea.” Both parents were crying now, off to the side. Eve could hear others in the crowd crying, too, their soft breaths and sobs. Even Ishida’s voice grew thick, and she paused for a moment to swallow. “But we can go forward knowing that we did what we could, knowing that we tried. I’ll go into tomorrow knowing I failed, but that there is a chance, still, for me to find who did this and bring her justice. That if I keep trying, I might be able to stop a killer. In the end, that’s what counts: trying. All we can ever do is try.

“This world can be terrible,” she said. “And it can feel hopeless, knowing that even if you try, you won’t always succeed. But we can only do good things if we try. St. Jude was known as the patron saint of lost causes. I’m hoping he’s willing to give us a little help in remembering that a cause is only lost if no one is willing to try for it.” Ishida paused and cleared her throat. “Father Thomas, if you would,” she said, beckoning the priest, all in black, over.

“Thank you, Detective Ishida,” he said. His voice was deep and soft. “You’re right, we have no assurance that our efforts in this life will come to fruition, that justice will come to those who deserve it. But we do know that our Father in Heaven is…” Eve stopped listening as he started his sermon.

Trying was what made someone good? Was that what Ishida was saying? Eve huffed. If a person tried to help someone and failed, then they may as well have not even tried. All they would get out of the effort was…nothing. The label of ‘good person.’ What was the point? One person alone hardly ever made enough of a difference to matter.

Looking up, Eve stared at the church. She knew about St. Jude. The clement, the merciful, friend to the desperate. And what had he gotten out of it? Martyrdom, mostly. Eve didn’t want that. She didn’t want to care about Chelsea, or anybody else. She looked around at the crowd, full of people who cared about one specific person, even if only a little. At the Hortons, who cared about that person a lot. It had brought them nothing but pain. Eve sniffled and gritted her teeth as she wiped furiously under her eyes.

She stepped away from the crowd, around to the alley between St. Jude’s and the Blackwater Coffee House. The alley was home to a pretty little garden, with a wooden bench and a stone birdbath and potted flowers in shades of pink and white. And Ezra Park, the reporter. Eve stopped when she saw him sitting on the bench, but he’d already spotted her.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know anyone was here.” She started backing away.

“You don’t have to leave,” he said. “The memorial is kind of a lot.” Breathing in, he blinked and wiped at his face with the sleeve of his button-down shirt. Eve looked away and frowned at the stinging in her eyes.

“How did you know her?” she asked.

Ezra sniffed. “We went to Lakeside University together.” He paused and closed his eyes for a moment. “She was kind. A good person. She helped me when I had no one else.” Eve had no idea what to say. She’d gone there to avoid all the mourning, not to comfort someone.

“Sorry,” she said.

Ezra nodded. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I…expected this from the beginning.” He was silent for a few seconds. “Is she really haunting your apartment?”

Eve pursed her lips. Part of her wanted to lie, but even the thought of it felt like a betrayal. Of who, she didn’t know. “I think so. Hard to tell for sure.”

“I would hate that,” Ezra said. “When you die, how awful would it be to be stuck here, watching everyone you love deal with your death? Being murdered but not able to tell anyone who killed you. Can’t leave, can’t stay. Just…stuck.”

Sighing, Eve leaned back against the brick wall of the coffee house. “Yeah,” she said. “Me, too.”

***

Eve stepped into her dark, silent apartment, slipping off her shoes. She sat on the couch next to a sleeping Harvey and hugged a decorative pillow with a pineapple on it. Not exactly her taste, but whatever. There was a stirring in the air, the smell of ozone in a thunderstorm. Her windows were wide open, but the breeze that shifted her hair came from inside the apartment.

“Okay,” she said, so softly it didn’t even wake the cat. “I’ll help you move on.”

Every light in the apartment turned on at once, the lamps in the living room glowing so brightly that Eve had to close her eyes. A shattering sound made her open them again to total darkness.

“You have to stop doing shit like that,” Eve said, shaking her head. In the darkness, Harvey brushed against her arm and purred.