The McNeely residence. A mansion like the ones in old school episodes of MTV Cribs. The thick-gated properties belonging to celebrities with too much money to spend on frivolous crap.

Arielle hated the place, but in the days when Jade was alive... it was a small paradise. It had a giant pool in the backyard, a private hot-tub, a well-stocked game-room, a kitchen overflowing with snacks, and a staff at Jade's beck-and-call. Every teenage girl's dream.

But the only moments Arielle ever dreamed of it now was in nightmares. Horrific flashes where she saw Jade running down the hallways, leaving bloody footprints in her wake. Or drowning in her crystalline waters, dunked and drowned by some disgruntled idiot who worked for her parents. The images haunted her more with every passing day, because she'd never know how Jade died, would she?

Mrs. McNeely's call, the day after her loan fiasco and coffee-date with Stella, had surprised her. Was it fate?

"My husband and I thought it over, and... there is a box of things we were able to scrounge up for you. Things we don't think Jade would mind you having."

She texted Stella to tell her, and she replied with half a page of "shock" emojis and a few "thumbs-up" of encouragement.

What Mrs. McNeely meant: "here, take these items of no significant value that we can't keep around because they'd embarrass her memory. They are junk we wouldn't be caught dead having in our house if we were filmed for reality-TV."

Jade had mentioned her dad was in talks for something like that. A show highlighting Mr. McNeely, the famous internet website mogul who landed himself a gorgeous activist wife, and their superb and smart daughter. The wealthy mixed-race couple who made headlines for their outbursts against local racism groups. And that was the only positive point Arielle would ever give Jade's parents. They fought for what they believed in and advocated equality and justice.

At the security gates—that she and Stella had pounded on a few weeks ago to get answers—frozen tremors tickled down her back. She reached over her roll-down car window and pushed the intercom button.

"McNeely Residence." The stiff voice that always answered—George, the butler.

"It's Arielle... Arielle Daniels. Mrs. McNeely invited me over to—"

A beep signified the gate was opening. And without any banter with George, who used to be so friendly whenever Arielle announced herself. Oh, how things had changed.

Arielle directed her car up the wide entrance, peeking at the tailored bushes and vivid violet flowers lining the path. Two months ago, she and Jade had paced near those. They were yelling about New Year's resolutions already gone awry and parental expectations, and Jade had started mentioning needing a vacation. The spooky trip talks started soon after that, Arielle recalled.

She continued her route to the curve of the driveway where she'd always park, under the elaborate awning spreading from above the golden-inlaid doors. Another memory surfaced as she gaped at said doors; from four weeks ago, when a teary-eyed, unusually disheveled Mrs. McNeely let her in. She guided her to a basement area where they'd put Jade's corpse in a shiny mahogany coffin and dressed in her least-favorite designer outfit. Her face, once a coppery caramel shade, was so pale she looked like a porcelain doll. Fragile, frozen, and dead.

Arielle missed her vibrant hazel eyes—identical to her father's, but lacking their sternness. Hers were always warm and comforting. Lively and loving. That day, she couldn't see Jade's eyes; the once joyful girl lay immobile, silent, never to express an opinion again. And it broke Arielle to pieces. Her knees still hurt from when she crumbled onto the cold basement floor and wept for what felt like hours. Mrs. McNeely then ordered George to grasp her by the sleeve and drag her out.

"You saw her, you believe us, and you may leave our life," the woman had said, not an ounce of compassion in her voice. Charcoal splotches smeared beneath her eyes and her lips were chapped, not covered in their usual matte maroon lipstick.

"B-but—" George had yanked Arielle from the entryway and towed her down the steps, "how did she die? Why won't you tell us? Tell me? I need closure, we all need closure, why won't you—"

George ripped open her car door and threw her in. "Go," he said, tone muffled by the thick slab of metal and glass between them. "She won't allow you here again, and as her employee I'll be forced to report any time you show up. Hurry."

That was the last time she'd seen George with a slither of sympathy. Never did she expect to be welcomed back after how she'd howled, how her engine had roared when she pressed on the gas pedal and sped through the gates.

Getting out of the car now, she gazed at the pavement—at the skid marks she'd left there four weeks ago. She smirked.

They can never really get rid of me.

As she took a few steps towards the door, it opened. Good old George appeared, his gray hair shorter than usual and his eyes wary. "Miss Daniels," he stiffened, "right this way, please." So formal and bitter, it was as if he'd never met her, never laughed at her when she ran shivering through the house looking for a towel after a midnight swim. As if he never brought her snacks during girl-talk with Jade—and Stella, who hid under the bed because she wasn't allowed to be there.

