Three Heartbeats Away: The Mortician's Daughter, #3

by C. C. Hunter

  She had to have seen us hug. This can’t be good.

  I keep driving. The moment I come to a side street, I turn, put my car in park, and text Hayden: Brandy’s parked across from your house.

  Three dots appear, then disappear. And so does the sweetness of Hayden’s hug. I remember his figuring-out comment.

  Why does everything in my life have to be so screwed up?

  I head home. When I pull up in my drive, I get a text.

  Hayden: Don’t worry. She didn’t see us.

  I get out of my car and slam the door with gusto. First, I don’t believe she didn’t see us. Second, why do I suddenly feel like Hayden’s dirty little secret?

  Dad texts me at 4:45 asking if I’m home and saying he’s picking up Chinese.

  I text back: Home. Not hungry.

  I already downed four marshmallow treats—yeah, I forgot to eat lunch—and now debate what I’m going to say to Dad. I’ve prepared a few lines, all pain-filled that convey what I feel. The more I think about it, the angrier I get. Yet it’s not all targeted toward Dad, but at a woman out there somewhere who looks like me and cared so little she just walked away. Even now, knowing I’m aware that she’s alive, she still hasn’t called.

  Does she expect me to go to her? Or does she really not want me in her life?

  I’m stretched out on my bed, staring at the ceiling fan when I hear Dad’s car pull up. My pulse starts racing, my palms begin to sweat, and my heart ducks as if it knows this is going to hurt.

  “Riley?” I hear Dad call out.

  I roll out of bed and head downstairs. My footsteps echo like a percussion piece to the pain that’s sure to follow. My gut says this is going to change things. This is the Pandora’s box I’ve suspected was waiting for me to open it.

  When I get into the kitchen, Dad’s setting the table. The smell of Chinese food already flavors the air.

  “I got cashew chicken and egg drop soup.” He focuses on the plates.

  “I told you I’m not hungry.”

  He stops, picks up the plate, and sets it down on the counter. He gazes over at me. His eyes show a man who’s hurting, a man who’s guilty, a man who’s scared. “Me neither. How about I put it in the refrigerator for later.”

  I nod. He places the dishes on the counter and deposits the bag of food in the fridge. He walks back with two waters. “Sit down.”

  I drop in a chair. He does the same.

  Leaning forward, he pushes one water bottle to me. “Does your eye hurt?”

  I shake my head.

  He rests his hands on the table, and his fingers almost silently tap against the oak top, but I can hear them like background noise. I swear my heart matches the rhythm.

  Thump, thump, thump, thump.

  Thump, thump, thump, thump.

  “Let me start by saying I’m sorry. I was wrong, and I realize that…now.”

  I gaze up from his drumming fingers, but I don’t say anything. All that preparation, words I carefully chose, questions I needed answers to, are drowned in the liquid hurt filling my chest.

  He continues, “She said she needed to go away, to paint and be by herself for a few days. I was worried. She was so depressed, but she insisted, and I finally said fine. I made her a reservation at a nice bed and breakfast. She left early on Friday. I called her that night, and she wouldn’t answer her phone. I figured she just needed to be alone, and I didn’t worry. But she didn’t call the next day. I called again, and she still wouldn’t answer. So I called the B&B owner. She said she’d packed up her stuff and left that morning.”

  He opens the water and takes a sip. “I called her phone like a dozen times, leaving messages, begging her to call me, to come home. Telling her I loved her. That you missed her. She didn’t call back until Monday. She said she wasn’t coming home. That she couldn’t do it anymore. She couldn’t be my wife or your mother. I could hear flight announcements in the background. I knew she was at the airport. When we hung up, I called the bank.”

  He swallows hard. “Your mom cleaned out all our savings. It was only seven thousand, but it was all I had. She left me two hundred in checking. Our mortgage was more than that.”

  Tears fill his eyes. Tears fill mine.

  He laces his hands together and squeezes them. “I was furious, but I still loved her. A few weeks went by. I called her. She answered, and I told her I still wanted her to come home. She said she was finally happy.” He stares out the window.

