by Jenn Burke
“Now I can go home,” she whispered—and was gone.
Of course. She hadn’t meant home as in where she lived with her family, but home—whatever came after death.
Hudson walked back out minutes later, his expression grim, and called it in.
Cops swarmed the scene. Hudson got out to fill them in, while I slouched low in the passenger seat of his cruiser. I stayed partially in the otherplane so no one would see me in the shadowed interior, but enough in the living plane so I could keep track of what was going on. Uniformed officers cordoned off the area with yellow tape and helped set up lights, while others in white overalls carried cases into the trees. A coroner’s van pulled up a few minutes later. No lights, no fuss, only a cold, silent vehicle of death.
A pair of plainclothes officers walked past. Like everyone else, they didn’t notice me.
“I can’t believe Rojas caught another weird one,” one of the suits murmured to the other. His voice slipped easily past the window I’d cracked open before the crowd arrived.
“Guy’s a magnet for this shit.”
My brows rose. He was?
“Pretty sketchy, if you ask me. Finding a crime scene randomly like this?”
“Right? Who thinks to venture into a vacant lot on the off chance there’s a clue about a year-old missing persons case?”
The cops moved on, but it made me think Hudson’s cover story needed some work.
I don’t know how much time passed before Hudson returned. He collapsed into the driver’s seat, and he looked like the mass of his body had tripled, as though gravity was pulling on him with extraordinary strength. He didn’t start the car, but instead leaned back and closed his eyes.
“We’re pretty sure it’s her,” he said softly. “Confirmation will be up to the ME, but...yeah. The clothes you described—they were on the missing person’s report and there was still enough left to—” His voice caught and he didn’t bother picking up the thread of what he’d been saying.
My hand itched. I wanted to reach out, to rub his arm or brush his cheek, to remind him he wasn’t alone, but that wasn’t my place anymore. “She’s gone. From the otherplane, I mean.”
Hudson rolled his head toward me. He suddenly looked fifty-eight—weary, exhausted, and worn down by the passing years. “Is that good?”
I thought of her happy, peaceful expression just before she disappeared. “Yeah. She’s moved on, to whatever comes after.”
Hudson squinted. “I thought you didn’t believe in God.”
“I don’t have to believe in God to know there’s something that comes after this.” I waved my hand at the world beyond the windshield. “Another dimension, another realm of existence, something.”
Someplace where maybe Amrita could live another life, one without such a tragic ending.
Hudson watched me for a moment, his face unreadable. His jaw ticked and his lips twitched, as though he wanted to say something but was holding himself back. Finally, the words escaped in a low, almost-growl. “That—what you did, finding her—it was a good thing.”
Hudson’s praise filled cracks in my chest I hadn’t realized were there. “Yeah?”
Despite his rough words, he looked at me like he might have when we’d been dating. His brown eyes promised warmth and comfort. A home. God, I’d forgotten how much I wanted that.
“Yeah.”
I clenched my jaw and directed my gaze out the passenger window at the milling cops. I’d helped. Maybe not the case I’d intended to help with, but I’d helped. It didn’t erase the guilt I still felt at doing nothing while Meredith was murdered, but it felt good to pay back some of that karmic debt.
I wanted to do more. “So what’s our next stop?”
An icy, emotionless shutter slammed down behind Hudson’s eyes. “I need to head back to the office. I’ve got paperwork to fill out.” By his tone, paperwork was one step above walking across hot coals. “And I need to look into Edward Harris some more.”
“He’s not our guy.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“You brought me along to tell you if someone’s otherplane shadow matched what I saw, and I’m telling you, Edward is not your guy.”
“I understand what you think you saw, but—”
“What I think I saw?”
“—but this guy suddenly has two murders connected to him,” Hudson continued coldly, undaunted. “Tangentially, yes, but two slightly connected murders are more than most people have in their lifetime, let alone in such a tight time span.”
I hated to admit it, but he had a point. “Under that logic, you need to consider Dave Galway too. An actor died in the first movie he directed. And now Meredith.”
“That was over the span of what? Twenty years? Not quite the same.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Who’s the detective here?”
I bristled at his sharp tone. “And who asked me to help?”
“Who said he wanted to help?”
“Are you—Did you just throw that back in my face?”
Hudson looked away. “Good news for you, you’re off the hook. You can go back to not giving a shit.”
“Not giving a—” I bit off the angry echo. “I don’t want to be off the hook.”
“Luckily I don’t have to care about what you want anymore.”
I sucked in a breath. Ow. When had Hudson learned how to wound so deftly with nothing more than words? Had he been this harsh when we’d dated? I didn’t think so, but maybe those days were more rose-colored in my memories than I thought.
“If this is how you treat people who help you out, it’s a wonder you have anyone you can call a friend.”
Hudson barked out a humorless laugh. “Who says I do?”
Strangely, that statement hurt more than any of the barbed ones he’d directed at me, because it was so anti who Hudson used to be. Where was the warmth I remembered for a stranger in a grocery store? Where was the joy?
What had happened in the past thirty-three years to make Hudson so harsh, so cynical?
