White Space Season 1

how they verified that it was her husband who shot up the school and then himself, but positive identification had definitely been made.
    It wasn’t that Liz doubted her husband was dead. Too many people had seen what happened for her to believe otherwise. The act was probably caught on video, given the number of cameras in the school, even though she’d not heard anything from anyone about a video of the event. She was sure it was just a matter of time before someone would leak it, and her husband’s final acts would be streaming from any number of disgusting websites which reveled in showing the latest in disturbing video so anonymous cowards could make stupid jokes and condemn him for years to come.
    Still, some part of her needed to see and touch him, to find that sense of closure.
    Until then, Liz couldn’t help but believe that there was a chance he might walk through the door any day, as irrational as the thought so obviously was.
    As 1:11 a.m. drew closer on the clock, Liz found herself tuned into the baby monitor, listening carefully.
    It had been a few nights since she’d seen Roger … or thought she had. She found herself waiting up each night to see if he’d return. Each time he didn’t, the more likely it seemed that Liz was only imagining things the other night. She wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if the combination of stress and exhaustion was finally taking its toll on her sanity.
    She wasn’t sure which would be more of a relief — that she were losing her mind, or if she’d seen Roger’s ghost. She was worried not only for herself, but her daughter’s safety. If Liz lost her mind, who would take care of Aubrey? And if Roger was a ghost, was he dangerous?
    What the hell? I’m seriously contemplating the existence of ghosts?! I should just go to bed. Right now. The more I stay up, the more likely I am to see things.
    1:08 a.m.
    She turned up the baby monitor’s volume, listening to the whir of Aubrey’s fan whispering through the speaker. No sign of Aubrey waking yet.
    No other voices.
    Liz thought about getting up and going into Aubrey’s room, which was what she’d done the night before, but thought better of it. Perhaps if Roger’s ghost saw her, he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, show. Liz debated the rules of ghost travel in her head, waiting for the clock to bleed another minute.
    1:09 a.m.
    Her heart pounded with anticipation. Liz picked up the monitor and set it beside her pillow, watching the row of unlit lights, indicating noise, and the green light glowing at the top to prove it was on.
    1:10 a.m.
    Something banged in Aubrey’s room and the row of lights lit from the bottom blue to the top orange, then back to dead as the room fell silent of every sound except for the fan.
    What was that?
    Liz forced herself to relax. She often heard noises just like that, at times that weren’t around 1:11; sounds of the house settling or something falling in another room. Surely the din was somehow amplified by the monitor in Aubrey’s room.
    Liz sat in bed, one foot on the floor, waiting to burst from the room.
    The clock’s digits changed.
    1:11 a.m.
    Liz heard a faint whisper — something she couldn’t quite make out.
    Then two words, this time clear and audible over the speaker.
    Roger’s voice: “Hi, sweetie.”
    A chill iced her entire body.
    I am not imagining this.
    I heard it!
    Liz leapt from her bed, then ran to her door, throwing it open, and burst into Aubrey’s room. As the door swung open on its hinge, Liz saw Roger standing in the center of the room, holding his daughter, lightly swaying back and forth humming “Itsy Bitsy Spider.”
    Only now he wasn’t a ghost. Roger wasn’t half there. He was all there — in the flesh, looking exactly like he had the last time Liz had kissed him goodbye.
    Her mouth hung open. A loud gasp fell from the opening and into the room, teetering at the edge of a scream.
    Roger shook his head, turning to Liz as he whispered, “Shhh, you’ll wake her.”
    “H-h-how?” she stammered as Roger held his daughter close, stroking the wispy hair at the back of her head.
    “I wasn’t done,” he said. “I had to come back.”
    She stared at Roger, unable to believe what she was seeing.
    How can he be here?
    How is this possible?
    Wasn’t done with what?
    Liz inched closer, trying to get a closer look at her dead husband, clearly breathing on the other side of the room. He looked perfectly healthy, no sign of injury. Yet, there was