by Clare Hexom
“We can leave if you need to get home,” I said.
“I’ll stay until you’re ready.”
I walked over and stood alone by the casket.
“You never deserved to die.” I wept. “Maybe I will never feel normal again,” I whispered. “If I fall in love a third time, he’ll die, too.”
As we took our coats and started to leave, Erik burst into the lobby. His expression was strained when he saw us and he uttered nothing more than a simple hello. We likewise said nothing more than hello, but watched as he hovered over the guestbook.
Dana pulled open the door a moment later and made a grand entrance dressed in complete mourning garb, black from head to toe. She looked absurd, like a bereaved and neurotic widow from a nineteen-thirties melodrama.
My stomach knotted and I squeezed my hands into fists at the sight of her.
Ronnie gave the small of my back a slight nudge, letting me know she noticed my unease.
“Mal . . . lor . . . y,” Dana sobbed.
I stepped back—she stopped.
She gave Ronnie a hate-filled stare but spoke directly to me. “How kind of you to pay your respects. We are at a loss, completely devastated. The idea of going on without Lance’s friendship is tearing Erik apart.”
I gaped into her fresh face, searching. Eyes clear, not red and puffy like mine. Hair not mussed from ignoring her appearance due to unimaginable grief.
Ronnie touched my elbow before she took my coat from my arm and opened it across my shoulders. “Time to go. Goodnight, Dana.” She guided me toward the door.
“I should talk with them,” I whispered to Ronnie when we stepped onto the sidewalk. “I can’t be rude.”
“Keep walking.”
“Ronnie, wait. Maybe they’re not involved. Maybe he ingested the poison someplace else.”
“Have you finally lost your mind? She said, ‘How kind of you to pay your respects.’ Mallory, you and Lance were beginning to love each other. You deserve to be here.”
I cupped my hands to my ears.
She grabbed each side of my shoulders. “Listen to me. She treated you rotten in there. And normal people cry wet tears when friends die. Her eyes were dry. She oozed insincerity. Trust me on this. Dana Fowler killed Lance Garner.”
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
Ronnie was not one to jump to conclusions, and I had experienced enough grief in my life to consider her theory was true, even though the why of it all escaped my understanding. Lance was blameless. He committed no wrong against either Fowler. They surrendered their friendship with me with his death. The autopsy would prove their guilt, assuming Ronnie and Lance’s aunts were correct.
The funeral was over. I pushed open the side door to the kitchen and stepped inside after Mom dropped me off. The house felt cold, as dark as my mood, and drearier than the day. I paused, listening to the solitary sound of the beehive clock ticking in the living room.
I half expected Judith’s ghosts to greet me—my mysterious whispering man, Aunty Liz, or even Lance. Growing accustomed to death made me more like Judith as each day passed. Being her gifted niece no longer insulted me.
Mom took Caleb to Rick’s for the evening. Sam and Ronnie were due here around seven thirty to take me anyplace not morbid. The day had been unseasonably cold and rainy again, chilly and gloomy for a graveside service. I was emotionally drained, achy, and cold. I wanted nothing more than to cry myself to sleep the way I’d done all week long. I had to talk myself into going back out again.
I glanced at the microwave clock. Four forty. I took out my phone and dropped my purse and coat on a chair beside the table. I kicked off my heels and pushed them under a chair. While rubbing my sore foot, I hopped to the fridge for a bottled water before pausing to pick through the mail laying on the island. Neither September nor October’s child support checks were among the envelopes.
Sipping my water, I stared out the kitchen window into the backyard a long time, my eyes focused on the white bench. Aunt Judith had lived alone for decades, except for her animals and ghosts. I had Caleb and Mom for now. Plenty of time for me to be me before becoming odd like Judith.
Caleb’s unopened container of cookies sat on the counter by the stove. I stared at it until a gruesome thought hit me. If Dana did kill Lance, she was capable of killing my child. I snatched up that plastic box, tossed it into the trash, and slammed the lid with a vengeance. Dana was poison.
