by Gina Ardito
“As opposed to indirectly fraternizing,” he stated flatly.
“Yes,” she repeated with so much emphasis, she wound up hissing. “Do you want to hear this or not?”
“Absolutely. I’m listening. Just taking it all in. I’m a former NYPD detective, you know. We like to make sure we not only have the facts, but understand the whys and wherefores, as well.”
An NYPD detective? Oh, great. Just what she needed. A constant reminder of her son’s loss. Because the Afterlife didn’t suck enough already. No wonder this guy got her back up. More than testosterone, she must have smelled “cop” on him.
“So now,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “would you please explain to me what you mean by ‘direct fraternizing’? Don’t all those ghosts on Earth fraternize with the living?”
“Spirits and ghosts on Earth haunt. They have no direct contact. They moan, they leave vapor trails, toss orbs, some can even project their images across a dark room. But true direct contact is impossible, as far as I know. Much as we’d love the opportunity to speak face-to-face with our offenders—to be honest, direct contact would make our jobs a helluva lot easier—there’s just no way.”
“So how exactly do we communicate with our…” He paused, eyes staring at the far corner of her office while he considered his next word. “…subjects?”
“You can call them ‘offenders’ or ‘cases.’ I’m sure, as a former NYPD detective, you’re familiar with both those terms?”
“Yeah, sure. Okay, how do we communicate with our offenders?”
“We invade their dreams.”
Chapter 3
Sean blinked. Surely he’d misunderstood her. After all, Xavia Donovan, his new boss, was like that old Winston Churchill quote: a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. With her mahogany skin, a platinum blond spiky haircut shorter than his own, and a voice as dark and fragile as smoked glass, she kept tossing surprises his way.
On the outside, she looked tough, no-nonsense, and displayed an attitude to match. Yet, beneath that ballsy exterior, he sensed a soft center—a sort of urban Tootsie Pop. Chocolate, of course. His favorite flavor. Why he suddenly remembered that, he didn’t know. But once the image popped into his mind, he couldn’t erase it. His mouth actually watered. When was the last time he’d craved any kind of food—junk or otherwise? Certainly not since his arrival here. Until now.
In an effort to remain focused, he stared at the four bare walls around them. Her office reflected the same stark contrast he’d noted in Xavia’s personality. Nothing about the furnishings hinted at the woman who utilized them. With no earthly reminders permitted, she couldn’t exactly conjure up a photograph or a vase filled with her favorite flowers. Yet, she’d somehow made this sterile space her own. The air charged with vibrant energy, more signatory than a favorite cologne.
“Is there a problem, Martino?” she demanded. “You’re not still processing the direct/indirect contact issue, are you?”
He considered the question. “No, I’m all caught up on that. But…” He paused, tilted his head to stare at her from a new angle. “We invade their dreams? Is that what you said?”
“Do you know a better way to communicate between realms?”
“Well, no, but…their dreams? Isn’t that kind of…oh, I don’t know…illegal? At the least, immoral?”
“Sez who?” She slapped her palms on her desk, fingers curled around the edge. “This isn’t Earth. And our main goal is to prevent future tragedy. As a suicide, you must have been regaled with tales of all the lives lost or never conceived because of your selfish and capricious decision to end your life.”
Yeah. It was part of every suicide’s orientation to the Afterlife. After choosing Verity from the Council of Elders to become his personal advisor—like an Afterlife Jiminy Cricket—she and he had reviewed several of his past lives to discover the mistakes he made lifetime after lifetime.
What he had experienced that first day still haunted him when he slept. Besides, the fateful night in Bed-Stuy with the kid, he’d seen three other incarnations of himself, each one littered with subliminal messages of his inability to stand up for his convictions, with horrific results. For him, those glimpses into who he’d once been only served to explain his inability to deal with the kid’s death at his hands.
According to Verity, though, he missed the larger picture. So he was stuck here, serving the Board, until he came to terms with his failings and corrected them.
