by Erin Hayes
Mrs. Garcia was already seated at her desk frowning at the computer screen, drumming her fingers with the air of someone on a mission.
Chapter Fourteen
Kyra propped herself up on one elbow and raised a hand to stave off the daylight streaming through the cracks in her sister’s drooping curtains. Bridget sat poised on the edge of the lumpy bed, her hair scrunched up in a claw clip, clutching a mug of coffee. She peered at Kyra, a questioning look in her eyes.
“Feeling better this morning?”
The aroma of French Roast flooded Kyra’s nostrils. She blinked, and a plague of bizarre images from the previous night darted through her mind. “Not so good.”
“Wanna tell me why you collapsed on my doorstep in the middle of the night? I had to slap you silly out there in the freezing cold. You looked like you’d seen a ghost.”
Kyra grimaced. There had been ghosts, of a sort. Not the harmless white-orbs-with-tails kind. These were spirits intimidating enough to crush her reason and squeeze the air from her lungs. And they’d been in her home. But now that the sun was up, it didn’t sound plausible. The note must have been Todd’s handiwork, the rest could be chalked up to her overwrought imagination.
“Remember the manila folder I found on my counter?”
“Uh-huh,” said Bridget, her eyes trained on Kyra.
“It happened again. Someone left a note at my house, telling me to rest in peace.”
Bridget’s eyes widened. She set down her mug and pulled her fleece tight around her neck. “That’s sick. Who would do something like that?”
Kyra gave a shrug. “It think it’s someone from work.” She needed to get the note into the hands of the police—if it hadn’t already disappeared. Like everything else did. Why had she not had the gumption to take it with her when she tore out of her house?
“So, you left after you read this piece of garbage?” prompted Bridget.
“I read it, and then all of a sudden the handle of my letter opener was burning into my palm. When I looked down, I saw a skeleton image of myself reflected in the blade. That’s when I lost it.” She spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I dropped everything and took off.”
Bridget whistled. “That is spooky. But I’d be seeing things too after getting a note like that.”
She thinks I imagined the reflection. Maybe I did. Kyra stared at her untouched coffee on the bedside table, the spire of steam long gone.
“I can’t believe some sicko sent you a note like that, after everything you’ve been through.” Bridget shook her head and swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “What kind of people do you work with anyway?”
Kyra shrugged. She only hoped it was the work of a sick coworker. Slapping a restraining order on Todd would be a whole lot easier than bringing charges against a stalking spirit.
“You must have some idea who it was.”
“I’m guessing Todd Patterson. He wants Don’s job too and he has a bone to pick with me about it.”
“Do you think he’d take it this far?”
Kyra knit her brows together. “It’s possible.” She had mentioned her fears about the Soul Stalkers in her conversation with Deborah. If Deborah had blabbed to Todd, he might have planted the envelope to frighten her. Or make her think she was crazy.
“I think we should call the police.” Bridget’s face creased into a frown. “Unless you want to drive over to your place and take the note down to the station yourself. If you have it fingerprinted, you might be able to nail Todd and get him fired.”
“What if it’s not there?” Like other things that vanish after I see them. “Then you’ll really think I’m losing it.”
Bridget gave a shrug. “So what if you imagined it? You’re traumatized, sleep-deprived, and under a ton of stress.”
“Bridget, I don’t want to be alone in the house anymore. If your offer to move in still stands, I’ll take you up on it. That way you can verify my story next time something happens. Or pinch me and tell me it’s not real.”
Bridget reached over and wrapped Kyra’s fingers around the oversized mug of lukewarm coffee. “Drink up. I’ll go throw my things together.”
When they pulled up outside Kyra’s bungalow, her elderly neighbor, Mr. Hogan, waved his watering can at them, his newly-planted hanging baskets bobbing in the background behind him. “Sun’s a great start to the weekend, isn’t it ?” he called.
