The Wish Collector

by Mia Sheridan

  She thumbed the printout sitting on top of a pile of papers on her desk, the grainy garage photo catching her eye. The masked do-gooder. Speaking of changing lives for the better.

  She’d tried to convince her boss to put her on the story of the unknown man who’d been making waves in New Orleans of late, but he’d said no. And Savannah knew the reason why. He considered her soft. He gave the exclusives to the cut-throat reporters, the ones who were willing to get up in the face of a murdered kid’s mom, or shove a microphone at a shell-shocked husband who’d lost his wife in a house fire an hour before.

  She was willing to go after a story with everything she had, but she refused to use other people’s grief for headlines. It went against every moral fiber inside of her.

  Her phone rang. “Savannah, line one,” the receptionist said when she picked it up.

  “Thanks, Shannon.” She clicked over to line one. “Savannah Hammond.”

  “Ms. Hammond?”

  Hadn’t she just said that? “Yes? How can I help you?”

  “Do you have a minute to meet with me?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Jonah Chamberlain.” Savannah paused, the pen she’d been tapping against her desk stopping abruptly. Jonah Chamberlain. God, it’d been years since she’d heard his name.

  In a flash it came back to her. The Murray Ridgley trial. She remembered it well. She’d been a new reporter when it’d all unfolded. She’d been assigned to park herself outside of the hospital and wait for the young, handsome lawyer to emerge. She’d been all but advised to get in his injured face and get the most grisly photo she could. Every news outlet in town had apparently given the same directive to their crew, because it had been a mob out there, day after day.

  Truth be told, her heart had ached for him. He’d tried to tackle that maniac and taken a bomb to the face for his trouble. But no one was talking about that. They were focused on the fact that he’d defended Murray Ridgley and gotten him off so he could cause mayhem on the front of the courthouse steps. As if he’d intended for that to happen.

  But ratings were always higher if there was a villain or a sideshow, so they’d assigned the role of villain to Jonah Chamberlain.

  Savannah hadn’t waited for Jonah Chamberlain to be wheeled outside. Instead, she’d sent him a sympathy card and written a letter about how sorry she was about what happened to him. He’d never read it, or so she’d thought, but she’d sent it all the same. A promise to herself, of sorts, that as tempting as it might be, she would never sell her soul to the devil for a story.

  “Yes, I . . . I know who you are.”

  There was a beat of silence. “I’m in a car behind the building.” He explained his exact location and she told him she’d be right down, replacing the phone receiver and standing immediately. Jonah Chamberlain. What could he want? And what would he look like after what had happened to him? No one had ever managed to get that highly sought-after photograph.

  She spotted the car right away, an old Cadillac she thought only elderly people drove. It was parked in a side alley, behind a garbage dumpster and under the dim overhang of the building next door.

  Savannah’s footsteps slowed as it suddenly occurred to her that this might not be the safest situation to walk into alone. But she gathered her courage. She’d always relied on her instincts and those, along with the hesitant quality of Jonah Chamberlain’s voice on the phone, told her that her safety was not at risk.

  She walked to the passenger side door and pulled on the handle. It opened with a click that echoed in the empty alley and Savannah bent her head to peer inside.

  The man she recognized as Jonah Chamberlain was sitting in the driver’s seat, only his profile on display. Yes, it was him. His good looks were almost shocking in their classic perfection. But as he turned his head toward her, Savannah blinked. Oh God. The left side of his face, the side that had taken the full extent of the blast was scarred and stretched over his bones as though it’d melted that way.

  Her heart lurched with sympathy for him, for the agonizing pain he’d obviously experienced. She slid inside of the car, turning her body so she was facing him.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.” His hand, which had been resting on the steering wheel appeared to relax as he turned his body toward her as well. There was something . . . God, she used words for a living but none of the ones she’d become familiar with worked for this man. No, there was something beautifully fierce about him. Something that brought to mind ancient battles and warriors who walked through fire. A god who had fallen to earth and been scorched by the edge of a star. Lord, where were these descriptions coming from? Maybe she should have been a romance writer instead of a reporter. But geez, all she could think was that she was happily married. But if she wasn’t . . .

  Savannah cleared her throat, feeling awkward and sort of ridiculous. “This is a surprise.”

  He chuckled and it was full of something Savannah couldn’t read. “Yeah.” He paused for a moment, his expression becoming serious. “I want to thank you for that letter you sent me when I was in the hospital. It meant a lot.”

  She blinked at him. He had received it. He remembered. She nodded but before she could say anything, he picked up an envelope on his lap and handed it to her. There was a hard rectangular shape at the bottom.

  “It’s a phone.”

  “A phone? Whose phone?”

  “How much of the Murray Ridgley trial do you remember?”

  “Quite a bit.”

  He nodded. “Good.” He paused, peering through the windshield for a weighted minute. “I want to reclaim my life.” Jonah Chamberlain flinched slightly, the shadow of what looked like old hurt flitting across his dual face, seeming to settle on his scarred side as though that was where he carried pain and always would.

  And then he told her what he knew as she blinked at him, the enormity of the information hitting her full force.

