Jennifer Fischetto - Dead by the Numbers 01 - One Garish Ghost & Blueberry Peach Jam

by Jennifer Fischetto

  She smiles. “Cool.”

  Just like her daughter.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  When I get back to my apartment, Julian’s black truck is parked in the lot. For a split second, I stare at his tires and wonder if he’s the one who took Emma from Wesley’s, but that doesn’t make sense. He’s been in town less than a week. Why kidnap an unconscious woman and then…what, kill her?

  I’m still laughing at my absurdity when I step from my car. I don’t acknowledge him and walk through the back door, which doesn’t lock, and up the stairs to my door.

  He follows right behind like a hungry puppy.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask as I let myself into my apartment.

  “We haven’t had a chance to talk.” He closes the door behind him. “Really talk.”

  I toss my bag on the floor by the couch and kick off my shoes. Then I walk through my bedroom to the bathroom and hold up a hand. “You’re not following me in here.”

  I slam the door and go about my business. When I’m done, he’s seated on the sofa flipping channels on the remote. He’ll be greatly disappointed that I don’t have the gajillion stations he’s accustomed to. “Say what you need to so you can leave.”

  As I stand there and wait for him to speak, I realize my anger, my disgust at seeing him, isn’t there. All I see is the way I used to curl up beside him while he watched those boring documentaries and the way his skin glistens when he steps from the shower. And I hear Ma’s words. That we had a misunderstanding because I haven’t told him my secret.

  “You okay?” he asks. “You have this weird look on your face.”

  “Yeah. Fine, but I don’t think you came here to discuss my face.”

  He smirks. “It’s a beautiful face.”

  My insides become jittery, and I look away. No, Gianna, there won’t be any mushy feelings. He’s still the semi-enemy.

  I turn to the kitchenette and decide to keep busy. Yep, need to keep my thoughts off the past. And his abs. After I add water and grounds to Mr. Coffee, I stare at the wrapped package of sliced chicken breast in my fridge. My stomach grumbles. I should have stayed at Ma’s for taco night. I consider being rude, making food, and not offering him any, but unfortunately, it’s not in me. Not with him anyway.

  “Hungry?”

  Julian gets up and sits at a stool at the breakfast bar directly across from me. “What do you have?”

  I pull out lettuce, tomato, mayo, and bacon, then grab a small frying pan and get to work on the pig. “How about a chicken club?”

  “You make the best sandwiches.”

  Yep, on my gravestone.

  We don’t speak while I cook. He seems to be content watching me flip bacon, and I have nothing to say. He shouldn’t even be here, and we definitely shouldn’t be sharing a meal. But I can’t work up the courage to tell him to go either. Ma’s words about how he moved here for me swim in my head, drowning reason and logic.

  I grab the bread off the counter and slide six slices into the toaster oven. “I was surprised you weren’t at the police station.”

  “I had to work.”

  I nod. “Right.” That was another thing wrong with us. He worked all the time and never discussed it. I wanted to understand. The cases were privileged information, and he could lose his job if he shared, but I still felt left out.

  After blotting the bacon on a paper towel, I assemble the sandwiches. One great thing about living on top of a deli is all the free, sliced cold cuts I want. It’s also the first thing I’ll be sick of by the end of the month.

  “What smells so great?” asks Emma. She steps into the kitchen through the wall, bypassing the sink.

  I try not to flinch at her arrival.

  Then a screech sounds from my bedroom doorway, and I nearly slice my finger off while cutting the sandwiches in two. I glance over and see an astonished Billy. I give a quick frown, as if to ask what the hell is wrong with you?

  He points to the sandwiches. “I’ll never be able to eat bacon again. That’s worse than death.”

  Emma laughs and slides up to Julian.

  I bite my bottom lip and smile.

  “What’s going on?” Julian asks.

  I set his plate in front of him. “What do you mean?”

  “Something just happened. I can tell. You changed.” He looks over his shoulder.

  Billy puffs out his chest. Emma blows in Julian’s ear. And I realize I’ve stopped calling her Cupcake and him D.N.