“Wonderful.” Kyra waved and hurried to her door. Her hands felt stiff as ice as she turned the key. She wasn’t up for a monologue on spring planting right now. The way things were going, she’d be lucky if she lived to see summer.
She stepped through the door, and inched forward into the living room, scanning the floor around the coffee table. Bridget walked in behind her and threw her purse on the couch. “Looks free and clear of spirits to me.”
Kyra had a sinking feeling it would play out like the manila folder. There would be no trace of a gray envelope with her name on it. No sign of the sick note.
She bit her lip and studied the scene. Her gaze landed on the piped mineral-green cushions she’d flung off her lap when she’d bolted from the room. Not all the previous evening’s events had been fictional. Her stack of bills had toppled over on her slip-covered couch, and several magazines were splayed on the wool-pile rug below.
“And I thought I was the slob.” Bridget chuckled, as she grabbed a handful of magazines.
Kyra picked up a pillar candle knocked from its stand on the coffee table and caught a glimpse of the sun reflecting off glass shards strewn against the French doors. Her eyes followed the trail of crystal fragments to the knife blade glinting up at her from the cut pile carpet. A feeling of oppression gripped her as a barely perceptible dark shadow moved in front of her. Sweat prickled her forehead. That heavy presence was here again. Intense, hypnotic, voracious in the way it demanded her deference. Pick up the blade, Kyra. A tremor crossed her shoulders.
“I’ll get that,” said Bridget, brushing past her and swooping up the knife. “Why don’t you tidy up your mail and I’ll take care of the glass.” She tossed the blade into the trash and pulled the vacuum cleaner out from the hall closet.
Kyra blinked and reached for the pile of bills on her couch with shaking fingers. Pick up the blade, Kyra. Was that me? Pick up the blade and—do what exactly? It was almost as if her sister’s words had broken a spell she was under.
“Well, did you find the note?” asked Bridget, when she finished vacuuming.
“There is no note,” Kyra replied in a half-whisper.
“Don’t worry about it.” Bridget put her hands on Kyra’s shoulders. “You probably nodded off while you were reading your mail and woke up from a nightmare.”
“No!” She tore herself from Bridget’s grasp and took a step backward. Switches flipped in her brain as the heart-stopping words on the smooth, vellum paper flashed through her mind. “I remember opening it. I slit the gray envelope across the top with my letter opener.”
Bridget gave her a clamped smile and began winding the power cord around the vacuum cleaner.
Kyra’s chest heaved up and down. She had opened the envelope, and then ... there was the burning sensation. She studied the skin on her left palm. Peach-pink, and smooth. Only the creases that journeyed into intersections like railroad crossovers. She traced a trembling finger across the lifeline on her left palm. Maybe she was destined to die young, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
On her lunch hour on Monday, Kyra dropped in at the police station. “There you go, ma’am,” said a young officer who printed out the accident report for her. “You can take a seat over there. Help yourself to some coffee.” He gestured to a row of green vinyl chairs, with yellowed foam peeking out through worn seams, in the corner of the foyer.
She took the report over to the uninviting seating arrangement and eyed the black sludge in the carafe. Judging by the odor, it had burned for hours on the hotplate. Adding a clump of powdered cream wasn’t l
ikely to salvage it. Passing on the coffee, she sat down on a cushion that deflated beneath her and began studying the sketch plan in the report. Everything in it confirmed just one set of tire tracks.
She scanned down the page to the section where the investigating officer had included his notes on how the accident had occurred. Cut and dried, as if she’d simply veered off the road with no explanation. Frustrated, she skimmed through the report to the section on the driver’s initial comments. She read through her paraphrased account, and then stopped abruptly, one sentence stunning her like a volt from a cattle prod.
Driver states she flew out of the ravine with an angel.
Chapter Fifteen
Martina walked in a daze to the employee parking lot at the back of the building and stuck her key in the lock of her car. Mrs. Garcia was on to her. She had to split now. Her stomach churned. She hadn’t packed yet, and Hal was likely at the house, snoring on the couch. Should she pick up Taggert first? No! If Mrs. Garcia called the bank they might freeze her account. She turned the key in the ignition. She had to get the money out now.
