Caroline rushes up and grabs my hand. I feel her now. No icy ghosts, just warmth and kindness. She pulls me to her and I wrap my arms around her. Death isn't cold. It's alive, and warm and full of regret.
"I knew he didn't kill you. Daddy said Jones killed you. That he was afraid you'd identify him." She pulls away and looks at me with her perfect face. "Where have you been?"
As I touch her forehead I see past the detective's body, to a single pair of leather boots on the left. The rest is there if I want to look.
But I can't.
"Danny?"
"I've been right here, beside you, all the time. But I need you to tell me what else your father said, Caroline. Who shot the detective?"
"My dad did. He was very angry. I didn't know he was coming up the stairs as we were doing down. When I saw him I was so happy—" Her eyes widen. I know she remembers, though she doesn't want to. "Then I saw the gun in his hand. He pointed it at—"
She pulls away from me and stares at the body below. "Oh God…"
I can't look. It's not the way I want to remember her. I touch her shoulder and squeeze. She turns and looks at me. "That was you…wasn't it? The envelope, the plate, the touch on my arm? And the note on the window?"
I nod.
"My father wants me dead. I saw his eyes as he shot me. But I don't know why…Danny…I have to know why!"
I give her the only answer I can. "Because he's broke. Jones said he gets your inheritance if you die."
Her eyes finally fill with tears. She does not move toward me. She's focusing on something else. "My grandmother's money. His mom. When…when she passed away he was furious she left it to me. Mom tried to warn me about him, but I wouldn't listen. Once he has that money, he'll kill her too."
No he won't.
My stomach feels queazy. I don't know why… I think it's because after everything Caroline, myself and the detective did to survive, Mr. Black wins after all.
I hear noises upstairs. Mr. Black is still here. I turn away from Caroline and start back up the stairs.
"Where are you going?" she calls out.
"To pay your father a visit. Don't follow me, Caroline."
I step through the door with little notice of how or why again. Mr. Black moves from the living room to the entrance and back inside. I don't care what he thinks he's doing. And somehow I know he won't see me, not the way Jones did.
He places the cleanser on the coffee table.
I move it off to the floor.
He picks it back up again.
I move it again.
He watches it and narrows his eyes.
I leave it alone.
As he turns to leave the room, I shut the doors in his face and hold them shut. He grabs the handles, yanks and pulls.
He swears and kicks at them.
I move to the window and write another note. To get his attention, I hurl the bottle of cleanser at him. It bounces off his head as the sound of sirens breaks the silence.
Mr. Black turns and he brings his gun up and aims at the window. But there is no one to shoot. I wait. He sees the note and his eyes grow wide. In those eyes I see his daughter, what little resemblance there is. He wipes the window with his hand as he looks around. "Who's here? I'm going to find you."
He runs to the last door and opens it. I follow him and my stomach twists again. I pause in the hall. My head aches again as I resume my pursuit of Mr. Black. He takes the steps two at a time. I don't understand his rush. His daughter's body is only a few flights down. He picks his way past Pellis and looks at his Caroline's body.
She stands next to him. She watches him. Tears stream down her cheeks. She sniffs.
Mr. Black spins around. "Who's there?"
Ah…he hears her the way Jones heard me. Why is that? I like to think it's because guilt allows them to hear the ghosts of the ones they kill. Jones came after me. He went after his daughter.
The sirens wail outside.
"You…you heard me sneeze?"
Mr. Black turns again and this time I know he sees her. His face becomes a mask of shock and awe, and one of fear. He points his gun at her again.
Caroline's expression changes from sorrow…to anger. "You would do it again?"
He fires.
The shot pings off the concrete and he ducks.
"Why?" She marches at him.
He moves away, around, next to her body. "You…you're not real."
"Why?"
She reminds me of me. I feel queazy again.
"You're just my imagination. You're gone. You're on the floor. I can see you on the floor!"
"Why?"
He fires again. Again the bullet pings around.
She moves in close. Mr. Black presses himself against the wall. The sirens stop but I hear people below. The elevator isn't working. They're taking the stairs.
"Why did you do this, daddy? Why did you kill me? Was it for the money? You could have had the money…" she sobbed. "I…I just wanted someone to love me." She turns her head to look up at me where I stand by Pellis's body. "I wanted Daniel."
He hears the beat of the approaching company and tries to move past her, and past me.
I hurl him back down. He lands between the two women and fires his gun up the stairs. The bullets pass through me.
I am not really here.
I am ghosted.
Shouts from below. "Police! Put the gun on the ground and raise your hands!"
But Mr. Black has no intention of following orders.
He tries to rise.
Gunshots ring out. His body jerks and writhes.
"Cease fire!" The voice echoes in the stairwell.
Gerome Black still rests between them, the gun in his hand, his chest a mass of blood. His eyes stare into nothing.
His daughter watches him die.
She turns and smiles up at me.
My head aches from the sounds of the gunfire and I put my hand to my head. Dizziness pitches me forward as I hear Caroline scream my name, and the police come up the stairs.
8
I wake again, but the pipe dripping water above me is gone. No rain drops on my cheeks. No gray sky.
I see a gray ceiling. A tile ceiling, like the one I installed in Chloe's loft.
Someone is in the room with me. It's Chloe. Apparently…I am alive.
Hernandez comes to see me a few days after I come out of the coma. A boy and his dog found me in a ditch several miles from where my car was found. They got to me just in time. Several surgeries and I will be good as new…except for a limp.
From what the detective could piece together, Mr. Jones followed me and rammed my car. He forced me off the road, got out of his car. He fired his gun into the closed driver's window, but the bullet grazed my skull, the glass deflecting it. With the amount of blood, Hernandez believes Mr. Jones assumed I would die.