  I watch a tear slip down his cheek. The air feels thin, as if his pain has sucked the oxygen out of it.

  “For months, I still called her at least twice a week. Gave her updates on you and begged her to come home. Then one day, she stopped answering. After about six months went by, I hired someone to find her. She was in Florida. I had an employee at the funeral home watch you, and I went there. I was going to bring her home.”

  He stares at his hands. “I was willing to forgive her. She wouldn’t come with me. I got furious. I told her that if she didn’t come back she’d never see you again.” His voice shakes. “She said you were probably better off without her.”

  He stops talking for several long seconds. I see his Adam’s apple bob up and down, then he continues. “In the past, you’d been curious about what I did for a living. I told you that I helped people go to heaven. Then one day, I found you staring at her picture and you asked me again where your mama was.”

  He lets out a pound of oxygen. “When I didn’t answer, you got tears in your eyes and asked, ‘Did Mama go to heaven?’ I know it was wrong, but in that moment, I thought you believing she was dead was better than believing she didn’t want you, or us, anymore.”

  He drops his chin to his chest for a second, then lifts it and meets my gaze almost as if he knows he has to face me when he says it. “I said yes. You cried, but you accepted it.” His shoulders drop with the confession.

  I sit there, tears gliding down my cheeks, and I finally speak. “But…” My voice is raw and raspy. “But why not tell me the truth when I got older? Why did you keep lying and telling me she died of an aneurysm?”

  He hesitates, almost as if he’s searching for the answer. “I think I was ashamed of lying. And…she’d filed for divorce only a few months before you came to me with more questions. I was so angry at her. Maybe…maybe some part of me felt I was getting back at her. I don’t know why, Riley, I just did it. But it wasn’t to hurt you.”

  “But it did hurt me!” I swallow, then continue, “And when she called and wanted to see me? Why not tell me then? Why keep lying to me?”

  “Because…I raised you. You’re all I have. I love you with every ounce of my being, and I was afraid. Afraid you’d hate me for lying. That I’d lose you to her. So every time she called, I’d say—”

  “Wait! What?” I shove away from the table. “Every time? How often did she call?” When he doesn’t immediately answer, I lose it. “How often? Tell me, Dad!” My voice is no longer thin and weak. It’s so harsh and heavy with hurt. It doesn’t even sound like my own voice.

  He presses his hands on the table. “Holidays. Your birthday.”

  “And you just kept lying to me! How could you do that? How in the hell could you think it was okay?”

  “I’m sorry, Riley,” he says. “I get it. I was wrong. And I know you have every right in the world to meet her and hear her side of the story. I just don’t want her to make you hate me.”

  “If I hate you, Dad, it’s not because of her. It’s because of you. Because of your lies.”

  I jump up so fast my chair falls backward and clatters on the tile floor. I bolt out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

  I’m yanked out of the oblivion of sleep, unsure if it’s the cold or my ringing phone that wakes me up. I sit up. My eyes feel gritty from crying myself to sleep. I look at the clock on my bedside table. It’s only eight-thirty in the evening. I’ve only been asleep for two hours.

  Another wave of cold brushes over me. I swipe my hair from my fa
ce and see the bride pacing at the foot of my bed. Something’s different.

  It only takes a second to realize what it is. She doesn’t have the knife in her chest. Not that she’s wedding perfect. Her eyes are bloodshot, probably like mine. Her hair appears tangled and uncombed. Her face carries streaks of dirt. In her hands, she’s holding a piece of paper.

  I instantly recall my last vision, where a note had been pushed under the locked door. When she turns, I read what is written in large block letters. Put on the dress.

  I let go of a breath that holds fear and empathy and steam. The wisps of fog rise from my lips. The cold bites into my skin. My phone continues to ring, but I ignore it.

  The spirit stops, meets my eyes, and frowns. “He’s doing it again. You have to stop him.” Her voice is different. Not so angry or self-absorbed. I think I’m getting my first real peek at Shane Casey without bitterness.