I headed into the living room and unfolded the throw to drape over my shoulders. I plopped down in the rocking chair to wait until I felt motivated to change my clothes.
I sipped my water. Rocked back and forth. I wondered about Dana’s suggestion that we hurry off to Colorado instead of cradling Caleb in the embrace of loving family. Her attitude toward family was poles apart from mine, merely a biological incident, not people she cherished.
I laid my head back against the chair and gazed out the front window at nothing really. I would stay close to my people for a long time to come. A spark of kindness lit up my heart. I decided to make amends with Judith soon. It was time for me to understand my gift since I was well on my way to collecting my own group of ghosts, with whom I might commune for years to come.
Before Lance died, neither day nor night barred the spirit’s whispering, giving advice, or wreaking havoc. Location was never an issue, Memphis or Minneapolis, or the interstate in between. Timing was key. The spirit had waited until Chad and I divorced. Ronnie and Ashton, too. I’d become accustomed to the visits until he went silent the day Lance died.
I betrayed no one. Justice meant nothing without facts.
If our ghost was Ben, out of respect, he respected marital boundaries, even my ill-fated marriage to Chad. Ben was never disruptive. There was no person connected to him that I could betray. Not Caleb. Bloody hands and noisy outbursts—not Ben at all. He would comfort us. No, the spirit was an emotional soul with his strange displays of drama, unlike pragmatic and easygoing Ben Holland.
I played the devil’s advocate, contradicted the obvious. Our hauntings must be instances of telekinesis.
“Like Daddy said, ‘A bunch of hooey,’” I spoke aloud.
I padded over to my laptop laying on the coffee table and flipped open the lid.
“Dozens of Jack Grants,” I mused to myself. “Chicago.” I clicked until I found a photo. “Alive last year, maybe not dead yet.” I tried his last number three times. It rang twice and stopped each time.
Finding current information on him or his possible death yielded nothing. I switched gears. One website on telekinesis struck me as interesting. It defined and detailed the illusion of telekinesis—forms of trickery used to suggest people believe what their senses observed, such as an object moving or a phantom materializing in the shadows.
“Or even an impression of levitation,” I added aloud.
Flashing lights and rising TV and radio volumes cancelled illusion. Trickery was out of the question. Smoke alarms are hardwired in the ceiling. My online search yielded no convincing scientific data to satisfy my desire to believe telekinesis was the cause. A ghost had caused the disruption that Thursday afternoon of baking day.
Sitting alone, quiet and contemplating all that I’d read, I closed my eyes and waited for Ben to appear. I longed for him, raging ghost or not. I ached to see his face again, hear his voice that I’d surely forgotten. I wanted Ben more than life.
I moved onto the sofa, lying there with the throw tossed carelessly over me. I cried for Lance. I pictured him smiling, willing to give me his meal. I heard his laughter clearly inside my head. I hoped time would prove his gallant gesture had been nothing more than an innocuous game of dare.
Had my time with Lance betrayed Ben, whose spirit was perhaps selfish?
I held my breath, pretended death. Nothing lasts forever, except souls. Plants die. Animals die. Was I already odd wishing for my dead companion, my lover, whom I could not hold, or kiss, or physically share love? I wanted Ben with me forever.
I’d never betray him. No matter his form, I wanted him with me, yet I was not willing to die to meet him.
The blaring of the doorbell knocked me off the sofa. Pounding followed the chimes. I’d fallen asleep. The house was pitch black, the draperies wide open.
“Mallory! Open up!”
“Sam!”
I scrambled around the coffee table and stumbled across the living room to the foyer and the front door. I flicked on the outdoor lights and indoor sconces, straightened my dress, and turned the lock. When I threw open the door, Sam Garcia stood before me disheveled and rain-soaked, shabby and soiled. He leaned against the house to keep himself upright.
“You’re hurt!” I threw open the storm door and guided him in, out of the rain.
“Not me. Ronnie.” He wiped his wet face with his jacket sleeve. “She was run down. She needs us at the hospital.”
“Ohmygod, Sam, no!”