  When he was finished laying out what could be the news story of the decade, full of corruption at the highest levels, he looked at her, his light brown eyes moving over her face, trying to determine if she really could be trusted perhaps.

  “I need someone who has contacts . . . who will know the best way to go about exposing what I’ve just told you.” He paused and the air in the car felt weighted. “Will you help me?”

  Savannah chewed at her lip, her mind buzzing, already arranging and rearranging the best way to handle this information, the list of people she’d grown to trust over her lackluster career who might be able to help her.

  She looked at the man sitting in front of her, the whirling thoughts in her mind slowing. This man had obviously lived with so much sitting upon his shoulders for so long. She wondered if, before now, he’d had anyone to help him bear the burdens he carried. Whether he had or not and for whatever his reasons, he’d chosen her and a feeling of deep honor caused her heart to constrict.

  “Yes, Jonah. I’ll help you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  He’d done it. He’d set the wheels in motion. I want to reclaim my life. Now what happened remained to be seen. Now what happened was in Savannah Hammond’s hands. But peace settled inside of him, the same peace he’d felt as he’d driven out of that alley.

  You have more friends than you realize, Augustus had said, and Jonah had chosen to trust him, bringing to mind not only those who had hurt and betrayed him, but those who had offered small tokens of kindness, of understanding.

  He’d done what Clara had accused him of doing—he’d put too much credence in the judgments of those who didn’t matter, and not enough in the ones who did.

  Clara.

  God, he owed her so much. His life maybe. She already had his heart.

  Spend that wish granting on your woman, Ruben had told him. Or hell, better yet, spend one on yourself. The only thing Jonah wanted was her. Clara. And all right, he wanted to find the bravery, the peace, Ruben had obviously found to walk out into the world and claim his scar
s for the things they stood for. Regrets, yes, and shame, definitely. But maybe, maybe, the fact that he’d overcome and that he strived to do better, to be better. But the only one who could make that wish come true was Jonah himself.

  Clara had been right. He needed to find his worth, to believe that it still existed. Eddy was right too, because he had given up on his own life.

  Jonah had spent the last two days going over the words Clara had said when she’d shown up to fight for him, turning them over, letting them in.

  Dance your heart out, he’d told Clara once upon a time. For your father. It’s what he would want.

  But he’d been a hypocrite, because instead of trying to live a life that would make his brother proud, he’d hidden himself away behind a damn wall. His brother hadn’t trusted him because he’d seen Jonah as a replica of their father, and hell, wasn’t that exactly what he’d been trying to be? And okay, the truth was, Jonah hadn’t trusted his brother either. They’d both been so busy trying not to be their father, and trying to be their father, that neither one had figured out who they were as individuals. The sadness of that, the true regret, the wasted time, was a knife to Jonah’s heart. But maybe it wasn’t too late.

  He wasn’t perfect. And I think all of these years you’ve pretended he was. You’ve put him on a pedestal and created some sort of saintly caricature in your mind. He wasn’t saintly. He was just a man. Just your brother. But I believe with all of my heart that he loved you and he’d want the best for you now.

  Somehow, Clara’s assertions had brought his brother closer to him. He felt more real in Jonah’s heart, not that one-dimensional caricature he’d painted Justin as for so long because of his own guilt.

  These last few days he’d been recalling the real Justin, his words, his spirit, his innate curiosity, and the sound of his laughter. And yes, his imperfections too. God, he missed him so much.

  “All right, fucker, we both wasted a lot of time. Help me out now, would you?” Jonah murmured to himself, willing to believe in that magic Clara believed in so fervently that she’d been willing to fight for him even when he was unwilling to fight for himself.

  Magic.

  Wishes.

  Spend that wish granting on your woman.

  Clara wanted him to come out from behind his wall, but not just for her, for himself. And the truth of the matter was that Clara was a woman who rarely wished for things for herself. Clara was a woman who spent her wishes on others.

  Help me help you, Angelina. The selfless wish that had brought Clara to him in the first place.

  Jonah almost laughed. Leave it to Clara to wish for the one thing he could not grant.

  You could try. The idea whispered through his mind, once and then again. You could try.

  He stared out of the open window of the living room at the late afternoon sun, the heavy floral curtains fluttering in the breeze. November first was a cool, bright day and brought with it the scent of fall: rich earth, crisp leaves, and that slightly smoky tinge to the air, a much appreciated reprieve from the steamy New Orleans summer. Peace settled over Jonah. Inexplicable. Comforting. He let it, not casting it aside as he’d done in the past, believing he didn’t deserve the feeling. He allowed it in, let it settle inside. Accepted the gift with a thankful sigh.

  Jonah closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair, taking in a lungful of the fresh air.

  Help me help you, Angelina.

  Clara had come to Windisle to solve a mystery for two dead people who were supposedly trapped. Jonah wasn't sure if he believed in that. But what if there was a way to bring that magic back to Clara in a very real way? To grant her wish? What if there was a way to find the note?

  Jonah lived on the same grounds where Angelina had lived and died. She'd been read the note inside of Windisle Manor, perhaps in the very same room where he now sat.