  “Doing what again?” I ask for clarification. “Who’s doing what?”

  “The man who killed me. He’s trying to take another woman.”

  My spine tightens. “Who? Is he taking them now? Where are they?” My phone stops ringing.

  She shakes her head. “No, he’s messaging another woman about her wedding dress.”“Through the website Weddings For Less? Is that how he found you?”

  She nods. “He’s supposed to meet her Saturday night.”

  “Where?” A shot of panic runs through me. “What’s her name? What’s his name? Can you describe him?”

  “He told me it was Eric, but I think he was lying. I read some of his message to her. She goes by Barbara. But I didn’t see where he was going to meet her. I only read the last line, which said ‘See you Saturday night.’”

  “Okay.” Today’s Tuesday. I have some time. But is it enough? “What does he look like, Shane?”

  “Light brown hair. I don’t remember the color of his eyes.”

  “How tall is he?”

  “Taller than me. Not heavy. Not thin.” She shivers as if remembering scares her.

  I jump off the bed. I want to write this down so I won’t forget. The oak planks feel like ice to my bare feet.

  “Are you going to stop him?” she asks.

  “I’m going to try.” I jot down what she told me on a notepad. My mind races with what to do. Think, think, think. What else do I need to ask her?

  “Where is he now?” I turn back to her, but she’s gone. “Shane, come back. I can’t do this alone.” My words echo in my empty room.

  I drop on my bed, and I mentally sift through all the data she gave me. Barbara. Weddings For Less website. An idea starts to form. I can find every Barbara on there and send them a message. It’ll probably bring the police right to my doorstep, but what choice do I have?

  I turn to my laptop, and my phone returns to ringing. And at the same time, I hear the doorbell chirping downstairs.

  I stand there and listen, waiting for Dad to answer it. It rings once, twice, three times.

  Did Dad leave? A thought hits. A bad thought. Did our talk push him over the edge and he went out drinking? Has he already gotten drunk? What if he tried to drive home and had an accident?

  Shit, shit, shit!

  Pain explodes in my chest when I realize that if something happens to him it’ll be because of our argument. While right now I’m not sure I can ever forgive him, I know I’ll never be able to forgive myself if he’s killed or kills someone else tonight.

  I run to the window, praying Dad’s car is in the driveway and praying it’s not the police here to give me some really bad news. Please let Dad’s car be there. Pleeeassse.

  Looking down, I see his Honda.

  Relief flutters through me, but suddenly I wonder why he isn’t answering the door. Then I’m afraid I know why. Just because he didn’t leave the house doesn’t mean he isn’t drunk off his ass downstairs.

  I’m about to release the blinds when I see Kelsey’s mom’s car parked across the street.

  Grabbing my ringing phone, I spot her number on my screen. I take off downstairs.

  As I get to the bottom of the steps, I see I’m right about Dad.

  So right.

  Wearing only his underwear, he’s collapsed on the sofa. There’s a glass on the coffee table. I walk over, pick it up, and sniff. It’s alcohol. I look back at him and see drool running down the side of his mouth.

  Does the man have no shame? A voice deep inside me reminds me this is a disease. A disease that kills.

  How fast, and how much, did he have to drink to get this drunk in less than three hours? Can’t people die of alcohol poisoning? The doorbell continues to chime, my phone continues to ring, but I don’t move until I see Dad’s chest rise and fall.

  Then bam, I recall the bride’s message. The pressure to stop a murderer has me bolting to the door.

  When I open it, I’m shocked that two people are standing at my door. Kelsey and…Hayden?

  Hayden’s text about Brandy flashes in my mind’s eye. I frown. Kelsey follows me with the same expression. “He made me bring him.”

  “I didn’t make you. I asked you.” Hayden studies my face.

  “True.” Kelsey leans in. “Is everything okay?”

  “No.” The word comes out sharp.

  She makes her empathy face. “That bad?”

  “You’ve been crying again,” Hayden says, and the fact that he can tell, that he cares, that he went so far as to talk Kelsey into bringing him here, gives my heartstrings a tug. But I remember that I’m his dirty little secret.

