Note: None of these characters (thus far) belong to me. I'm just borrowing them for a little fun! I couldn't fathom waiting another 2 years for the next book to come out, so I thought I'd satisfy my curiosity for now by creating my own story. Reviews/ comments are always appreciated! Happy reading! Xx

Jerome and Jazza looked up at me expectantly, waiting for my big explanation. For the first time in my life, I was at a loss for words.

Let me explain. Ever since I said my first word, I've been labeled as a Talker. To some degree, this was expected of me. I was Southern. It was our way.

Yet I, Aurora Deveaux, had always been an especially chatty cathy even by Southern standards.

I remember this one time, in 2nd grade. We had to give a presentation in science class on a planet in our solar system. Naturally, I picked Venus, It was the orange one, and orange was my favorite color.

When it was my turn, the teacher called me up to the front of the class, I unveiled my poster with a flourish- I had spent 3 very intense hours the night before ensuring that every shade of orange was just right- and watched, disappointed, as the expressions on my peers' faces remained bored and uninterested.

Disheartened, I went along with my presentation. It wasn't until the bell rang that I realized I had been talking for the entire class period about Venus, its orange color, and why I like orange. None of the other kids even had a chance to go.

I suppose if Mrs. Caderet hadn't taken her arthritis meds that morning, she would've been awake and alert that class period. She might have even stopped me after 5 minutes. But alas, it was the damning combination of Mrs. Caderet's arthritis, my 2nd grade class's disinterest in the Milky Way, and my love of orange that allowed me a 45 minute period of non-interrupted Rory Talk Time.

After class, Mrs. Caderet called me up to the front of the room, told me I had a gift- a gift of communication- and said she was sorry she failed to keep an eye on the time. I got an A.

Because of all this, it was strange that I was having a hard time explaining everything that had been going on in my life for the past month. The events, which I had previously been dying to shout from the rooftops, were silent on my tongue.

Jazza and Jerome were still looking at me, though now the expectancy in their eyes had turned to worry. Jerome, at least, was prepared for the weirdness of it all, witnessing a bit of it only 2 days ago. Jazza was not.

But I couldn't keep lying to them anymore. I just couldn't.

"Icanseeghosts," I blurted. Good start there, Rory.

I cleared my throat, trying for a more calm approach. "I can see ghosts."

I waited for their reaction. When I saw none, I pushed on.

"Remember that night at the dinning hall? Well, I died. But only for a second. But I guess there are people who have an inherent genetic thing, that if they die and then come back to life, they can see ghosts. And these ghosts? They're not ghosts really, just vestigial energy left over on a plane that are only accessible to these people with the sight- that's what we call ghost-seers. So its not as freaky-deaky as all that. There are no kids running around saying ' I see dead people.' Its more science-y. There's a lot of…paperwork."

I took a deep breath, wincing a little, but prepared to continue. Fortunately, Jazza interrupted.

"Hold on," she said, raising a hand up. "The Ripper case? Getting expelled from Wexford? You running away? This is all about you seeing ghosts?"

Ah, yes. Listed all out like that, it does seem a little whack-o, and it kind of makes me seem like what my Granny Deveaux would call "an unseemly type". Jerome, for his part, was staring intently at his knee, brow furrowed. In fact, watching him, he reminded me a little of-

NO, Rory. We're so not going there right now.

I focused at the matter at hand- destroying my friends' worlds they knew it.

"Er…yes. Its complicated. Just bear with me, okay?"

So I told them. I told them all of it. How the Ripper was actually a disgruntled ghost, that's why he didn't show up in the CCTV cameras. How he targeted me especially because I could see ghosts. How I couldn't keep up with my coursework at Wexford because of it. How Charlotte convinced me to see her new therapist, Jane. How Jane was actually a cult leader, hell -bent- literally speaking- on destroying death. How I had to go undercover to stop her, hence the hideous dye job I haven't managed to fix quite yet. How Charlotte got all Stockholm syndrome-y and lured me into their nefarious trap. How I managed to get out, but some very bad and powerful people were still at large.

