Chapter 3

The taller girl in the photo wore her hair in two braids and grinned wide enough to show her slightly pointed canines. She had one arm wrapped tightly around the little boy beside her.

It was a picture of Derek and me, the only one we had together. It must have been taken on a school field trip when I was seven or eight.

I still remembered that day. Mom had only given me enough money for my own bus fare and lunch, but Derek had cried and begged to come along.

I split the ham sandwich Mom had packed for me and gave him half. He wolfed it down, leaving crumbs all around his mouth.

I had asked one of my classmates' dads to take a picture for us. Afterward, I saved my allowance for weeks so I could afford to have it printed.

I never imagined Derek would still have it.

He gently brushed his thumb over my face in the photograph. "Gemma."

He said my name so quietly, his voice almost breaking.

"I'm sorry."

His shoulders started shaking. He buried his face in his hands and cried as softly as he could.

I reached out to pat his back, just as I had whenever other kids picked on him when we were little.

But once again, my hand passed straight through him.

From the living room, I heard our parents talking.

"What's wrong with Derek today?" Mom asked. "He barely said a word at dinner."

"Leave him alone. He's probably just in a mood. He'll get over it in a day or two."

Dad didn't sound concerned.

"Maybe I should call the psychic tomorrow and ask him to come check the house," Mom said uneasily. "I can't shake this feeling. What if her spirit is still here? What if she tries to hurt Derek?"

"Enough. Stop working yourself up. If she were capable of doing anything, she wouldn't have let us treat her like that when she was alive."

Dad's words cut through what little feeling I had left.

He was right.

I had been powerless when I was alive. What could I possibly do now that I was dead?

The days passed, and little by little, my room was stripped bare.

Mom threw away everything I owned: my clothes, my books, even the bed I had slept in for more than ten years. She tossed them all out as if they were worthless.

She complained the entire time.

"I should've gotten rid of this junk years ago. All it ever did was take up space."

She repainted the room and filled it with a brand-new computer desk and gaming setup, turning it into Derek's private game room.

Little by little, every sign that I had ever existed disappeared. Soon, it was as if I had never lived in that house at all.

Derek protested in the only way he could. He shut himself in his room, barely came out, and hardly touched the food Mom made for him.

He grew thinner by the day.

"What's gotten into you?" Mom asked, setting a bowl of chicken soup in front of him. "You did great on your exam. Why are you acting like this?"

Derek didn't even look at the bowl. "I'm not hungry."

"What do you mean, you're not hungry?" Mom snapped. "I spent hours making this for you, and you won't even taste it! What's with the attitude? You think you don't have to listen to me anymore?"

"I'm not trying to upset you," Derek said quietly, keeping his head down.

"You're not? Then why are you sitting there looking miserable? Anyone who saw you would think someone died!"

"Mom!" Derek's head snapped up, his voice trembling. "Gemma did die!"

The crack of Mom's hand against his face echoed through the room.

"Don't you dare say her name!" she shouted. "Now that she's gone, maybe this family can finally have some peace. Mention her again, and I'll act like I never had a son!"

A red handprint bloomed across Derek's cheek.