“Here in Probation,” Xavia said, drawing him back into their conversation, “we ensure others don’t know that pain. We save lives. We protect the future. There’s nothing immoral in that.” With the clipboard in her grip, she rose, tall and lithe, her brick red sheath-style belted dress enhancing her height and lush figure. Goddamn, she had more curves than the racetrack at the Indy 500. And he bet she was just as dangerous. “Come on.” She strode around the desk. “I’ll show you what I mean.”
Opening the office door, she led him out to the quiet floor where a dozen other people sat at as many desks. Heads stayed down, attention wholly focused on their clipboards. He could’ve shouted, “Fire!” and he’d bet no one in the room would flinch. Whether their attention remained riveted due to their cases or due to the intensity of their leader, he couldn’t speculate.
Xavia finally stopped at the lone empty desk in the rear of the open space and pulled out the task chair. “Sit.” When he complied, she set down the clipboard in front of him, horizontally, and stretched it to a larger size. “Watch.”
Like a mini-movie screen, the clipboard lit up to reveal a hospital room. Propped up in a bed, Isabelle Fichetti glared daggers straight at them. Sean sucked in a breath.
“Relax,” Xavia murmured, her voice dark honey near his ear. “She can’t see you.”
Really? He looked again. So who was the target of all of this woman’s animosity? Was there someone else with her? As if a television camera panned the scenery at his command, the image pulled back to reveal a man seated in a chair at the foot of her bed. Aha. A know-it-all doctor with salt and pepper hair and black-rimmed glasses perched on the edge of his needle nose lectured her in stern tones. “You were very lucky, Mrs. Romanelli—”
“Fichetti,” she corrected harshly. “My name is Isabelle Fichetti.”
The doctor frowned. “We have more important things to discuss than your name, Isabelle. Like why you swallowed all those pills.”
Folding her arms over her chest, she clamped her lips into a thin line.
“You took a drastic step. Would you like to tell me why?”
Isabelle simply continued to glare, stony silent. Anger heated her aura to white hot.
“I’m not leaving here until you talk to me, Isabelle.”
“Oh, well, in that case, you might want to rethink the brown boat shoes with your tan slacks and beige shirt. The whole ensemble screams, ‘I dress in Garanimals.’ There. Are we done now?”
From his viewpoint in a faraway realm, Sean smirked. She had style. Gone was the pain he’d sensed on his first examination of Isabelle Fichetti. Despair still lingered, but she’d buried all her hurt feelings deep down beneath a bottomless well of sarcasm. For self-preservation? Probably.
“Why did you try to kill yourself, Isabelle?” the doctor pressed.
Asshole.
Sean heard her as clearly as if she’d shouted the word.
Beside him, Xavia snorted. “My kind of woman. I’ll leave you two to get better acquainted. When you’re through here, come back to my office, and I’ll fill you in on the rest.”
He barely registered Xavia’s departure as he focused entirely on the couple in the hospital room on Earth.
“I didn’t try to kill myself, Dr. Valentine.” Isabelle’s glare firmly dared him to challenge her statement. “I just couldn’t remember the last time I took my pain pills. I double dosed.” She shrugged with exaggerated doe eyes and furiously batting lashes. “Oops.”
“You swallowed a thirty day s
upply, Isabelle.”
“Math was never my strongest subject.”
“Neither was drama.”
Sean winced at the verbal slap. To Isabelle’s credit, she didn’t leap out of the bed and launch herself at him. Oh, she wanted to. He actually felt her muscles tense to spring, and he automatically whispered, “No. Don’t.”
Her body relaxed as she leaned back against the upright part of the flexible bed. Had she heard him? No. Impossible. Ridiculous. She had probably reconsidered her violent reaction on her own.
“We’re done here, Dr. Valentine.” Ice chilled each syllable.
The doctor locked his hands behind his head. “No, we’re not.”
In response, she grabbed the remote tied to her bedrail and flicked on the television, turning up the volume to its highest level. Dialogue from a soap opera rattled around the walls.
