The most interesting information about Cooper Samson James was dated September 2, 1962. One month after Cooper's eighteenth birthday. The story Edwin read wasn't a surprising one, and it wasn't particularly unique. A night of drinking. A new birthday present that drove a little too fast. An overcorrection at unbelievable speeds. And an accident that was more than a minor dent in the bumper.

Cooper James had died almost instantly, his neck broken from the impact. The same month and year, though not the same day, that Edwin had been born. A picture of the young man accompanied the story, and he had the same handsome face, the same flop of hair, the same smiling eyes as the man Edwin saw in his car.

"Not possible," Edwin muttered. "This is not possible."

He glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see Cooper standing in the room, with folded arms and a knowing smirk. But there was nothing.

Maybe he could sell the car. Or try to take it back and demand a refund of his money. After all, they had lied to him. They had never mentioned a serious accident. They had never mentioned the death of a young man. They had never mentioned the chance of a ghost.

Not that he believed in ghosts. He had done a lot of research on Alfa Romeo Spiders before finding one to purchase. Cooper James's accident hadn't exactly been a secret. He might have come across the story once or twice, and it stuck in the back of his mind. Then, while he was under a good deal of stress and excitement, his memory recalled those details and a dream, or a hallucination, or something was born.

But that seemed almost as far-fetched as ghosts. Especially since Claire had had a conversation with his hallucination.

Edwin shut down his computer, no longer interested in seeing the picture of the dead boy who apparently -- possibly -- maybe haunted his car.

Half expecting some strange specter to jump out from behind every corner, and feeling wary of each shadow, he made his way from his office to the garage. He didn't need the pressure, and he was sure that his blood pressure was rising by the second. He flipped on the light above the car, watching to see if the new light illuminated the lanky body of the young man who was haunting more than his car. But the Alfa Romeo was empty.

As it should be.

Edwin's palm was clammy when he touched the handle, and despite how slick his palm felt, he yanked the car door open. A part of him was relieved to be that close to the car again. It wasn't right to keep such a beauty locked up out of sight. He wanted to drive it every day, for every errand. He wanted to feel its power beneath his fingers and under his feet and pulsing through him. He didn't want to be scared to do something as simple as open the door.

Holding his breath, he slid behind the wheel, waiting to feel that icy rush down his neck. The car was stuffy from being locked in the garage since the weekend, and the interior leather burned his skin everywhere he came in contact with it. Steeling his nerves, he looked at the rearview mirror. Empty. Nothing there.

Edwin released a shaky sigh and turned the ignition. He needed to get to work. He needed to figure out how he was going to deal with Claire. Not to mention deal with the thousands of things that required his attention every single day. He couldn't spend his time fucking around with hallucinations of dead boys, or plotting out a vacation, or researching tragedies that happened before he was born. Nor could he spend hours of his life moping over a guy who was probably long, long gone. He was ready to get back to his real life.