I sit in my car, staring at the girl on the steps. She's maybe seven years old, wearing a pink dress with small white flowers, and she's looking directly at me with eyes that seem far too knowing for a child. Her dark hair is pulled back in the same pigtails I saw in the memorial photos.
Emma Rodriguez.
My hands are shaking as I turn off the engine. This isn't possible. Marcus is one thing, but now there are others? How many ghosts are going to show up at my apartment?
I get out of the car slowly, my legs unsteady. Emma doesn't move from the steps. She just watches me approach, her small hands folded in her lap, her expression serious and patient.
When I'm about ten feet away, I stop.
"Emma?" I say quietly.
She nods. "You know who I am."
Her voice is clear but has that same distant quality as Marcus's, as if it's coming from underwater. But where Marcus seemed broken and desperate, Emma feels different. Sadder, but also somehow stronger.
"Yes, I know who you are." I take another step closer. "How long have you been waiting here?"
"Since you left this morning." She tilts her head slightly. "You've been asking questions about us. About what happened."
"Yes, I have."
"Why?"
The simple question catches me off guard. Why am I doing this? For Marcus? For my own sanity? Because I need something to fill the empty spaces in my life?
"Because someone asked for my help," I say finally.
Emma's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in her posture. "Marcus."
"Yes."
She stands up from the steps, smoothing down her dress. "He doesn't remember me."
"What do you mean?"
"He remembers the accident, but not the faces. Not the names. He doesn't know who died because of him." Her voice stays level, matter-of-fact, but there's an undercurrent of pain that makes my chest tight. "I've been trying to talk to him, but he can't see me. Not yet."
"Why can you see me?"
"Because you're helping him. Because you're the bridge." She looks up at the building. "Can we go inside? I need to talk to you before he comes tonight."
I lead her up the stairs, my mind racing. Two ghosts. Two children killed by Marcus's recklessness. How am I supposed to handle this?
Inside my apartment, Emma walks directly to the table and sits in Marcus's usual chair. The sight of this small girl in that spot, where Marcus sits every night wrestling with his guilt, is almost too much.
I sit across from her, feeling like I'm in some kind of surreal therapy session.
"What do you need to tell me?" I ask.
"I need you to understand something about Marcus," she says, her child's voice carrying a weight that shouldn't be possible. "He's not a bad person. What he did was terrible, but he's not bad."
This isn't what I expected from the ghost of his victim.
"You don't hate him?"
Emma considers the question seriously. "I was angry at first. Very angry. When I realized I was dead, when I saw what it did to my family..." Her voice wavers slightly. "My mama cried for months. My papa started drinking. They moved away because everything here reminded them of me."
"I'm sorry."
"But anger is exhausting when you're dead. It keeps you trapped, keeps you from moving on. I figured out that I needed to let it go, but I couldn't do that until Marcus understands what really happened."
She looks at me with those too-adult eyes. "That's why you're here. You're going to help him see."
"He knows he killed children. He knows he caused suffering."
"Knowing and understanding are different things," Emma says. "He knows it in his head, but he doesn't feel it in his heart. Not really. He's too caught up in his own pain, his own guilt about Sarah."
"What about the other children who died? Tyler and Madison?"
"Tyler moved on two years ago. He forgave Marcus and let go. Madison is still angry, but she's not ready to face him yet. It's just me right now."
The matter-of-fact way she discusses death and forgiveness is unsettling. This seven-year-old is more emotionally mature than most adults I know.
"What do you need from me?"
"Tonight, when you tell him what you learned today, he's going to break. Really break. When that happens, I'll be able to reach him. But he's going to try to run away from the truth, from me, from everything."
"And you need me to stop him?"
"I need you to help him stay and face it. All of it." Her expression softens slightly. "He's suffered enough, and so have I. It's time for both of us to find peace."
We sit in silence for a few minutes. Emma seems comfortable with quiet in a way most children aren't. I find myself studying her, looking for signs that she's not really here, but she seems as solid as Marcus does.
"Can I ask you something?" I say.
"Yes."
"What's it like? Being dead?"
Emma thinks about this for a moment. "Lonely, mostly. You remember being alive, remember what it felt like to taste ice cream or feel the sun on your face, but you can't have those things anymore. Everything feels distant, like you're watching life through a window."
