by Erin Huss
“To be honest, I don’t even care anymore.” He stands and thrusts a hand through his hair. “I visited Billy. She was the happiest I’ve seen her in a while. She thinks my name is going to be cleared.” He traces the swirls on the oak dresser between us. “Even if everyone thinks I killed Margo, it doesn’t matter. Billy has peace of mind, and she deserves it. I know. Margo knows. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does. I’m almost positive a spirit told Margo incriminating information regarding Sheriff Vance, and that’s what got her killed. We just need to figure out what that was …” A piece of paper slips from between the pages of the dictionary and falls to the floor. I bend down to have a look. It’s an article printed off from the Los Angeles Times, and the title reads "Three-Year-Old Burns Down Home While Making Bacon."
Oh, no!
A Los Angeles family lost everything after their three-year-old daughter burned down their home and destroyed all their possessions.
The fire began when the three-year-old attempted to make a pound of bacon in a cast iron skillet. Her parents were both asleep at the time and woke when the fire alarm went off. By the time they reached the kitchen, the cabinets were already up in flames.
The family was able to escape unharmed.
“This is a real tragedy for them,” a neighbor told Good Morning America. “They’re not bad parents, but their little girl does need help. She claims to see dead people.”
Child Protective Services has been contacted, and the girl has been referred to the Juvenile Fire Setters Program.
“Ah!” I slap a hand over my mouth. Oops. I didn’t mean to scream. But, honestly, ahhhhhhh!
“What happened?” Drew is at my side.
“Th-th-th-this is … me,” I stutter out, trembling all over. “Sh-she had an article about m-me. Wh-why would she have this? Why was it in a medical dictionary?”
Drew reads over my shoulder. “Damn girl, you made national news?”
“Oh gosh, I didn’t even catch that.” Not that it matters.
I crawl over to the boxes and start rifling through stuff, taking out books and shaking them because it appears Margo and Brenda liked to hide important documents between the pages.
“Zoe.” Drew frowns. “Someone is coming.”
My heart jumps into my throat. “Who?”
Drew walks through the wall and returns shortly. “It’s Mike.”
I look around at Margo and Brenda’s stuff scattered around the floor. “That’s not good.”
“Probably not,” Drew says.
I can hear Mike right outside the rolling aluminum door, and I shovel everything back into the boxes, throw the lid on, and hide behind a big oak headboard propped up against the wall.
“The Handhoff kid is outside,” Drew says then shoves his head through the wall. “He’s looking for the lock.”
Crap. It’s in my purse.
“He thinks his dad cut it off, again.”
Again?
The door rolls open.
“The Handhoff kid is now entering the storage unit,” Drew says. “I repeat, the Handhoff kid is entering the storage unit.”
Mike flips the switch, and the overhead light turns on. I curl into a ball, willing myself to become one with the wall. Mike cannot find me here.
“The Handhoff kid’s pants are extra tight tonight. Is that a thing nowadays, or do you think he doesn’t know how to wash his clothes?”
I bite my lip, stifling a giggle. This is no time for laughing, but Drew’s narration of Mike’s actions is quite amusing.
“He’s bending down, but seriously. What material are those pants made of? How do his boys breathe in there?”
I can hear a cabinet door open and shut.
“He just pulled out another box labeled Tax Returns.”
Oh, good. A new box. I only hope he doesn’t take it with him.
“Dude, where is it?” Mike says under his breath. “I swear it was in one of these … hello?”
I hold my breath.
“Is there someone in here?” Mike calls out.
“Are you breathing too loud, Zoe?” Drew asks. “Cause the Handhoff kid thinks someone is here.”
I am not breathing at all.
There’s a long stretch of silence. I nearly cave and announce my presence, until I hear a crash.
“Dammit!” Mike grunts.
“Looks like Handhoff’s kid's got himself a temper. He just threw a box at me.”
Mike doesn’t seem like the type to have a temper, but I do sense his frustration. He’s looking for something important. Something … that belonged to … belonged to … Margo … a … a … crap! He’s looking for Medium Mind: A Step-by-Step Guide that’s hidden under my bed.
