Read Won't Let Go for Free Online Page B

who he is, some part of him still does. Deep down, there’s something that pulled him here in the first place. And I, being the genius that I am, have deduced that either it’s because this house, that room, was the scene of the crime, or better yet, his childhood home. I’d prefer the latter. It’s bad enough Oakley is haunting the place. It would be harder adjusting to the fact if my room was where he died.
    It’s so simple. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. I guess I did need some fresh air after all. As I round the corner, I feel a force, like someone pushing on my back. I realize I’m almost excited to see Oakley again and share my small amount of news; the tiny little insignificant realization that could really blow Oakley’s case wide open. However, Mom’s silver sedan parked in the drive, trunk propped open, brings me to a halt.
    When Mom steps away from the trunk, it’s like a moment of mother’s intuition. She pauses mid stride and looks over her shoulder right at me. “Hey, Alexia, would you give me a hand?” But it’s not a question, her tone, makes it more of a demand. It’s an I’m asking you nice, but you have to do it statement .
    I comply, trudging over to the car. The trunk is full of white plastic bags, each one filled with an assortment of food. I grab three, heaving them out of the trunk and head up the steps, just as Mom heads back outside for round two. Apparently she wasn’t kidding about wanting to go to the store again, make a real go of it and stock up . We pass on the gravel. Her shoulder brushes lightly against mine just for an instant as we quickly go in opposite directions—the way it always seems like we are. 
    When the bags are in the house, lining the marble counter space, she begins unpacking. “Can you believe this place doesn’t even have a Costco? I mean who doesn’t have a Costco or a Sam’s Club these days?”
    I take a bottle of ketchup and put it in the fridge. “Apparently Willard Grove,” I say, walking back to the bag I’m unloading. I pull out some bananas, each one slightly bruised and turning black. I wonder if Allison was the one to pack these, or if all employees at the grocery store have no idea how to do their job.
    Brushing brown tendrils out of her face, Mom lets out a huff. “Who does this?” She motions towards a bag. Huh. It’s kinda funny, like mother like daughter—apparently we do still have things in common. I know exactly what she’s thinking. “Who puts frozen peas and corn with bread? Look—” She holds up a loaf of bread. Beads of condensation are forming on the inside, because, as the store boasts, their bread is always bakery fresh and warm from the oven. “—Now I’m going to have soggy bread.”
     “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Besides, bread’s only good for grilled cheese and toast, all of which can rectify the soggy situation.”
    “Yeah. I guess you’re right,” she says, not really paying attention. Instead she glares into another bag.
    I want to stick around and figure out if I’m at risk of Salmonella if I forget to wash my pear but instead say, “Well...I’d like to help out some more, but, duty calls.” I flick my head in the direction of my room.
    “All right, nice to see you’ve stopped procrastinating. I want you cleaned up for dinner though. I’m cooking meatloaf, your father’s favorite. Seems appropriate for our first real meal here.”
    “Sounds good.” I smile and back out of the kitchen.
     
     
    Yet again, I find myself staring down the silly crystal knob to my door. It’s the only thing that separates me from being a totally normal seventeen-year-old and one that talks to ghosts. For some reason, though, I choose to open the door, acknowledging the fact that ghosts are real.
    “Oakley?” I whisper. “You here?” I expect him to materialize in front of me, or stay invisible and let his voice ring out through the room. But after a few seconds of nothing, I stand, lips