In the fabulous entryway, every marble surface was polished, every speck of dust wiped, every trace of normalcy erased. Arielle's breath caught in her throat when she glanced at the iron railings enveloping the massive stairs leading upward. A pinch in her stomach caused her to wince and lose her balance.

George seized her before she tripped, but not without a disgruntled snort. "Upstairs, Miss Daniels. The package of things awaits in Jade's bedroom."

"I know the way," said Arielle, brushing herself off, shoving a few of her greasy auburn-and-crimson locks out of her face.

His eyes—the same owlish, grassy hazel shade as hers, coincidentally—locked on her for a moment before gliding towards the first step. "Mrs. McNeely asked me to... accompany you there."

She scoffed. What Mrs. McNeely had meant was "make sure she steals nothing." The woman tolerated Arielle, but she still wrinkled her nose at her less-than-wealthy upbringing and the fact that she and her dad lived in a lower-income part of town.

At least I'm not Stella and her medium mom, living in a trailer park, right?

Holding in a snarl of revulsion, she barreled after him, fighting to keep up with his pace. Her maroon Converse sneakers squeaked on each step, and she turned to see she'd left muddy imprints near the doorway and on the stairs. She smirked again; dirtying the McNeely residence felt strangely satisfying.

The familiar upstairs hallway came into view. The brass sconces that were never lit, the enormous paintings that weren't to be touched, the slippery flooring she and Jade had often slid down in their socks and nightgowns. Luckily, the parent's quarters were on the other side of the building.

A few strides later, they passed one of the bathrooms—the smaller restroom, as it only had two sinks and one shower and no bathtub. Then they pranced past the game-room, Jade's work-out room, before they reached it. Her room, to the right, the door still covered in drawings and placards and funny quotes.

Arielle's heart stopped. As George pushed the door open, the creak that disturbed their silence sent shivers up and down her arms. An eerie breeze flitted from within—lavender, Chanel perfume, and leather.

Arielle wanted to smile as the scents weaved up her neck, caressed her cheeks, soothed her heavy soul. As if Jade was there, telling her it was okay, she'd be fine, she'd survive.

But George's scowl brought her to reality. "Can you hear me, Miss Daniels?" He shifted his weight. "I'll give you five minutes, so try to hurry. I... don't want Mrs. McNeely to be angry. She insisted I retrieve the box for you, but..." Was that a hint of sympathy swooshing over his features? "Well... make it quick, all right?"

He ushered her inside and closed the door behind her, leaving her alone.

The tantalizing, thrilling remnants of Jade's aroma grew. Arielle spun on her heels, admiring the bedroom as if it was her first time seeing it. The four-poster canopy bed and its bubblegum pink drapes and the lightning bug lights dangling from its edges. The floor-to-ceiling mirror that lined the entire wall opposing the bed. And the double glass doors leading to Jade's ridiculously oversized walk-in closet.

Tempted as she was to run into the wardrobe and pick up a few of Jade's dresses to smell them, she spotted the box on the bed. She ambled to it and dropped onto the mattress, her gaze never leaving the dilapidated carton full of the most random crap she'd ever seen.

A barbie-pink hairbrush. A pair of ankle-high, battered, lace-up black boots that she recognized from one of their hikes. Three CD's dating back to the nineties; the Backstreet Boys, Ace of Base, and TLC—their preferred jams for reminiscing about times when music was outstanding. A stained and half-burned stuffed bear with a satin sky-blue ribbon tied around its neck, best friends forever scribbled on it in black sharpie. And at the bottom, heaps of photographs of Jade, Arielle, and Stella.

She picked them up and laughed. Stella loved old-fashioned photography. But not the snap a selfie on your phone with a selfie-stick kind. She liked the large cameras with flashes and film you had to take to a twenty-four-hour pharmacy at the edge of town to get developed. These were her masterpieces. Half-assed attempts at shooting the three of them while shopping, camping, lazing about in the hot-tub. And all were pictures Mrs. McNeely wouldn't want displayed on her deceased daughter's walls when camera crews came prying in.

Makes sense—she wants to erase all traces of us; her best friends. Her real family.

Not that Jade didn't love her parents; she owed them everything. Her college education, her trust fund, her luxurious surroundings; as an only child, she'd always received everything she wanted. And never flaunted it.

That's what Arielle admired about her. Jade had it all, but never boasted about it, never claimed to be better than anyone else. But she was better. She was beautiful. Her curly mane was a jungle of perfection and she had the figure of a model with a few extra healthy curves. Homecoming queen, Prom queen, charity organization chair, voted most likely to succeed. And not once did she assume her money or her looks mattered most. She believed in more, strived for more.