"I know its hard to believe, and I know it sounds crazy. But I promise this is the truth. This is what's been happening. I'm sorry it took me till now to tell you guys."

After I was finished, I sat down. And waited. And waited. Being a talker, once I get going, its typically really hard to stop. I forced myself to stop, though. They needed time to process on their own.

Jerome, for his part, was still looking intently at his knee. Jazza's eyes were focused on a spot above my head, purposefully away from my face. She took a deep breath, and refocused her gaze on me.

"I believe you."

For the life of me, this was the absolute last thing I expected her to say.

"You…do?" I sort of whispered.

She nodded, her big brown eyes filling up with tears "It's a lot to take in, but Rory…you don't understand. We were all so worried. I was so worried. I thought you joined a gang, or were into drugs, or kidnapped, or something." She sniffled, laughing.

I guess, in a way, all of those things did happen. If you count being in a secret ghost police force as being in a gang, and unknowingly being fed pot brownies and other assorted baked goods by an evil therapist as being into drugs. I think I can safely say I was legitimately kidnapped.

"Oh, no," I reassured Jazza, looking away. "Nothing like that."

She got up and tentatively walked over to hug me. I embraced her, my very best friend at Wexford, like it was the last time we'd ever see each other. For all I knew, it was.

"I'm sorry for worrying you, Jazz."

She laughed self-deprecatingly and wiped her nose. "Oh its okay, sorry for crying on your sweater."

At this point, I looked at Jerome. I had thought Jazza was going to be the hard one to convince, but he still hadn't moved from his position on the bed.

"jer?" Jazza asked, worriedly. Jazza had always seemed like a golden retriever puppy to me, carefree and full of life and love. Now she was different, stiller, in a sense and more easily anxious. I felt a twinge in my stomach as I realized I probably had something to do with that.

Jerome looked up, first at Jazza, hen at me. The silence of the room settled, as if the atmosphere itself knew his words were going to be the deciding factor of how well this talk went.

"I….believe you. I'm skeptical, but I believe you. And that's as much as I can do right now."

I let out a little breath, mostly relieved. "I understand. Thank you for trusting me. Turd."

His mouth quirked up a little at the ends, "You're welcome, piss face."

And just like that, everything was normal between all of us again.

They had questions, tons, and I did my best to explain the ones I could, and deflect the ones I was bound under the Official Secrets Act to protect. This meant I couldn't tell them about the force, or what I was going to do next. Hell, I didn't even know for sure what I was going to do next.

At around midnight, I got a text from Thorpe.

Security system back up in 5. Be out in 2.

Thorpe was, decidedly, Not A Talker.

I said my goodbyes, tried valiantly not to cry, and told them I would stay in contact. I didn't know how true that last one was, but I hoped so. Jerome and Jazza were my best friends at Wexford, and I loved them dearly. Saying goodbye to them just didn't feel right, not after all we'd been through together.

I hurried out into the damp, cool night air, keeping to the shadows lest Call Me Claudia look out the window and see me, Worst Hockey Player in Wexford History/ Ripper girl/ expellee, lurking on school grounds.

Thorpe's car was parked in a nearby alley. Before I got in, I paused, and took in the school, a place I'd called my home for the past couple of months. I made sure my eyes lingered on the patch of green the Ripper stole across. This is where it all started. This is where my new life began. Strangely, I didn't want to go. Yes, Wexford had caused me more trouble than I'd ever expected, but somehow, it wasn't the memory of the Ripper, or being expelled, or even choking at dinner that clung to me even as Thorpe's Mercedes drove away. Rather, it was memories like talking to Alistair about Alexander Pope in the library, secretly drinking wine with Eleanor and Gaenor, and laughing in with Jazza and Jerome at the local pub that stuck with me as we drove away from East London toward the Waterloo flat.

It was the happy times that punctured my heart like a fishing hook, tethering me to Wexford. I felt the pull of the line even as we continued past the The Royal Gunpowder, past the Eye, past all the memories and into the future.