There’s another crash, and I flinch. I can hear paper fluttering in the air, hard objects slamming against the wall, and glass shattering on the floor.
“Uh … pretty sure the Handhoff kid is having some sort of nervous breakdown. The pants must be cutting off the circulation to his brain. This might be a good time to retreat.”
Agreed. But if Mike is already upset, imagine what he’ll do when he finds out I stole (well, more like borrowed for purposes of investigation) Margo’s book and broke into his storage unit.
Mike screams out a few explicit words. What the heck is happening?
“Handhoff kid just dumped an entire box worth of stuff on the ground,” Drew says.
That’s it, I decide. I can stay hidden no longer.
Mike is clearly going through some kind of emotional turmoil, and I can help. I just don’t want to help while trapped inside this storage unit.
I roll to my hands and knees, still behind the headboard. There’s a narrow tunnel behind the furniture I can crawl through to get to the opening. Once there, I’ll let Mike know what I’ve done. Should he decide to go after me, I’ll have some place to run.
It’s a tight squeeze, and I’m careful not to make a sound. I manage to get to the opening, but I’m too late. Mike turns off the lights and slams the door shut before I can do anything. There’s a distinct “click” of a combination lock.
“So we’re locked in here now,” Drew says.
I squeeze behind the recliner, trying really hard not to panic. I push a box out of the way and stand up. “Where did he get a lock?”
“He grabbed one out of that.” He points to a dresser. “There’s a bunch in there.”
I think I’m going to pass out. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I-ah-I-ah-yo-um,” he stammers, moving his arms around helplessly.
“This is not happening.” I pound on the door with my fists. “Help! Open up! Help! Help! Help!” I slide my phone out of my pocket. “Crap! I still don’t have reception in here!” I feel a surge of anxiety coming over me, and I pound, kick, and ram my body (shoulder first) into the door, all the while screaming, “Get me out of here!”
Nothing.
No one can hear me.
“Okay … it’s going to be okay. I mean … we’ll figure this out.” I find the light switch behind a mattress and flip it on. “Holy hell.”
The place is a mess. Papers and pictures are strewn across the floor, glass shards on almost every available surface. A Danielle Steel book is open with a footprint smudged on the page.
“Oh, my gosh. I can’t believe he did this.”
I step through the mess and pick up a broken picture frame. Inside is an old photo of a handsome man with a Davy Crockett hat on. Careful not to cut myself on a shard of glass, I remove the picture and flip it over.
Grandpa John Stolper, Paramount Studios 1958
I look up at Drew, but he’s avoiding eye contact. “Drew, you said you found your hat in a trash bag.”
“I did!” he says defensively.
“Where was the trash bag?” I demand.
He inspects the floor.
“Drew, is this the hat?” I shove the picture up to his face, and he turns his back. “Drew! Answer me!”
“Fine!” He turns around. �
��The trash bag was at Margo’s. But she was throwing it away.”
Oh no, I feel sick. “Why were you at Margo’s house?”
“I told you I was a thief.”
I drop the picture and slap my hands over my mouth. “You didn’t, Drew.”
“Yes, I broke into her place. I never denied it.”
“No, you omitted, which is the same thing.”
“This isn’t my fault. I came to you for help finding my hat. You’re the one who said Margo told you I didn’t kill her.”
I stumble backwards. “D-did you kill her?”
“I thought I did, but you said I didn’t!”
“Oh no, Drew. You said you couldn’t remember what happened that night because you were baked.”
“I was baked,” he says. “But I do remember breaking in. Handhoff said she had a lot of money from a rich grandpa, which is how she could afford all the legal fees to keep the kid from him. All I wanted was a few bucks to buy food. It wasn’t my fault she came home. It was self-defense.”
“You hit her on the back of the head! How is that self-defense?”
“She turned around to grab a gun, or a knife, or something! I had to get out of there. She wasn’t supposed to die. I didn’t even know she was dead until the police came to my house. I thought she was knocked out.”