The familiar chugs of her Toyota struggling to life waned to a metallic clicking. Martina frantically twisted the key back and forth several more times before burying her face in her hands. She groaned loudly and wrenched the key one last time, hoping for the impossible.
A light knock on the side window startled her. Eddie peered in at her, his bushy brows hunched together. Trembling, she reached for the handle and opened the door a few inches. “Dead battery. I think it’s shot.”
“I’ll have one of the boys take a look. Why don’t I give you a ride home?”
“I can wait.”
“No need. I’ve been meaning to fix you up with some new tires anyway. You’re about skating on rims. We’ll change the battery out while we’re at it.”
Martina’s eyes misted over. Should she put her arms around Eddie right now and confess? Beg for mercy? She climbed out, took a half-step toward him and hesitated. The memory of Hal’s fists slamming into her face was too fresh. She couldn’t turn back.
“Eddie, I don’t know how to thank you enough.”
“Come on, I’ll pull my truck around front.”
Martina stared out of the side window as they drove the three miles to her house. Dark thoughts swirled inside her head. She was trapped. She couldn’t get the money, or Taggert, without her car.
“Did my wife fill you in on the good news?” Eddie asked.
She turned her head toward him and blinked in confusion. “No, I ... don’t think so.”
“That’s hard to believe, she’s telling anyone who’ll listen.” Eddie laughed. “Our daughter just got engaged.”
“Congratulations!” Martina smiled back at him.
“My wife’s throwing her a party. Printing up the invitations this morning. You’ll need a new cartridge in the color printer by the time she’s done. She’s all in a fluster, can’t imagine what the wedding planning will do to her!” Eddie laughed again and shook his head.
Martina sank back in the seat, her head reeling. The tension in her shoulders melted. Mrs. Garcia came in to use the color printer!
“Hard to believe I’ll be walking my baby down the aisle six months from now.”
No wonder Mrs. Garcia was in such a good mood. And that’s why Eddie had been whistling all morning. Martina stared at her house as they pulled into her street. There was still a chance she could pull this off. It wouldn’t be any easier knowing she’d be taking money Eddie might need for his daughter’s wedding. But, it was money that would keep Taggert alive.
“I’ll have one of the boys drop your car off later.”
“Thanks, Eddie, and congratulations again on your daughter’s engagement.”
Martina sipped her tea and looked at her kitchen clock. Time to leave for work. It had been a long week of tiptoeing around Hal and smuggling out clothes and personal items. She’d even picked up a few things from the free pile at the thrift store to fill the shelves she’d emptied. She’d thought of everything, but still a flicker of apprehension ran through her. Over the past few days, she’d squirreled away her and Taggert’s things in the trunk of her Corolla. Things she told Taggert were in the dirty laundry when he asked about them. She’d cashed her final paycheck and emptied out her bank account. The cooler hidden beneath the coat on the backseat was crammed with waters and snacks. She stood, rinsed out her mug and set it upside down on its chipped rim on the draining board, like always.
No matter what, they were leaving Hal today. She’d take an early lunch and swing by the gas station on Main Street, before heading out to Dearborn High School. The look of surprise on Taggert’s face would be worth it all.
She arrived at Collision One a few minutes early, her mind racing as her computer whirred and powered up. Had she packed enough clothes? Should they go as far as Chicago? She put on the coffee and settled into her work, working her way through the pile of repair orders as quickly as she could. The least she could do was leave Eddie caught up before she bailed on him.
Engrossed in her work, she startled when the phone rang. The clock on the wall showed eight fifty-five. Three more hours before she could swipe her time card and leave.
“This is Clark Nelson, the principal at Dearborn High. Is this Mrs. Doyle?”
Her heart dropped. Surely this wasn’t another of his nasally threats to suspend Taggert.