  Jonah had a sudden inexplicably clear picture in his head of Angelina squeezing the paper tightly in her fist as she wept. Maybe it hadn't been destroyed long ago. Maybe she'd hidden it somewhere. Maybe it'd been moved to the attic in one of the dusty boxes or trunks that littered the space.

  He’d told Clara he’d look for it, meaning to, but only to appease her, but then he never had. He had some making up to do with Clara and searching for the note was as good a place to start as any. Maybe it was under a floorboard in this very room. Jesus, where do I even start?

  Jonah stood. He’d at least try. For Clara, he'd try. If it came to nothing, that was okay. At least he’d have his own effort to give to her when he left this house and sought her out. At least he'd have something small to present—a tiny gift for all of the things she'd given him. But he didn’t want to think about that just yet—the seeking out. He was still working up to that part.

  Okay then, where to begin?

  Jonah turned his thoughts to the riddle of John and Angelina. The first question was, if they did linger, why? What did they want? Was it the curse that somehow kept them both there? A drop of Angelina's blood being brought to the light. The words the old priestess had said would break the curse. But what did it mean?

  "All right, Justin, you want to prove to me you're still the same busybody I always knew? You always did love the story of John and Angelina. And you always loved a good mystery. So help me—"

  The breeze gusted in, lifting the curtain and whipping it against the edge of the fireplace mantel where a knickknack rabbit rested. It fell to the floor with a sharp crack, but didn't break.

  Jonah huffed out a breath, bending down and retrieving it, replacing it on the mantel. As he rose to his full height, his eyes met his own, his face inches from the mirror that hung over the fireplace. He stared at himself for the first time in a long while, but this time, he tried his hardest to see himself not through the lens of his own self-hatred, not through the stares of those who’d turned away, but from Clara’s perspective. From Myrtle’s and Cecil’s and hell, even from the men who’d been to Windisle several days before, the men who’d become his friends, his brothers, and accepted him easily and without judgment.

  You give those people too much importance and not enough to the ones who matter.

  Jonah turned his face left, then right, then looked at himself full on. This was him now, and he needed to accept it. He’d never be the man he was before, but would he want to be? Yes and no, and he didn’t get to have both.

  He sighed, smoothing his fingers over the scars, remembering the look in Clara’s eyes as she’d touched him with love. With love. Jonah blew out a breath, missing her so desperately it made his skin break out in goosebumps. He ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, staring into his own eyes, the left one pulled tight, the color cloudier than the other.

  "God, I'm almost too handsome," he whispered, the way he used to do for his brother’s benefit as he got ready for high school in the morning. It had annoyed Justin, and as his brother, it was Jonah’s duty to do it regularly.

  Humble too.

  Jonah smiled, hearing in his head what had always been the exchange between the brothers. A private joke.

  Jonah turned his face, looking at his profile from both sides, re-learning himself maybe. The thing he’d refused to do all of these years. Instead he’d used strangers’ long-ago reactions as his mirror, as the thing that spoke of his worth. Or more precisely, the lack thereof.

  Since the day his brother had died and Jonah’s world ended, he hadn't wanted to look himself in the eyes, had avoided mirrors altogether. Only now . . . looking at himself didn't feel painful. In fact, he not only saw himself in the mirror—scars and all—but he saw his brother too. They’d looked so much alike.

  "You both got those Chamberlain good looks," their mother had always said. And suddenly it seemed like something to be treasured that Jonah got to see a piece of his brother in himself—even if only on one side—every time he looked in the mirror.

  And things . . . shifted. Jonah felt it inside, something clicking into place, and clearing some path that had bee
n previously blocked.

  He brought his fingertips to his jaw, his cheekbone, brushing his hair back, seeing the Chamberlain widow's peak.

  Chamberlain.

  Chamberlain.

  A drop of her blood . . .

  Jonah froze. No, it couldn't . . . Holy shit. He was a drop of her blood. Angelina’s.

  Her father, Robert Chamberlain, had been Jonah’s sixth great-grandfather. They’d called her a Loreaux, but really, she’d been a Chamberlain. He had the same blood as Angelina running through his veins. In fact, he was the only one left who did. His father was dead, his brother was gone, his aunt Lynette hadn't had children. He was the last of the Chamberlain blood.

  I’m the answer, he thought, shock and wonder crashing through him. At least in part.

  That vague ticking feeling he’d shared with Clara intensified inside of him, but no, it wasn’t ticking. It was pounding. Just like the pounding of hooves in that nightmare he couldn’t seem to shake. Hurry, hurry. Don’t let it be too late. He spun around, running his fingers through his hair, gripping his head.

  A drop of her blood being brought to the light. It seemed to chant in Jonah’s head along with the pounding of hooves on hard-packed earth, rising suddenly to overwhelm him, voices echoing somewhere in the recesses of his mind.

  A drop of her blood being brought to the light.

  A drop of her blood being brought to the light.

  The light. What was the light? He’d always pictured it as some cosmic glow . . . a description of the afterlife. But what if . . . what if Clara had been right? What if the light was . . . the truth? What if John's family had lied to Angelina just as Clara surmised? And what if exposing that by finding the note was what would break the curse?

  A drop of her blood being brought to the light.

  Me finding the truth.