With a heavy sigh, the doctor rose from his chair, reached up, and turned off the television. “Don’t make me restrain you, Isabelle.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she snapped. “Tying up a woman. You get your rocks off that way, Doc? Hey, this is L.A., where fetish is the norm. Believe me, I’ve heard about worse kink. There was one guy I knew who had a thing for young girls. I’m talking pre-teens. Know how he finally beat it? By beating them.” She leaned forward, arms folded over the sheet covering her chest. “Know how I know?”
The doctor didn’t even blink. Never spoke. He simply returned to his chair and waited.
“Because he was married to my mother. Hell, he probably still is. He used to sneak into my room at night and stand over my bed when I slept. Once or twice I woke up. When he’d notice my eyes were open, he’d drag me out of bed by my hair, make me stand against the wall, pull down my pajama bottoms, and beat me with his belt. The booze would surround me like fog. Especially since he’d get so hot and bothered, he’d start panting and breathing heavy against my neck.” She shivered. “After a couple of those episodes, I pretended to stay asleep every time he came into my room. It was easier to lay in the dark and listen to what he did to himself than to endure the pain of enforced participation. I tried to tell my mom about what he was doing, but guess what? She chose to believe him over me. Chose to stay with him. Big surprise, right?” Tears filled her eyes, and she drew her knees against her chest, tightening into a ball. With her head tucked inside her arms, she peered out at the psychologist.
His expression remained as blank as the television. No passion, no outrage on her behalf. On the other side of the living, Sean the observer, growled. How could anyone hear such a tale and not be moved by it? Unless, of course, the doctor—like the mother—didn’t believe her.
As if to confirm Sean’s suspicions, Dr. Valentine shook his head and sighed. “You’re right, Isabelle. We’re done here. I’ll come back later.”
To Sean’s surprise, though, after the door closed behind the doctor, Isabelle relaxed against her pillow and smiled.
Why did she tell the truth if she didn’t want to be believed?
~~~~
With the odious Dr. Valentine gone, Isabelle wasted no time in grabbing the phone and dialing the responsible party. She knew exactly who she had to thank for waking up in this hell. After five rings, the answering machine clicked on. Listening to the recorded spiel, she gripped the receiver with enough pressure to bleach her knuckles.
“I know you’re there, Justin. Hell, it’s not like you go anywhere. Don’t think you can avoid my call. Pick up the phone. Now.” The sound of fumbling on the other end of the line didn’t mollify her frustration.
“Belle, is that you?” Justin asked with hesitation, then continued in a rush, “OhthankGod. You don’t know how you scared me. The doctors wouldn’t let me stay when the ambulance brought you in because I’m not family. I tried to tell them I’m the closest thing you’ve got—”
“Enough, Justin.” This was so not the time for him to play the “closest thing to family” card. “How soon can you pick me up?”
“Huh?”
She repeated each word slowly, succinctly. “How… soon… can… you… pick… me… up?”
Even miles away, she sensed his hesitation in the heavy pause between them. “Do you think that’s a good idea? I mean, if I hadn’t found you when I did yesterday? Five minutes later, and you’d be dead right now.”
Five minutes. Five lousy minutes? Oh, for crying out loud! How unlucky could she get?
“Why’d you do it, Justin?”
“Why’d you do it? To get into the Cliché Hall of Fame as another failed actress who couldn’t live without the public adulation?”
Her breath left her lungs in a drawn-out hiss. One of the things she’d always loved about Justin was one of the things she also hated most about him: his razor honesty. “What the hell do you know about it? You gave up a long time ago.”
Justin had been cast as the geeky neighbor boy with a crush on Bethany in the later episodes of “Shipp Shape.” Unfortunately, since he made no attempt to hide his homosexuality on-camera or off, the romantic interest had fizzled without ever creating a spark in the audience. Unfazed, after his two seasons on the show, Justin had cashed in his chips and left Hollywood to keep house with his life partner.
“I walked away. You could too, you know.”
Yeah, right. “And do what? I’m not like you. I don’t want to open up some stupid antique shop and become one of those losers who only signs autographs at conventions twice a year.”