  Even pissed, I ache to lean against him, let his arms come around me, borrow some of his strength. But look how that turned out last time, my inner smartass reminds me.

  I start to push open the door, then remember Dad in his tighty-whities and his drool. He might not have any shame, but I do.

  Five minutes later, we’re sitting on the driveway in lounge chairs. The temperature is perfect, the stars are out, and a night breeze brings scents of spring and chases off the mosquitos. The light from the garage casts a glow around us. Even the false sense of peace is shattered when I tell them about Shane’s message.

  “We have to call the police,” Hayden says.

  I look at him. “And say what? A ghost told me someone else is going to die?”

  “I see the problem,” he says. “But if that’s all we can do; we have to do it.”

  I remember my earlier plan to look for a Barbara. “I have an idea. Let me go get my laptop.”

  I’m back in less than a minute. I get on my laptop, searching for anyone named Barbara on the Weddings For Less website. Both Hayden and Kelsey register to the site under aliases, and they do the same thing on their phones. Within half an hour, we find three profiles with the name Barbara. Two haven’t logged into their accounts in months. Only one has a wedding dress for sale.

  “She has photos attached,” I say, and we all click on the image on our separate devices. I know they find it when we’re all staring at our screens. She’s a blonde, twenty-something, with light eyes and she’s wearing a beautiful sleek cream-colored satin wedding dress. She even has a similar look to Shane. Similar to me. That’s creepy.

  I keep reading. She has her email listed so people can reach her off the site.

  An ugly thought whispers through my mind. Next weekend she might be dead if I can’t stop this. Hayden’s right. If I can’t find another way, I have to call the police.

  “You think that’s her wearing the dress?” Kelsey asks.

  “Yeah.” I look up as fear tap-dances down my spine. “How am I going to convince her not to meet this guy?”

  Silence hangs in the air for several seconds. Hayden speaks first. “Didn’t you say that your ghost was on this same site?”

  “Yeah,” I answer, still staring at the image.

  “Then tell her the truth,” Hayden says. “Or part of the truth. Send her a link to your ghost’s profile and links to the articles about her being missing.” He hesitates. “But don’t send
it on your computer. Police can track it back to your IP address. In fact… Let me do it. Tomorrow you can take me to the library. They have computers you can use.”

  “Don’t they make you sign in to use them?” Kelsey asks.

  “Yeah, but they never monitor it.”

  “What if the library has cameras?” I ask.

  “They don’t. They barely have the money to keep their shelves stocked. I volunteered there a couple of summers ago.” Hayden leans back. “I say we send her an email, then do the same thing we did with Abby’s death. Send letters to—”

  “I already mentioned that,” Kelsey pipes up. “She’s afraid the police will get suspicious this time and come looking for her.”

  I’m suddenly aware of what Hayden said. “You remember me writing the letter?”

  “Yeah. After you left today, I remembered a lot of stuff.” His blue-eyed gaze speaks of secrets.

  “Good stuff?” Kelsey asks with snark.

  Hayden’s gaze stays on me. “We can talk about that later.”

  He looks back at his phone. “Okay, let’s not send it to the police this time. With just what you told me about Shane, I went online this afternoon and found stories about her. On that one reporter’s story from the Dayton newspaper, his bio stated he’s a crime reporter, and he didn’t seem to think she’d just run off. I bet if you sent him an anonymous letter with what you know, he’d do a story. The police would have to investigate it.”

  “But that could take days or weeks, couldn’t it?” Kelsey asks.

  He frowns. “That’s why we send this Barbara an email, too.”

  I recall the idea I had while I was waiting for Hayden at physical therapy. “Earlier, I thought I could check the missing persons data against the people on the Weddings For Less website. I might find other victims.”

  “Shiittt,” Kelsey says. “You really think he’s, like, a serial killer?”

  No one answers, but everyone knows, even Kelsey.

  She bites down on her lip. “Oookay. But a lot of the women on here use online names, like…” She looks down at her phone. “TravelingJamiee.”