a ghost. And then I realized that was precisely it. I sat really still and waited for him to tell me he’d seen his father again, hoping he wouldn’t because I knew he’d be pissed if I reminded him that I didn’t believe in ghosts.
Here’s the weirdest thing: He never even said a word. He never spoke; he just looked at me, studied me like he was memorizing my face, like he was going to draw it, or, worse, never see it again. The thought made me shiver. He looked choked, and all that escaped from his tightened throat was a pitiful sigh, not one of relief or fatigue but of strangling pain. Then he stood up and started walking away, only he didn’t look at the elevator, he looked at me as he walked. He made it all the way to the elevator, steps we had taken together in joy so many times, and pushed the button without watching what he was doing. The doors slipped shut and the last thing I saw was a sliver of his pained face.
I raced to push the button, but it was too late.
What had I expected if I did catch him? Was I planning on stopping him? I knew it wouldn’t work. Would I join him in ghost hunting? In people hunting? Not a chance. But where did that leave me? I was being pushed more and more to the outside of Hamlet’s life—or had I moved myself there?—and I was both relieved by and hated that fact. Not getting involved with revenge and schemes seemed the safer, saner choice, but it meant that I had to wait for the drama and the information to come to me, and I wasn’t one to wait around. And now that it had come—whatever it was that had just happened when Hamlet walked through my door—it was finally too scary for me to deal with alone.
By the time the elevator came, I was so undone, so perplexed, I knew the only choice I had was to tell my father what had happened. I hurried to his office, passing his secretary without stopping to answer her questions. My father was clearly in the middle of something, but I didn’t give him a chance to tell me to wait.
“Dad,” I panted, “something’s wrong with Hamlet. I mean, really wrong.”
“What’s happened?” he asked.
After I told him what I had seen in our apartment, carefully not mentioning the gun or the talk of ghosts and death and revenge, he asked if I thought Hamlet was sick with love. I was shocked. Love? Who on Earth acts that insane over love? I couldn’t imagine it. He seemed more suicidal or homicidal than lovesick. I was about to tell my dad as much when I realized that if he thought this was about love, he might allow me to be with Hamlet again, though just then, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be. I realized I was staring, and I had to say something. All I could think to answer was, “I don’t know, Dad, but it scared me.”
“Have you spoken harshly to him lately?” he asked.
My father’s tone infuriated me. “You told me not to talk to him and not to see him! I sent him away. I refused to communicate with him and said nothing would change until you said otherwise.” I left out the part about our last two arguments.
My father nodded approvingly, then knitted his brow and said, “I was wrong when I said not to speak with him.” He put his arm around my shoulder as he escorted me out of his office. “I’m going to talk to Gertrude and Claudius about this.”
I stopped walking. “No, Dad. Don’t do that. This is between me and Hamlet.”
He shook his head. “I think it is larger than the two of you. No man is an island.”
Realizing my error in going to my father, I begged, “Dad, please don’t.”
“Nonsense. I will tell them about Hamlet’s visit to you and show them one of your e-mails—”
“How do you have—” I began, but realized I just didn’t want to know what kind of access he had to my computer and accounts. Things were getting too weird, and I couldn’t take another revelation. I decided on a different question and tried not to sound as horrified as I felt. “Which one?”
He went to his computer and clicked a few times, and the printer whirred. He put on his glasses and read, “