Fuck, I miss her.

"Ugh, stop," Arielle said to herself, replacing the photos in the box. As she heaved it up, she noticed something else hiding beneath the pictures. She set the carton down and shoved her hand to the bottom and found notes.

The handwriting was Jade's. Her undulating cursive with drawings in the margins; these were from her journal. Most paragraphs went on and on about Jade's boyfriend, Trevor, but one caught Arielle's attention most. Based on the date, she knew exactly when it was from.

"Oh my goodness, this is... when we..." Her legs gave out and she fell onto her butt with a thump, clutching the scribbled note up close.

It was from their Freshman year. They'd only met a few months ago, but Jade had invited her to a slumber party and that night...

We used her old Ouija board.

The memory caused goosebumps to prickle along her skin. She'd thought about it the day before, while having coffee with Stella, but she hadn't expected it to resurface again so soon. It was a night Jade loved to talk about, but one Arielle wished to forget. All the other girls—including Stella—had been too scared to participate in the session and preferred to twirl their curls and eat popcorn while watching some random chick-flick. But Jade and Arielle... nothing stopped them. They locked themselves in her walk-in closet, asked questions... and got answers.

Arielle had nightmares for weeks, but Jade had squealed in excitement.

"Ghosts! Holy shit, we talked to ghosts!"

Arielle peeked at the first few sentences on the notes. "I didn't want to say too much, but... Penny spoke to us. I don't think Jade remembers—but I know Penny. She communicated... and it was weird."

"Mrs. McNeely," said George from behind the door, his tone loud and worried, "She isn't—"

The door blasted open, and Arielle shot to her feet, knocking over the box in the process. Everything spilled out, and Mrs. McNeely glared at the mess, then at Arielle, crossing her arms. "What are you doing here?"

Gulping down the words she really wanted to say, Arielle hauled all the items into the crate and picked it up. "The stuff... Jade's stuff, that you wanted to get rid of? I came to fetch it, we... we agreed on it—"

"—yes, but you weren't to come up here." Her inky, sleek hair whipping across her upper back, Mrs. McNeely pivoted to George. "We will discuss that later, but in the meantime," she swerved to Arielle and motioned for her to get out, "you should leave. Thank you for stopping by."

Arielle waded by her, and skinny as she was, she had no way to not press against the woman's tailored pantsuit. "I'm sorry, I... I didn't mean to—"

"—and I don't care, and don't have time, Miss Daniels. I made it clear to you last time you were here that you're not welcome." The cruelty that peppered her voice made Arielle bite her tongue to not curse at her.

"But we... we want to know what happened. We'll never bug you again, Mrs. McNeely, Stella and I—"

The woman's already frigid demeanor turned to steel, impenetrable and rigid and cold. "Never mention that wretched girl's name in my presence. In fact, never be in my presence again." She shoved past Arielle and into the hallway, pointing to the stairs. "Her life, our lives, are none of your business and never have been. You warped her mind, both of you. Diverted her from her studies, had her turning to... to... whatever horrendous beliefs you have! Had her wanting to chase ghosts instead of going to school. So no." She tugged down on the fabric of her suit and hastened to the opposite end of the hall. "Get her out, George, and come to my office, at once."

Shit.

Arielle flashed George a quick look of apology, but if he cared, he didn't show it. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her to the stairs. "Go on, then, you heard her."

"George, I'm sorry, I—"

"—no, it was my fault. My error in judgment. I know better. Leave, Miss Daniels." With that, he hurried after Mrs. McNeely, leaving Arielle and her muddy shoes to stumble downstairs and outside.

She threw the box in the trunk and groaned as she slunk into the driver's seat. Similar to the fateful day she and Stella had barged in wanting answers, she raced off—but this time she adjusted the rear-view mirror for one last glance. One last vision of the palatial home she'd never disturb again.

But she slammed on the brakes when she glimpsed a blurry, black figure appearing in Jade's window.

"What the..."

Even from afar, she noticed dark, dark locks falling in waves to either side of its pallid face. A long, ancient-looking dress garbed its frail frame, and it fizzled in and out of focus like the images on a TV without an antenna.

She veered around, panting, not trusting the mirror. Not understanding why someone would loiter about in Jade's room like that. But whoever it was was gone. Or it was never there to begin with.

Arielle's mind was so fucked up and disappointed and enraged that it messed with her imagination and played tricks on her. So, foot jamming onto the gas pedal, she departed, eager to get home so she could cry out every ounce of liquid from her body, hopefully for the last time.