“Because your life is much more glamorous? Cattle calls, rejections, divorce court, hospital rooms. Golly, it must be sooooo fabulous to be you!”
“If it were fabulous, I wouldn’t have tried to kill myself, now would I?”
“Oh, sweetie.” He sighed dramatically, and she grinned. Victory was at hand. “I’ll come get you if that’s really what you want. Give me an hour or so. We’ll get you discharged and then you’ll come stay with Tony and me.”
Hmm… Maybe victory wasn’t quite as close as she thought. “Actually, I’d rather go home.”
“Too bad. I’m the one signing the discharge papers. That means I’m responsible for you. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to leave you home alone where you can pull another suicide attempt like this one.”
“You can’t keep me at your place forever,” she replied. “Eventually, you’ll have to let me go home.” And when I do…
“Trust me, sunshine. You’re not going back to that crappy little bungalow of yours until I’m sure you won’t try anything stupid again.”
“So where were you when I married Carlo?” she retorted.
“At home. Just like now, a phone call away. You flew off to Vegas hush-hush. I would have told you he was a mistake, which is exactly why you didn’t fill me in on the details before you left.”
He had a point. Knowing full well her true friends would have tried to talk her out of it, she hadn’t told a soul until after she and Carlo had emerged from the Little White Chapel as man and wife.
“I saw the photos in last week’s rags,” he added softly. “How old is Carlo’s new arm candy?”
“You mean his latest ‘assistant’?” She couldn’t bite back the sarcasm. “I dunno. Twenty-two? Twenty-three?”
“She looked twelve in the pictures.”
“Which explains Carlo’s attraction. The minute she starts to look her age, he’ll dump her for another waif.” Her voice cracked on the last word. That had been Carlo’s special term of endearment for her: his waif. Special, until she’d heard him call his agent’s receptionist by the very same nickname. Of course, the fact the two of them were stark naked in her bed at the time only added insult to injury.
“Please don’t tell me you tried to kill yourself over that pond scum.” Justin’s bitterness cut into her musings.
“God, no.” Dammit. Still lost in the memory of that painfully embarrassing scene, she’d spoken the denial too quickly. When Justin didn’t reply, she added, “At least, not entirely.”
&nbs
p; “Belle—”
“Don’t ‘Belle’ me,” she snapped. “You have no idea what I’m dealing with.” She tucked her top teeth over her bottom lip to keep the rest of the confession at bay.
“What are you dealing with?”
“Nothing,” she mumbled. “Forget it.”
“Christ, Belle, I wish you’d tell me.”
God, how she wanted to tell him! To tell someone.
But saying the words out loud: “I have terminal cancer,” would make them a reality.
And she just wasn’t ready to face the deadly diagnosis yet.
Chapter 4
Xavia’s office door opened, then slammed shut with enough force to shake the walls. “Isabelle Fichetti’s dying!”
She looked up from her clipboard and into Sean Martino’s agonized expression. “So?”
He strode toward Xavia’s desk. Each thud of his boots on her floor intensified a whirlwind of emotions inside this cramped cubicle she called an office, whipping electricity with the force of a hurricane. This was a former cop? From New York? Hell, he was nothing like the cops she’d always come up against in life—that legendary blue wall of arrogance so prevalent in her old neighborhood. In Sean Martino’s case, toasted marshmallows were tougher.
“How the hell am I supposed to stop her from committing suicide? Tell her she can’t die until the Board deems it’s the right time for her? And why shouldn’t she be allowed to have the final say on her final end?” His lips took a crooked downturn, and lines furrowed his brow. When he spoke again, empathy and sorrow roughened his tone. “Isabelle’s got brain cancer. Her last few months will be filled with indignity and a loss of who she is. What kind of incentive is that for me to keep her living?”
While Xavia agreed with everything he said, she had her orders. The Board insisted on foisting this challenge on him for some strange reason. The message she’d received had, in fact, demanded she “…hold his feet to the flames.” No one bothered to mention in doing so, however, she might become collateral damage.