She slipped into her best telephone voice. There was always a chance he’d been rear ended and needed a bumper. “This is Martina Doyle. How can I help you, Mr. Nelson?”
“Your son was apprehended with an illegal substance on the school campus this morning.”
Your son. Hundreds of tiny drumbeats slammed the inside of her scalp to the tune of I told you so. She shivered as a familiar fear uncoiled from its lair and crept along her spine. She had dreaded something like this happening. Taggert had gotten busted before she had a chance to pull the trigger on her plan. Her heart pummeled inside as she choked back a sob.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to get a grip on her emotions. Anger and frustration frothed inside her. They would have been out of the whole ugly mess by this afternoon. If only—
“Mrs. Doyle?”
Her best telephone voice sounded off-kilter when she finally answered. “He doesn’t have money for drugs. Someone must have planted them on him.”
“Mrs. Doyle, we don’t have any information, yet, on how your son procured—”
“Taggert. My son’s name is Taggert.” Martina thumped her fist on her desk. Why did he always make it sound as if he were talking about a piece of trash?
The principal cleared his throat several times on the other end of the line before he continued. “All I can tell you is that your—, Taggert, had marijuana in his backpack. Drug possession on the school premises is taken very seriously.”
Very seriously? She had no idea what that meant. Martina ran her tongue over her chipped tooth and gripped the phone tighter. Her brain screamed at her to say something, but her mind was in knots.
“The sheriff is taking Taggert down to the station. Can you be there in the next thirty minutes?”
They’re arresting him. Martina pressed her hand over her cold lips. The garbled voice on the other end of the line ebbed and flowed as the blood vacated her head. I’m a worthless mother.
She clutched the phone to her cheek as the thought detonated inside her.
“Why are you doing this? Taggert’s never hurt anybody his whole life,” she screamed into the phone.
“Mrs. Doyle,” interrupted Mr. Nelson. “You can discuss Taggert’s situation better at the station. This is a police matter now.”
She crumpled like the victim she always was, slapped senseless, too spent to fight anymore. She couldn’t stop any of this from happening. Taggert’s miserable life was as messed up as her own and it was all her fault.
“I’ll be right there,” she whispered into the phone.
She hung up,
enveloped in a cloud of hopelessness. They couldn’t leave now, not if Tag had to face possession charges. She was screwed—stuck here with her hand in the till when Mrs. Garcia closed the books at the end of the month. Her tear-filled eyes twitched as she stared at her blurry computer monitor. A horrified gasp slipped through her knuckles jammed to her lips.
An oversized green script snaked its way across the screen, disappearing to the right and regenerating to the left like a possessed ticker tape.
Worthless!
Worthless!
Worthless!
Worthless!
Worthless!
Worthless!
Chapter Sixteen
Kyra handed the report back to the police officer behind the reception desk and hurried toward the door. Her mind reeled as she weighed the significance of what she’d read. It hadn’t been a random brain freeze on her part. An angel really had saved her—plucked her from death’s jaws. But why?
She reached for the handle of the glass entry door, but at the last second she was forced to sidestep as a big-shouldered officer ploughed through, shepherding a nervous-looking adolescent with a thatch of thick, black hair. His eyes looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him. She threw a glance over her shoulder, but the kid didn’t acknowledge her. Maybe she was mistaken. Second guessing herself was becoming a habit.
Outside the building, Kyra pushed the stale station air out of her lungs and inhaled the fresh breeze. She clicked across the parking lot in her heels, slid into her rental car, and threw her purse onto the seat beside her.
She slathered her palms with hand sanitizer, and slipped her fingers together until the alcohol dried. A grinding squeal from a tired-looking blue Corolla pulling into the space next to her set her teeth on edge. A short, dark-haired woman shoved the door of the Corolla closed and hurriedly raked her long hair behind her ears. She looked a lot like ... it was her! The receptionist from Collision One.