* * *
The next day, I showed up at the hospital with Lexi’s favorite concoction—a giant lactose-free mocha with an extra shot of espresso and a dash of cinnamon. Let it not be said that I didn’t know how to make an apology—though I knew there would be more phases to this one.
When I got close enough, Lexi snatched the cup from my hand and cuddled it to her chest. “Baby.”
“That kinda day, huh?”
“You have no idea. Hon, I’m good to take my break now, right?”
The nurse at the desk waved her hand. “Yep. Go. I got it covered.”
When we found a seat in the cafeteria, I leaned over the table and extended a hand. “I owe you a week of mochas. I’m sorry I screwed up.”
It had been eating at me since she’d left my apartment. We’d texted since—Lexi wasn’t one to pull out the silent treatment if she was pissed—but I hated that I’d flaked on my commitment to her. Even if I had a good reason.
Lexi gave me an apologetic smile and squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry I got mad. I just—”
“I understand. You were hoping to get answers.”
“I should confront her.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Maybe? I mean...it’s pretty clear you don’t trust her anymore.”
“I don’t.” She let out a wry little chuckle. “Maybe it’s less about her and more about me. Even if I’m wrong and she’s not cheating...what’s it say about me that I’m so convinced she is? Am I looking for an excuse to get out?”
“I don’t think your suspicions are wrong. But yeah, sometimes you get to a point when you’re done.”
“Is that what happened with you and your cop?”
Oh, I knew that innocent look. That was the “share your life’s knowledge, o wise one”
expression she used, mostly to get me talking shit about things I had no business talking about. It worked when I was drunk, not so much when I was sober.
I wagged a finger at her. “Uh-uh. Nope. Out of bounds.”
“How is it out of bounds? I need relationship advice.”
“You want details.”
“That too,” Lexi admitted shamelessly. She leaned over the table, her weight braced on her forearms. “Did you end up calling him?”
“Yeah.”
I’m not sure if there was something in my voice, or if it was how I wouldn’t meet her eyes, but Lexi gasped. “Oh my god—did you see him? Did you go on a date?”
“Whoa—a date? Hell no.”
“But you saw him.”
Crap. “Yeah.”
“And?” When I didn’t answer instantly, she growled. Actually growled. “Wes.”
“Gah. Why do I like you?”
“Because without me you would be a little bundle of constipated thoughts and feelings.”
I snorted out a laugh, because good god, it was true. So I told her everything—about that first, awful in-person conversation with Hudson, deciding to help, and Hudson recruiting me to identify the killer via his otherplane shadow. Then I shared the news about finding the little girl’s body. When I was done with that bit, the sparkle in Lexi’s eyes had diminished.
“Was it her?” she asked softly.
“Yeah. Hudson texted me before he went off shift.”
“That was a good thing you did.”
Hudson had said the same, and it had warmed me at the time—but over the intervening hours, I’d realized something. “Anyone else who could have seen her would have helped.”
My actions weren’t special, or heroic. They were merely the morally correct ones. What did it say about me that Hudson and Lexi were praising me so effusively? That they’d never expected me to take that sort of action?
“But you’re the one who did see her, and you’re the one who rescued her from limbo.”
Rolling my shoulders, I let out a shivery breath. “I feel unsettled.”
“Understandable. You’ve had a lot thrown at you over the past couple of days.”
“Does it make me an awful person if the part that’s affecting me the most is how much Hudson’s changed?” And not witnessing a murder?
“No. He’s the one part of things that’s connected to you, personally.”
True. “I mean, he looks different—of course he does. But not so different that he isn’t Hudson anymore. So there’s this silver fox Hudson running around, doing un-Hudson-like things.”
“Like?”
My plastic chair creaked in protest as I leaned back. “Deliberately provoking me.”
“Well...” Lexi drew out the word as she tilted her head. “You’re kind of provokable.”
“I am not.”
She arched a brow.
“Okay, maybe a little. But he never used to be so mean about it. Like, in Meredith’s house, he went on like he thought I could have murdered her. For a few minutes I thought he seriously believed I had.”
“Maybe he was trying to put you off balance to make sure you didn’t do it.”
“Except he already knew I couldn’t have. He admitted as much—that he knew I didn’t have the strength to overpower her. So the only reason for him to try to intimidate me was—”
“To intimidate you. But why?”
I looked out the window for a moment without seeing anything. “Do you think...he might resent me?”
“Resent—Oh. Because you’re...you.” She grimaced. “Maybe? Even though he knew you wouldn’t age, seeing it might be tough.”
And hadn’t he said pretty much the same thing when he’d first appeared in my apartment doorway? Resentment could lead to lashing out—attacking me for doing nothing more than existing. It sucked—it sucked hard. But I couldn’t blame him. If our roles were reversed, I couldn’t say I wouldn’t be bitter.
Except I’d always thought Hudson was better than that. Better than me, if I was going to be completely honest. I’d always had this quiet voice in my head questioning why the hell he was with me. A cop and a recovery specialist—thief?
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He’s got a suspect and he doesn’t need me anymore.”
Lexi’s crooked smile reminded me of Hudson’s. “Then the more fool him.”