  “Hey,” I shout. Emma may be dead, and Julian and I may be apart, but he’s off limits. I glare at her.

  She holds up her hands in surrender and backs off. Nice to know she’s capable of that.

  When I look to Julian, his brow is furrowed. “What?” he asks.

  “Um, nothing. Just ‘hey, it’s done.’ Now, manga.”

  I don’t bother sitting beside him, so I hop up on the counter beside the stove and pull my feet in beneath me.

  We each take a huge bite and sigh in unison. It will be a very accurate epitaph.

  Halfway through, I’m in need of a drink but too lazy to hop down. I nod my head toward the fridge. “Why not pay for your dinner and grab me a beverage.”

  One corner of his mouth lifts. “Yes, Ma’am.” He finds two glasses in a top cabinet and pours water from the Brita pitcher, knowing darn well I’m not a fan of apple juice. Too bad Ma doesn’t remember that.

  I take my glass from him and our fingers brush together. His touch is warm and inviting. I clank the glass against my front teeth, in my attempt to no longer touch him, and slosh water on my chin. Fate’s way of a cold shower? Not funny.

  He returns to his seat, but when he’s facing me again, I notice the smirk on his smug face. He knows our chemistry is something I could never walk away from. The day I left his apartment, I had to do it while he was at work, just in case he tried to talk me out of it. I probably would’ve melted into a puddle around his expensive shoes. I wouldn’t have left Connecticut. Izzie would’ve had to deal with Emma on her own. Or maybe she wouldn’t even know. Would Emma have died if I hadn’t returned home?

  This is crazy thinking. I’m not responsible for Emma’s death, and neither is my family. It’s the Plaid Guy. I know it. He killed her and would have even if I moved to Tahiti, took up surfing, and dated a guy named Hiro.

  Julian finishes his sandwich and keeps staring at me. Eating while being watched is no fun. And there’s no sense in stringing this out. It’s only torturing me, so I say, “Spit it out. What do you want to say?”

  “I want to talk about us, about why we broke up.”

  Swallowing the last chunk of sandwich is difficult. I jump down, place my plate in the sink, and walk into the living room. “You know why. We’re not compatible.”

  He swivels in his seat. “Bullshit. We fought. Every couple does. That doesn’t mean we can’t make it work.”

  “He wants to try,” Emma squeals.

  “He must really love you,” Billy says.

  I scoff and place a hand on my hip. “And that’s why you’re here? To make us work?”

  He stands and is in front of me in one giant step. Damn, this apartment is too small. He brushes a curl from off my cheek and lets his fingers linger. “Exactly.”

  Marone. I didn’t think Ma was right.

  I shake my head, even though all I can think about is pressing myself against his tall, firm leanness. “It didn’t work.”

  He smiles, slowly and deliberately. “We try harder.”

  Yes, harder. That’s exactly what I want.

  I stare at his lips and remember how they feel pressed against mine. How his tongue usually tastes like fruit—lemons, limes, oranges, cherries. He always has Lifesavers or candy drops in his pocket. Sifting through them before laundry was like Halloween each week.

  A noise sounds beside me. Emma is fanning herself with her hand, and I’m brought back to reality. I’ll need to remember to do something nice for that woman.

  I take
a step back, drawing my line in the sand. “Too much has been said. You didn’t want to see me anymore. You specifically said you needed space.” That’s the universal phrase for it’s over.

  “Aww, give him a chance,” Billy says.

  “I meant right then. I needed time to process, to think, to calm down. I didn’t mean forever.” Julian moves closer. If we keep this up, he’s going to have me up against the windows in several more inches.

  I poke him in the chest with my index finger. The tingle and Band-Aid are gone. “Well, you should’ve been clearer.”

  He runs his fingers through his thick hair. “There was so much going on. Grandma had just died, and you were acting weird, and then the letter. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  I pray he doesn’t want answers to my weirdness now. I can’t tell him the truth and run the risk of him… Wait. What? Leaving? I’ve already done that, so what’s the worse that happens? He already thinks I’m insane.