“I saw your car outside the garage so I figured you might be home with the lights off.”
“I fell asleep. What happened?”
“Coming out of the gym.”
“She’s not unconscious?”
“Wasn’t a while ago.”
“Let me grab my purse and shoes.”
Sam dropped his head into his palms and leaned against the wall between the guest closet and the powder room. Once we were inside the pickup, the wipers fell back and forth, numbing my nerves. I rallied a bit of strength. He and Ronnie needed me strong. The clock on the dash read four minutes after eight.
He reached for the pack of gum laying in one of the two cup holders in the console between us. He pulled out a stick and offered me the pack. I smelled spearmint.
“No, thanks,” I said.
“I don’t know much, other than that it was an SUV,” Sam said. “I was at a jobsite when I got her call.”
“Nobody works out Friday after work.”
“Ronnie does. She likes having the place all to herself.”
“Not into group workouts?”
“Not really. You know, Dana used to go with her sometimes last summer.”
“I did not know that.”
“Not since Ronnie broke her arm. A neighbor was supposed to go tonight. Not sure what happened to the gal.”
“I suppose Ronnie’s car is still at the gym.”
He kept his eyes on the road. “We can get it later, then I’ll give you a lift home, if that works.”
“Sure. No problem.”
We rode in silence for a long while. Me, Lance, and now Ronnie. I was first, when I fell asleep at the wheel and slid into the lamppost.
The lights from the hospital campus were visible ahead. Sam pulled into the ramp and pressed the button. A ticket ejected.
“We’ll find out more soon enough.” He stuffed the ticket inside his billfold.
The emergency room was organized chaos, likely to get busier as the night wore on. A big-eyed woman with short black hair smiled when we approached the long desk she sat behind.
“How may I help you?” She lifted her head slightly.
Sam spoke up. “We’re here for Ronnie, I mean, Veronica Moore.”
“You must be her husband.” The woman clicked away on her keyboard.
Sadness spread across Sam’s face. “Uh, no.” He looked at me instead of her. “I mean, we haven’t discussed the . . .”
The woman looked at us, back and forth. “Are either of you relatives?”
Sam shuffled in place. “Her folks are, uh, Mallory . . .”
“Visiting family in Michigan. We’re her closest friends. She asked us to come.”
The woman swiveled her chair around and spoke with one of the nurses standing behind her. Based on their nods and positive tone, we’d be able to see Ronnie soon.
“If you two are Mallory Bain and Sam Garcia, she gave consent for you to be her primary contacts,” said another nurse. “She’s having tests done right now. The doctor will be out to give you an update and he can let you know when you’re good to go in.” He pointed to the left. “The waiting room is through those doors.”
The short-haired woman interrupted, “Help yourself to coffee, tea, or cocoa in the waiting room. Down the long corridor to the left of the waiting room are vending machines across from the coffee shop, if you want soda pop or snacks. The coffee shop closed at four thirty.”
“Thank you.” I took Sam’s arm.
“Anything else we can do for you?”
Sam paused. “We’re good. Thanks.” He rested his arm across my shoulders. “Whew. Let’s go sit.”
I led the way to a group of vacant chairs in the waiting area.
“Now we wait.” Sam stretched his long legs out in front of him. “I’ll get you a coffee.”
“No, thanks. Later, maybe.” I squeezed his hand. “She’s tough, Sam.”
He said nothing but nodded assent and gave my hand a squeeze back. He sat there glassy-eyed and quiet while I flipped through a magazine.
An elderly couple seated themselves in chairs across from us. They whispered to each other and paid us little attention after sizing us up, Sam in work clothes and me in a black dress and heels.
“These places give me the willies.” Sam rested his elbow on the arm of his chair and spoke more softly. “It’s been a sorry week for you.”
“I’ll cope. Eventually. Once I move past self-pity.”
“Life owes it to ya.”
I laid the magazine on the table beside me. “I think death is my new lot in life.”
“One bad spell you’re goin’ through.”
I smiled consolingly. “With any luck, cameras picked up what happened to her.”
