LITMIR.BIZ

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again, feeling like a total schmuck. She knew just how to play me and I fell right into it. Kimberlee, one—Jeff, zero.

      Even though this was my second trip to the cave, I still felt like a trespasser. But at least I climbed the wall faster.

      Sadly, the scenery hadn’t changed.

      If not for the rough, rocky walls and floor, it could have been an office storage room. Lidded file-sized boxes were lined up in rows with one wide aisle down the middle and an odd code of numbers and letters I didn’t understand written in black Sharpie on each box. Off to the side was a stack of still-flat boxes in plastic wrapping, and I could imagine alive-Kimberlee buying—or, more likely, stealing—them in anticipation of more pilfered items.

      It was kind of sick, really.

      “I don’t get you,” I admitted as we sorted through boxes. Well, I sorted and she directed. Unfortunate drawback to working with ghosts: Only one of you can actually work. Luckily, Kimberlee was happily interpreting her weird code on the boxes, and the bags inside were neatly labeled with names and dates.

      “Jeez, it’s not that hard,” Kimberlee said. “This number means—”

      “Not your code,” I said, pulling another box down. “You. I’ve seen your house—you’re obviously super-rich. And I get that whole thrill-seeking thing behind shoplifting, but this?” I asked, beckoning at the mass of boxes. “This is something else. Why?”

      Kimberlee shook her head, looking down at the floor of the cave. “I don’t know,” she said sheepishly. “I just . . . couldn’t help myself.”

      “But you have everything you stole just hidden in here. You didn’t use any of this stuff.”

      “That wasn’t the point,” Kimberlee said, her tone brittle. “Besides, that kind of stuff gets you caught. I’m not stupid.”

      “I didn’t say you were.” I totally didn’t say it. “So . . . you never got caught? Even after all of this?”

      “There were a couple of close calls.”

      “And people just—what?—didn’t notice?”

      Now a sly smile crossed her face. “Oh, they noticed, all right.”

      That did not sound good. “What does that mean?”

      “There was a . . . bit . . . of a theft scandal at Whitestone for, um, several months before I died,” Kimberlee said, avoiding my eyes. “Things . . . things were pretty bad, and I was taking a lot of stuff.”

      Great. Just great.

      “Principal Hennigan got complaints from students, teachers, parents, you name it. He was obsessed with catching the culprit. He kept trying to get the cops to come out and, like, send someone undercover—he is so lame—but obviously things eventually stopped disappearing and everyone moved on with their lives.”

      “And no one realized the stuff stopped going missing when you died?” I asked skeptically.

      “People never see what they don’t want to see,” Kimberlee said, looking out at the ocean. Anywhere but at me.

      “But when this stuff starts coming back people are going to realize it’s the stuff that got stolen before, right?” Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse.

      “Maybe,” Kimberlee said quietly.

      “Maybe? I don’t think there’s any maybe about it, unless the entire school is much less intelligent than the brochures say. Returning this stuff wasn’t supposed to draw attention—it was supposed to be subtle.” I had no idea when I agreed to this that it was so . . . big.

      “It can be subtle,” Kimberlee said, clearly attempting to sound optimistic.

      “I have serious doubts,” I said dryly. “Especially considering we’ve got three boxes of stuff just from the teachers.”

      “I’m trying to make amends,” Kimberlee said, irritation creeping into her voice. “My entire future—whatever that consists of—is resting on this. What do you want me to do?”

      And as I stood there looking over box after box of stolen stuff, I realized I had no idea how to answer that question.

      “So,” Kimberlee said, sounding strangely detached. “Do you want to give stuff back to people first or take stuff back to stores?”

      I closed my eyes and sighed. I must have been insane when I agreed to this. “Let’s try people first.”

      “Okay. Box numero uno. Miss Serafina,” she said, batting her eyelashes.

      Ah yes, Sera, I thought and smiled, remembering all over again that she was single. Until I realized that if Kimberlee had a bag for Sera, there was something in there she’d stolen. “What did you take from her?” I demanded.

      She rolled her eyes. “Go look.”

      I grumbled under my breath as I looked through the bags until I found the ones marked with Sera’s name. A cheer skirt and shoes. They looked brand-new, but Kimberlee had been dead for over a year. “When did you take these?”

      Silence.

      “Kimberlee?”

      “The date’s on the bag, okay?”

      Of course it was. How could I expect anything different from Miss OCD Klepto? “When she was a freshman?” I said, counting backward.

      Kimberlee poked her head out from the boxes. The middle of the boxes. I was never going to get used to that. “She was the first freshman at Whitestone to make the varsity squad.”

      “So you thought you’d take some of her excitement away? That’s real nice.”

      “Shut up. I didn’t ask for commentary.” I couldn’t tell if she sounded angry or hurt.

      “Well, she’s a really awesome girl.” And hot. So very, very hot.

      “Says who? You’ve known her for what, a day?”

      “Yeah, but she was nice to me without even knowing who I was. Nicer than anyone else I’ve met here so far,” I added in a grumble.

      “Hey, I totally talked to you,” Kimberlee argued.

      “I said nice.” I stuffed the cheer gear into my backpack. “I have room for some more; who else?”

      I managed to gather bags for half a dozen of the kids Sera had introduced me to at lunch before my backpack started to look like that blueberry girl in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. The pile of boxes didn’t look any smaller. If anything, it looked bigger.

      “Day one,” I muttered.

      My mom was constantly telling me that getting started on any project is the hardest part. I hoped she was right and that the worst was now behind me. On both the Kimberlee front and the Sera front.

      When did my life become a soap opera?

      I got the idea when I spotted a printing shop as I was driving home, trying to ignore Kimberlee belting rather off-tune to the radio beside me.

      “What are you doing here?” Kimberlee asked, looking up at the nondescript shop.

      “We.”

      “Huh?”

      “What are we doing here. You have to help.”

      “Help what?”

      “You’ll see.”

      I pushed open the poster-laden front door and something chimed the first few notes of “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head.” A man in a button-up sweater poked his head out a doorway at the back of the store. “I’ll be right with you,” he chirped.

      “No hurry,” I called as I turned to a display of stickers and labels.

      Kimberlee

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