This is too much. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
“Because I thought maybe you were right! Maybe someone came in after me and actually killed her. I didn’t hit her that hard. Just enough to get away. It’s possible.”
“You still should have told me it was you who broke in!”
“I’m sorry!”
“I don’t even know if I can believe you.” Except, Margo said her death wasn’t Drew’s fault … wait, wait, wait. She didn’t exactly say Drew. She said he didn’t do it.
Who the hell is he then?
“I did omit a few things. But I’ve never lied to you,” Drew says. “I wanted the hat. That’s it. That’s why I found you.”
I shake my head trying desperately to understand. “What do you mean you found me? You didn’t just appear?”
“I remember you from the courthouse. You were always talking to an imaginary person named Willie. And there was a really rich old guy named Willie who had just died, so I figured you were talking to his ghost. After I died, I thought you could help me find my hat.”
“Oh, my gosh. I assumed you just appeared to me. That’s what happened to every other spirit I’ve worked with.” I rub my chest, finding it hard to catch my breath. “You did kill Margo, didn’t you?”
“I thought I did until you told me I didn’t! It’s your fault. You’re the one who told me I was innocent. I believed you!”
This is not happening. This is not happening.
“Come on, Zoe. Don’t look at me like that,” Drew says. “I already feel guilty for not telling you I broke into Margo’s and for keying your car.”
“What!” It feels like my head is to explode. “Why would you key my car?”
“So you’d stop messing around with Handhoff. That guy is dangerous and you wouldn’t listen to me. Then you went on a tangent about about Sheriff Vance, and a brown-eyed kid, and burning down houses with bacon, and a Mercedes Man, and … I dunno. I was confused.”
“Then you say, ‘Hey, Zoe. I’m confused because I remember smacking Margo on the back of the head. Just like the reports said she died.’ You don’t key my car.”
“I thought your insurance would cover it.”
I feel like throwing something at him. So I do. A book. Not that it matters. It sails right through him. “What a complete waste of my freaking time! I ruined my relationship with Mike. I left a date with the man of my dreams!”
“Aha! I told you it was a date.”
I shoot him a look.
“Sorry.” He shoves his hands into the front pockets of his pants. “Continue.”
“Did you throw a joint right outside the door?”
“Yeah … probably. Pretty sure I did that. Which was stupid, because I made sure I wore gloves. Okay … you look really mad.”
“Well done, Colombo!” Except I am not mad. I’m furious! I feel so stupid. So incredibly stupid.
Why did Margo mean when she said and please tell him my death is not his fault. I know he didn’t do it. What did she mean when she said I was in more trouble than I even knew and be careful who I told about my … oh, gosh. No. “No. No. No!”
“What now?”
“You! Margo was talking about you! No wonder she won’t appear to me. I’m conversing with her murderer!”
“Ah … yeah, she probably doesn’t want much to do with me.”
I want to curse.
So I do.
“Geez, Lane,” Drew mumbles under his breath. “You sound like my dad.”
“You don’t get to have an opinion on what I say or what I do!” I start pacing. “But then what about Handhoff and Sheriff Vance and the Mercedes Man?”
“I don’t know.” Drew holds up his palms. “I seriously just wanted my hat until you said I didn’t actually kill Margo. Then I wanted to catch who did kill her. I swear I felt like someone got away with homicide, buuuuttttt …” He stumbles to the side. “Whaaaa …”
I fold my arms.
“Zzzzooooeeeee.” He’s moving in slow motion, flickering in and out of focus.
Okay, I can’t pretend I don’t care anymore.
“What’s happening?” I ask.
“I aaaammmm …” And, poof. He’s gone.
Which doesn’t seem like a big of deal, until I realize he was my only way out of this storage unit.
Crap.
“Help! Help! Help! Help! Help! Help!”
Chapter Thirteen
I didn’t consider myself claustrophobic until about an hour ago. Now I’m positive that not only am I claustrophobic, but I’m also cleithrophobic (fear of being locked in an enclosed place). I might also have syncope (occurs when you faint because your body overreacts to certain triggers), but that’s only because I’m flipping through the medical dictionary, trying to keep myself from having a myocardial infarction (heart attack). I’m pretty sure I have decision fatigue (the deteriorating quality of decisions made by an individual) because I cannot believe the spirit who I tried to vindicate was guilty all along. What a stupid, arrogant pseudologue (compulsive liar)!