"Do you miss your parents?"
Her composed facade cracks slightly, and for a moment she looks like what she is: a seven-year-old who misses her family.
"Every day. I watch them sometimes, in Phoenix. Mama is doing better now. She smiles again, sometimes. Papa stopped drinking after they moved. They talk about me like I'm still part of their lives, just not here."
"That must be comforting."
"It is. But it also makes it harder to let go." She straightens up. "That's why this is important. If I can forgive Marcus and move on, maybe I can find whatever comes next. Maybe I can stop being stuck between here and there."
The apartment grows colder, and Emma looks toward the door.
"He's coming."
A few minutes later, Marcus materializes in the chair next to Emma. He doesn't notice her at first, focused on me with that familiar expression of desperate hope.
"Did you find anything?" he asks immediately.
I look at Emma, who nods encouragingly, then back at Marcus.
"I found a lot," I say quietly. "Maybe too much."
Marcus leans forward. "Tell me."
I open my notebook, though I barely need to look at it. The numbers, the names, the faces are burned into my memory now.
"Fifteen children were on that bus," I begin. "Three died. Twelve were injured, some critically."
Marcus's face goes pale. "Fifteen."
"Emma Rodriguez, age seven. Tyler Chen, age nine. Madison Brooks, age six."
As I say Emma's name, Marcus glances around the room with a confused frown, as if he heard something just outside his perception.
"The injured children..." I continue, and tell him about Jenny Morrison's brain injury, about the broken families, the divorces, the parents who couldn't recover. I tell him about Karen and Dave Brooks, their foundation, their daily struggle to live with the loss of Madison.
With each detail, Marcus seems to shrink into himself. His breathing becomes shallow, his hands shake. By the time I finish, tears are streaming down his face.
"Fifteen children," he whispers. "I destroyed fifteen families."
"Marcus," I say gently, "you need to understand the full scope of what happened that day."
"I killed three babies." His voice breaks completely. "Three little kids who never got to grow up, never got to have lives, because I couldn't handle my own problems."
"Yes," I say simply. There's no other answer.
Marcus doubles over, sobbing. The sound is heartbreaking, but Emma watches him with a steady gaze. She's waiting for something.
"I can't," Marcus gasps between sobs. "I can't live with this. How do I live with this?"
"You don't live with it," Emma says quietly. "You face it."
Marcus's head snaps up. He can see her now, sitting right beside him at the table. His eyes go wide with terror and recognition.
"You're one of them," he breathes. "One of the children."
"I'm Emma Rodriguez. I was seven when you killed me."
The directness of it hits Marcus like a physical blow. He pushes back from the table, his chair scraping against the floor.
"No. No, I can't. I can't look at you."
"Yes, you can," Emma says firmly. "You have to."
"I'm sorry," Marcus says, but he's looking at the floor, not at her. "I'm so sorry. I never meant for this to happen."
"Look at me," Emma commands, and there's an authority in her young voice that demands obedience.
Reluctantly, Marcus raises his eyes to meet hers.
"You were driving angry," she says. "You saw the red light and you didn't stop because you didn't care about consequences. You were thinking about Sarah and how much she hurt you."
"Yes."
"Tell me about Sarah."
"She... she was pregnant. We fought. She said terrible things."
"What kind of terrible things?"
Marcus's voice drops to a whisper. "That she didn't love me. That I wasn't good enough for her or the baby. That she was tired of pretending."
Emma nods. "And that hurt you so much that you stopped caring about anything else."
"Yes."
"Including the safety of fifteen children on their way home from school."
The words hang in the air like a physical weight. Marcus can't respond. He just stares at Emma, this small girl who should be twelve years old now, who should be starting middle school and worrying about homework instead of confronting the man who ended her life.
"I had plans too," Emma says conversationally. "I wanted to be a veterinarian. I loved animals. I had a hamster named Mr. Whiskers and a goldfish named Bubbles. I was learning to ride a bike without training wheels."
Each word is another knife in Marcus's chest. He's shaking so hard I'm worried he might dissolve completely.