I checked my phone as she finished her mocha and frowned at a new email that had come in on my work account. I didn’t recognize the address, which wasn’t unusual, but it had a recognizable reference number, so it was a legit inquiry.
Your presence is required to discuss a lucrative job opportunity. Come to the address listed below at five p.m. today and details will be provided. Your discretion is paramount; you must attend alone.
I considered not responding—the “thou shalt” tone of the message raised my hackles—but the referral had come from one of my most consistent clients in the past few years, an investigator employed by a Mississauga law firm. He didn’t use my skills lightly—he only brought me in on his toughest cases, where all other, more legitimate courses of action had failed to achieve whatever he needed to achieve. I could count on one hand the number of codes he’d given out in the past five years, so to see one of his on this message was...interesting. In a maybe not-so-good way.
Against my better judgment, I typed out a quick reply to let them know I didn’t do in-person meets, but I would be happy to provide a drop box where they could leave instructions if they didn’t want to do it over email.
Lexi left me at the front doors with a hug and a promise to call later. I headed out to the parking lot and my decrepit old Camry. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the pavement. Out of habit, I checked my phone before I got moving.
The potential new client had replied with a wordy, rambling message which basically boiled down to “I insist.” I read through the email twice to see if I could shake the sense of hell no I had on the first reading. If anything, my gut screamed even louder on the second go-through that this was not a client I wanted.
My self-preservation instinct was pretty strong. In fact, I’d only ignored it once—because I’d been stupid(er), in love, and convinced that whatever I had to do to stay with Michael, I would. Even if it meant not staying at all. But since then, following my gut had turned into something of a religion for me.
I typed out, “Not interested” and sent it. Time to burn another email address—I was about due for that, anyway. I had no illusions that changing my email every few months would keep the authorities off my trail if I ever showed up on their radar—which, if I kept my clients happy, probably wouldn’t happen—but it helped me be a little less accessible. You couldn’t hop on a website and find my contact info—you had to know someone who’d been a client of mine long enough to gain a referral code, which I changed frequently too. It wasn’t a failsafe system, but it had worked since I started using tech instead of doing the clandestine meeting thing in dark corners of questionable restaurants.
Since I hated talking on the phone while I drove, even if it was on Bluetooth, I waited until I got home to call Iskander Hassan, the law firm investigator who’d referred Mr. High-and-Mighty.
I barely let him get out his first name in his typical greeting before I said, “What the hell, Isk?”
“Ghost?”
Yeah, it was a little on the nose, but that’s what my clients knew me as. I mean, it was accurate.
“You know I hate those types of clients.”
“Hold—wait—back up.” I could picture Iskander pinching the bridge of his nose, a gesture I’d seen far too often in our in-person meetings. I never shared my real name—no one needed it—but unlike the random referrals, my regulars got to see me face-to-face. Not sure it was a bonus, but whatever. “What client?”
“The one you just referred to me.”
“I didn’t—”
“They had your code.”
“They had my code?”
“What’s with the echo?”
“Ghost. Take a breath and let me think.”
I stopped pacing and sat, giving him a minute to collect his thoughts.
Or a few seconds, anyway. “If you didn’t give it out, how did they get your code?”
Iskander let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like Hudson’s can’t react don’t react noise. “I don’t know. I—” When he spoke again, his voice was almost a whisper. “What the hell is this?”
“What?”
“There’s a meeting in my calendar for twelve thirty today.”
“And...?”
He was quiet for a beat. “I can’t remember meeting anyone at twelve thirty.”
“Were they a no-show?”
“No, I—They showed.”
“So you do remember.”
“I remember...being annoyed that Rene scheduled a meeting for my lunch hour. I hate when he does that. So I asked him to pick me up lunch to have after the meeting. He wasn’t here when the client came in, and I...” Iskander huffed out a breath. “And nothing.”
All of my twitches had disappeared by now, washed away by the concern in Iskander’s voice. He wasn’t playing me—I’d known the guy for too long, and he’d always been up front, honest, a good addition to my network. “That’s fucking weird, Isk.”
“Tell me about it. I don’t even have a name on the agenda.”
But he’d been comfortable enough to give out my referral code. A code he rarely shared. None of it made sense. “How’s your workload? Are you overwhelmed?”
“I didn’t think I was.” Iskander chuckled without a drop of humor in it. “Shit.”
If it wasn’t work stress...what was it?
Magic?
Despite having a family of witches as my closest relatives in all but blood, I didn’t know a hell of a lot about magic. After coming back to life—and freaking out, because resurrection was not supposed to be a thing—I’d tried to ignore the weirdness in the world as much as possible. At first I’d done it to protect my sanity, but now it was a habit. Pretending I didn’t know other paranormal creatures—people—existed made the world less overwhelming. It was enough that I had to deal with my own abilities. I knew bits and pieces about magic—like how it couldn’t be used reliably for personal gain. There was a karma thing April had told me about way back when—what you sent out into the world, good or bad, you got back—but magic rebelled when the witch used it for their benefit. April had always wondered if that’s why the spell she cast to bring me back had gone wonky—there’d been a personal element there, an effort to absolve herself and her family of guilt that was never theirs to shoulder to start with.