  “But we can talk it all through now and move past it.”

  “You’re not a talker,” I remind him.

  He stares into my eyes. “But you are.”

  A lump forms in my throat as my chest swells. Has he always been this charming?

  “Aww, he’s so sweet,” Emma coos. “Tell him the truth. Tell him about us.”

  Billy jumps up and down.

  I turn my head slightly so I can’t see him in my peripheral. He’s making me more anxious, plus he looks so darn cute, I don’t want to start laughing.

  “I didn’t mean to accuse you of lying about the letter. I’m sorry,” Julian says.

  “Now you have to tell him,” Billy says.

  Julian knew his grandmother hadn’t written him a letter before she died. He’d accused me of writing it. And he’d been right. He was in so much pain from her death, and he was wrapped up in some big case at work. I couldn’t bear to see him like that, so I wrote down all the things Delia told me before she moved into the light. I guess I hadn’t been convincing enough in making him believe she wrote it before her death and stuck it into her favorite book. Unfortunately, it was the book he said he’d flipped through daily since she’d died, and he’d never seen a letter before.

  So this is the moment. I either tell him the truth and risk him walking away for good, or continue to lie and have him stay away for good. What a choice. Despite the fighting, breaking up, and calling him every name in two languages, at least in my head and to my sister, I know what I want. I made the wrong choice when I walked out on us without trying. I’ve been trying to tell myself I hate him, but that’s far from the truth. Seeing him at Lindy’s then Ma’s, having him call the lawyer for us, and even him showing up today wanting to talk has all made me realize I still love him. And even if he chooses to never see me again, at least I’ll know I’ve done all I could.

  How’s that for facing my issues and not running away?

  Okay. Here it goes. “Don’t be sorry. Well, maybe for some of the things you said, but you were right.”

  His eyes widen and darken. The worse is that he hates me. I can handle that. Right?

  “What?” His tone is soft, like he can’t believe what I just said.

  No, I can’t handle it. Nope. Nada. I am a coward, and my feet are itching to take flight. But it’s too late now. If I lie my way out of this, I’ll definitely lose him forever.

  “I wrote it, but they were her words.” I hold my breath and wait for him to process it all.

  He opens his mouth, but no words come out. He does this three times before I wonder if he’s having a stroke.

  I take in a lungful of air ‘cause dying right now isn’t going to help anyone, especially if I need to call 9-1-1. “Say something.”

  “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” he says.

  I softly sigh. I guess expecting him to jump to the conclusion that I see dead people is a bit ridiculous. “I can see, hear, and communicate with the dead, and sometimes I help them move on.”

  His eyebrows raise and a corner of his mouth lifts. “You talk to the dead? Come on, be serious.”

  I stare at him, waiting, hoping, not sure of what else to say. I know he believes in souls and that people can linger after dying. He said he felt his grandmother still around a few times. So that’s half the battle. But how do I prove I can communicate with the afterlife? Maybe I can remember something his grandmother told me, but I’ve already shared it all with him. It’s not like she’s here now and can tell me the name of his imaginary friend or favorite toy.

  When I don’t start laughing, he frowns. “You are serious.”

  Emma and Billy dance a jig from the TV to the breakfast bar and back again.

  Julian steps away, walks in a circle while rubbing his jaw. “Oh my God. That kind of explains all those times I caught you talking to yourself. It seemed like in depth conversations.”

  I bob my head from side to side. “A few of those times I was just talking to myself.”

  He stares into my eyes. “And Grandma came to you after she died?”

  “No, she came to you.”

  His eyes widen again. Pretty soon they’re going to fall out of his head.

  “I was just able to see her and you weren’t.”

  He sits on the couch and lowers his head toward his knees.

  There goes that pain again. When will I learn to keep my mouth shut?

  I sit beside him and place a hand on his back. “She loved you dearly, and she wanted to make sure you knew that. She wouldn’t leave until I promised to write the letter.”