"I was supposed to have a birthday party the next week. My mama had already bought the cake mix. Chocolate with vanilla frosting." Emma's voice stays level, but I can see the pain underneath. "I was going to invite my whole class."
"Emma, please," Marcus begs. "Please stop."
"Why should I stop? You didn't stop at the red light."
The accusation lands like a slap. Marcus flinches and turns away from her.
"I can't do this. I can't face this."
"You have to," Emma says. "We both have to. I've been waiting five years to talk to you."
"I know you hate me," Marcus says. "I know you want me to suffer."
Emma is quiet for a long moment. When she speaks again, her voice is softer.
"I don't want you to suffer anymore. I want you to understand. There's a difference."
Marcus looks at her again, confused.
"I was angry for a long time," Emma continues. "Angry at you, angry at God, angry at everyone who got to keep living while I didn't. But anger doesn't help anything. It just keeps us both trapped."
"How can you not hate me?"
"Because hating you doesn't bring me back. It doesn't give my parents their daughter back. It doesn't undo anything." She pauses. "But understanding what you did, really understanding it, that's the first step toward making it right."
"How do I make killing a child right?" Marcus's voice is anguished. "How do I make any of this right?"
"You start by accepting the full weight of what you did. Not just that you killed three children, but that you orphaned parents, traumatized survivors, destroyed families. You accept that your moment of selfish despair had consequences you never considered."
Marcus nods, tears still streaming.
"And then you forgive yourself."
Both Marcus and I stare at Emma in shock.
"What?" Marcus whispers.
"You forgive yourself," Emma repeats. "Because carrying this guilt forever doesn't help anyone. It doesn't honor my memory or Tyler's or Madison's. It just keeps you trapped here, and it keeps me trapped too."
"I don't deserve forgiveness."
"Maybe not," Emma says with brutal honesty. "But I deserve to move on. And I can't do that until you stop running from what you did and start accepting it."
The room falls silent except for the sound of Marcus's ragged breathing. I feel like I'm witnessing something sacred and terrible, a reckoning that's five years overdue.
Finally, Marcus speaks.
"I saw the light was red. I saw it, and I thought about Sarah, and I thought about how nothing mattered anymore. I pressed the gas instead of the brake."
Emma nods. "Yes."
"I killed you. I killed Tyler and Madison. I ruined dozens of lives because I was too selfish to think about anyone but myself."
"Yes."
"I took away your birthday party and your hamster and your dream of being a veterinarian."
Emma's composure finally cracks, and tears start flowing down her cheeks. "Yes."
Marcus reaches across the table, his hand hovering over hers but not quite touching. "I'm sorry, Emma. I'm so sorry."
"I know you are."
They sit there for a moment, this broken man and the child he killed, both crying. Then Emma does something that surprises me. She reaches out and takes Marcus's hand.
The moment they touch, something changes in the room. The air grows lighter, warmer. Both of them seem more solid, more present.
"I forgive you," Emma says simply.
Marcus breaks down completely, sobbing harder than I've ever seen anyone cry. But it's different now. Not just guilt and despair, but something deeper. Relief, maybe. Or the beginning of healing.
"Thank you," he whispers. "Thank you."
Emma smiles for the first time since I met her. It's a small, sad smile, but it's real.
"You're welcome."
She begins to fade, becoming translucent around the edges.
"Where are you going?" Marcus asks, panicked.
"Somewhere better, I think." She looks at me. "Thank you for helping us find each other."
"Wait," Marcus says urgently. "What about Sarah? What about everything else?"
Emma's expression grows serious again. "That's still something you need to figure out. The truth about Sarah isn't what you think it is."
And then she's gone, leaving Marcus and me alone at the table. But the apartment doesn't feel empty anymore. It feels different. Lighter somehow.
Marcus stares at the spot where Emma was sitting.
"She forgave me," he says in wonder.
"She did."
"But she said something about Sarah. That the truth isn't what I think." He looks at me with desperate eyes. "What did she mean?"
I think about my investigation today, about the gaps I found, the questions that still don't have answers.
"I think," I say carefully, "we need to dig deeper into what really happened between you and Sarah that day."
Marcus nods, but I can see fear in his expression. He's afraid of what we might find.
And honestly, so am I.