Okay, it’s probably time to put the medical dictionary away.
I return the book to where I found it.
The truth is, Drew isn’t a compulsive liar. His explanation makes perfect sense. I’m conflicted on how I feel about him. Yes, he killed Margo. It was an accident, but he did do it. He doesn’t have a dark spirit, but he does make poor choices.
I take off my sweater and drape it over the back of the recliner. Crud! I don’t even know what to do. I’ve screamed until my voice is hoarse. I’ve thrown stuff at the door without making a dent. My phone still says No Service, and no one knows I’m here but Drew.
And I don’t even know where he went!
With nothing else left to do, I start cleaning up Margo and Brenda’s belongings and put them in the boxes. It still strikes me as odd that Margo specifically said tell him my death is not his fault. I know he didn’t do it.
Then there’s still the child in Sheriff Vance’s head. And why did Margo have an article about me? And why was she skipping town? Why did she want me to know that she'd ordered Reaching the Other Side?
Maybe I’m making something out of nothing?
It is really hard to think when you really have to pee and you’re really stuck in a bathroom-less room.
I gather all of Margo’s pictures together into a pile. Most are of Margo from her pre-Fernn Valley days. She sure did go on a lot of vacations. There are pictures of her in front of the Eiffel Tower, both the one in Vegas and in Paris. She took a lavish trip to some place tropical with white sandy beach, clear water, colorful fish, and bungalows right on the shore. There is anoth
er woman in many of the photos, she looks similar to Margo, and I assume it’s her sister, Linney.
It appears Margo had quite the life, makes me wonder why she gave it all up to come here and raise a child that wasn’t hers. Sure, Brenda was her best friend, but that seems like a lot to ask.
Then again, I’ve never had a best friend, so what do I know?
I go kick, scream, and ram into the door for a while. Check if I have cell service (nope). Try to find a bucket to relieve myself (nope). Then retreat back to Margo’s stuff, still needing to pee.
The situation is getting dire.
I notice a folder under a mess of papers. It’s tied with a red string but not sealed. Might as well look. Since I’m not going anywhere.
Inside I find papers from a Dr. Hagan, a psychiatrist in Portland. So he did exist!
It’s a patient file.
RECORDS FOR: Michael Handhoff
Age: 9
HISTORY: I was contacted by Ms. Margo Stolper, the patient’s legal guardian, after she read my article on anxiety in children published in The Medical Journal. She said Michael “Mike” Handhoff experiences severe anxiety, has difficulty sleeping, and he spends a great deal of time alone in his room. Mike refers to himself in third person, and he has tried to sneak out of the house on numerous occasions. When confronted by Ms. Stolper about where he is going, Mike avoids eye contact and refuses to answer. Ms. Stolper says Mike underwent behavioral therapy starting at the age of three until his mother died in a car accident when he was seven. Ms. Stolper is seeking a diagnosis, medication management, and coping skills.
ASSESSMENT: I met with Mike in my office at ten o’clock in the morning. He appeared pleasant and was interested in a Hot Wheels track set I had in the toy closet. We put together the track while we got to know each other. Mike made eye contact and told me about what he ate for breakfast. The more relaxed he became, the harder time he had making eye contact. During our hour meeting, he kept looking over his shoulder. When I asked him what he was looking at, he refused to answer. We continued to play with the cars. I asked what he liked to do for fun and he said, “I play with my friends.” When I asked him what his friends’ names were he replied, “Never mind. I don’t have any friends.” I asked if he enjoyed living with Ms. Stolper, and he said he did. When I asked why he tried to run away, he said, “I can’t talk about it,” and looked over his shoulder. When I asked about his father, he said his dad, “was a very bad man, and I don't like spending time with him.” I asked if he’d ever hurt Mike, and he said, “No.”