  He looks up and sniffles. “But it was a week between her passing and my getting the letter. She was around that whole time?”

  I nod.

  It takes him a moment to compose himself. “Why didn’t you tell me she was there?” There’s a clipped edge to his tone.

  “Are you mad at me?” I ask, pulling back.

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.” He gets to his feet. “If I’d known, I could’ve had that last week with her. You know how much I loved you. You saw how hard I was grieving, and you kept it all a secret?”

  I didn’t think it was possible to feel worst, but as wrong as I now see my choice was, I can’t help but feel defensive. Everything looks different in hindsight. I did what I thought was best.

  “I’m sorry.” It’s all I can say. I never thought of how this would affect him when he found out the truth. I never expected him to find out.

  “So why didn’t you say anything?” he snaps.

  Great. I have to admit how selfish I am too. I explain what happened with Hilary and Micky. Yes, it was a thousand years ago, and no, I don’t still harbor feelings for Micky, but the pain, the betrayal, the fear of not being believed, of being abandoned, is still very real and vivid.

  “I would’ve believed you,” he says, which makes me feel like dog poo.

  “How was I supposed to know that?”

  “You should’ve trusted me. We were living together.”

  I think about this for a second and then shake my head. “You make it sound so simple, but you don’t know what it’s like to live with this.” My voice cracks.

  He takes a big breath and returns to his seat beside me. “You said to help them move on. So there have been others?”

  “Since that time I died. That’s when it all began.”

  Something in his gaze shifts, and why I’m like this is making sense to him now. “Of course. And since you’ve been home? Seen any ghosts?”

  He laughs, perhaps expecting me to say no. When I don’t immediately, he becomes serious. “You have?”

  I point to the set of Irish dancers. “There are two right there.”

  They both stop and wave.

  “They’re waving hi.”

  Julian frowns and tentatively waves back.

  I try not to laugh, but it’s so darn cute, so I do.

  “Who are they?”

  “One is Billy.”

  He bows for Julian.

  I smil
e. “A young, college student who died of alcohol poisoning. I haven’t had much time to find out more about him yet. Been too busy with my other guest, Emma.”

  She curtsies.

  “She’s the one that was…” A thousand crude words enter my mind, and had this been Sunday I would’ve used one of them. But somehow, in the past few days, I don’t hate her anymore. Of course, I will not admit this to my sister. On the growth and maturity meter, though, I am soaring along.

  “She’s the one caught with Paulie that night.”

  He jumps to his feet. “The one murdered?”

  “That’s the one,” she and I say in unison.

  Julian looks astonished again. He’s going to need a stiff drink after he leaves here. Maybe even some therapy. “Why haven’t you told the police who killed her? Was it your sister?”

  I actually laugh. “No, of course not. She wouldn’t do that. Emma doesn’t remember who killed her. She’d been roofied.”

  “How do you know that?”

  I curl up my top lip. “Can’t say.”

  It takes a second, but he seems to work it out. How else would I get the info but from my cop brother? “Okay, so since we’re doing full dis…”

  My cell plays “Before He Cheats” from my bag, cutting off his words. I smile wryly at my choice of ringtones and pull it out. “Hey Izzie, what’s up?”

  “It’s not Izzie,” says Ma.

  Did I change the wrong ringtone? I pull the phone from my ear and look at the number. Nope. That’s Izzie’s number. “Ma? Why are you using Izzie’s phone?”

  Ma lets out a dramatic sigh. “She’s been arrested.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Julian insists on taking his car to the station, which I have no problem with since my hands are trembling, and I’m likely to drive myself into a tree. I may see a lot of ghosts, but murder and cops and the legal system are not my forte.

  In the eloquent words of Evy, from The Mummy, British accent and all:

  I am a sandwich-maker.

  When we arrive, I find Ma in the same narrow hall outside the interrogation rooms I waited in my last time here. It still smells stale, like old cigarettes and coffee, but smoking in public buildings hasn’t been allowed in years. It probably permeated into the walls and the furniture.