He dumped me into the ditch—a five foot drop over the side. The impact broke my hip, my leg, and several ribs, as well as adding injury to my head.
But I lived.
I don't know why or how I became a ghost, a walking spirit. I didn't tell my dad or my mom because I didn't want the guys in white coats.
I celebrate my birthday in the hospital. Chloe takes pictures of me, my family, her family, and my friends at work. All of us crowd together in the physical therapy room. We eat cake as I open presents and I feel loved. I'm no longer invisible.
* * *
I go home today. The sky is the same color as the day Caroline died. My things rest in several suitcases near the door of my room. My bed is unmade. I wear jeans, sneakers, a sweater and coat. Everything is new. Birthday presents. I stand at the window and watch the rain run down the glass in rivulets.
Someone knocks at the door so I turn and smile. "Hey Chloe."
"Hey Danny." She steps in. She looks the same as always. Long, baggy pants, waterproof shoes, layers of sweaters and a bag big enough to accommodate her tablet and notebooks. Her hair is short and hugs her neck an
d the sides of her face. "Are you ready?"
"Yeah…but I need to tell you something." I turn to face her and slip my hands into my pockets. "It's the reason I asked you to take me home and not my parents." I wouldn't be going back to Chloe's just yet. Maybe not for another few months because my therapy wasn't over.
"Okay." She approaches me and stands by the window. "What is it?"
"I need you to listen to what I'm about to tell you…and I don't want you to judge me. And you can't say anything to anyone else."
Chloe's expression shifts from curiosity to worry. "Is it bad?"
"No…just…unbelievable." I begin from the beginning. I tell her about seeing Caroline step out from the club and of her walk. The attack in the alley…and I don't stop. Nor do I leave anything out. I talk until my throat is dry and I have to drink water from a bottle. Half an hour passes as I tell her the truth and the rain comes and goes.
When I finish I'm shaking and I have to sit down on the edge of the bed that'd been my home for months. I feel emptied and exhausted. But I feel light. A weight no longer presses down on my shoulders.
Chloe watches me and her expression is puzzling. It's not one of disbelief, but more of… resignation. Acceptance? Maybe. I've never been good at reading anything but a book.
She sets her purse on the bed beside me and fishes a manilla envelope from inside. She hands it to me and I notice the rings on her fingers. "Dan…it all makes sense to me now. And I can't tell you how glad I am you told me this."
I take the envelope and frown at her. "So…you don't think I'm crazy?"
"Oh heavens no. I think you're the sanest person I know. It's just that…I travel everywhere and I blog. And blogs need not only content, but images. So I take a lot of pictures. I secretly decided I was going to document your recovery—you have a fan club out there, you know? The quiet, shy guy who brought down a billionaire murderer."
"I didn't—"
She puts up her hand. "Just take it and move on. So when I started taking pictures of you—some candid, some during therapy, and some while you were still in bad shape—there was something a little extra in some shots."
Unsure what she means I open the envelope and remove the stack of eight by tens. They are color, glossy, and high definition. I cringe when I see myself in the ICU…and then I see someone by the door. The image is soft and blurry but it's there. As I go through them I continue to see the same…person. In some pictures she's shaper than others. In some, only a movement, or a hint of something.
But in the last photo we're at my birthday weeks ago. It's a group shot, the one picture I remember because I felt something touch my shoulder.
And she…was there.
It is the clearest impression of her, standing beside me, smiling at the camera. No one stands behind her. My mom carries a similar picture because a nurse a shot of the pose and gave it to her. She and dad remark often on the space between mom and I.
Caroline fills it.
"When did you stop seeing her?"
I sniff as my eyes burn. I touch the image with a trembling hand. "Uh…I ah…" I sniff again. I do not want to cry but my eyes have other plans. "It wasn't long after I woke. I would notice her in the room. She would talk but I couldn't hear her. And then…she just wasn't there anymore."
"Oh yes she is." Chloe puts her hand on my shoulder. "I think Caroline's always with you, watching you, protecting you."
"And…I can't see her because I'm no longer close to death."
"Death lifts the veil, Danny." Chloe rubs my back. "But now I know who she is, and why she's there. I chose not to put these on the blog—"
"No," I say a bit more forcefully than I mean. I wipe my eyes before I try to correct my outburst. "What I mean is…no, don't abandon it. Do it. Post it by date and put the pictures of Caroline up. Point her out. Don't let her be forgotten as just another rich heiress killed by greed. Show…" I shift on the bed, my excitement growing. "Show the world what a beautiful and loving person she was. Please Chloe. For me?"
Chloe smiles. "I'll start tomorrow. And I'll show the posts to you first. Agreed?"
"Yeah…agreed."
She stands and hugs me and I stand to gather my cane. It is time to leave. I'm tired and I want out of the hospital. She disappears for a while as I watch the window. There are some things the veil cannot hide.
Two orderlies come in to take my things and I make sure everything's gone. I'm the last one to leave the room and as I open the door I stop and look back at the window.
A single word is visible, written by hand in the condensation.
A one word declaration. For me.
From Caroline.
LIVE
about the author
Phaedra Weldon is a writer and mother of one. Born in Pensacola, Florida, Phaedra was raised in the lush, green southern tropic of Georgia. She grew up on southern ghost stories told while eating marshmallows around campfires, or on the back of pick-up trucks in the middle of cornfields on chilly October nights. She worked as a Graphic Artist for over twenty years in the publishing and sign industries until she became a full time writer in 2009. Phaedra currently lives in Atlanta, Georgia with her husband and daughter.
This work and everything in it is the sole property of Phaedra Weldon. Any copying or reprinting will be prosecuted to the furthest extent of the law.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Ghosted Page 4