He wrinkled his brow. “We can only hope.”
Close to twenty minutes later the double doors opened and a young man strode out. The black stethoscope draped around his neck gave him away as the doctor we’d been expecting. He called out Sam’s name.
Sam jumped out of the chair with his hand extended to greet him.
“Doctor Mason, emergency physician.” He looked at Sam, and then me.
“Mallory Bain. Friend,” I introduced myself.
“Whenever Veronica wakes up, she asks for both of you.” His smile was warm and genuine. “Let’s step over here where we can visit.” He extended his arm and gestured toward a small room across the way.
We each took a chair at the table in the center of the room.
“She’s not unconscious?” asked Sam.
“Drowsy from medication. She may be more awake now. Her responses have been appropriate. No head injury. I’m hoping no internal injuries, other than the pelvic fracture.”
I shook my head in disbelief as he described her injuries.
“She said she heard an engine rev before the vehicle clipped her from behind.”
“Clipped her?” I asked.
“She said she never took a direct hit. She has extensive bruising over her back and hips, and down one leg. She scraped and contused both knees when she dropped down on the pavement to slide under a truck. She’s finishing up in imaging right now.”
“Imaging?” asked Sam.
“X-ray. A scan to check for internal injuries. We’ll keep her overnight and possibly until Sunday for observation. We may need additional diagnostics.”
“We’d like to see her,” I said.
“Her nurse will let you know. This ordeal gave Veronica an awful scare. She was near hysterical when they brought her in. Understandably so. We gave her sedation to settle her down, which is adding to her sleepiness besides the pain meds.”
“She needs rest,” said Sam.
Doctor Mason nodded in agreement. “So. I am available for questions. Just ask her nurse to track me down.”
“Good to know. Thank you,” said Sam, turning to me.
“Other than wanting to know who did this and why, I’m good as long as she is,” I said.
The doctor excused himself and we found our chairs unoccupied in the waiting area. I took out my phone and sat
down.
Sam glanced down at my phone. “You’ll be textin’ your mom, huh.”
“I was thinking Dana maybe.”
“Nope. Don’t do that.”
“Okay.”
Sam scratched his head. “Better talk to Ronnie, ’cause I oughta keep neutral.”
“Neutral?”
“Shoot.” He rubbed his forehead and folded his arms against his chest. “Ronnie claims Dana saw her on the ladder from inside the kitchen but pushed the backdoor open anyway. Deliberate.”
“That’s cruel.”
“Yes, ma’am. Ronnie mighta broken her neck except for she landed on the shrubs.”
“Dana wouldn’t intentionally hurt her.”
“Ronnie’s thinkin’ kill.”
My jaw dropped. “You are not serious.”
“Talk to Ronnie about the research she’s done on those Norris people back in California before you go rulin’ out her theories.”
“One of them killed somebody?”
“Yep. Dana. She ain’t right in the head.”
“She’s intelligent. She holds a full-time job.”
“Still a whackjob. Ronnie told you about the break-in?”
I shook my head.
“The day she broke her arm. Dana drove her to the emergency room. Said she had to leave to pick up her kid. When we got back to Ronnie’s, the backdoor window was busted. Papers and pictures from Ronnie’s research on the Norris’s was tossed all over the place.”
“The intruder focused on the Norris research instead of valuables. May mean they were looking for something worth stealing.”
He shook his head and laughed. “They trashed the house. Staged to look ransacked.”
“Ronnie’s computer?”
“Not taken.” Sam grinned. “And strong passwords.”
“You can’t prove Dana broke in.”
“Can’t prove she didn’t. If I gave her the benefit of the doubt, I’d say she saw Ronnie but misgauged the distance between the ladder and the door. We’ve noticed how she shakes and twitches and claws at her neck and arms.”
“I haven’t seen her clawing, though I once saw a bad scratch on her neck. Bruises she blamed on her daughter,” I added.
The Dana I knew had excelled in mathematics. Science came easy, even physics. No, Dana grasped the simple distance between the door and the ladder.