by S. E. Harmon
I narrowed my eyes. “You weren’t asleep when I said what I said.”
He opened his mouth and closed it several times, as though searching for the right thing to say. Finally he just sighed. “No, I wasn’t. But I really, really didn’t expect you to call me on my shit.”
“Eloquent.”
“I’m not… I’m not good at this,” he stuttered out. “But if you want to stay, then stay. It’s not like I’m kicking you out.”
Lord, I think I actually saw sweat collecting near his temples. When he didn’t say anything else, I snorted and began to pack again. “Romantic. If you want to stay, then stay. A real proposal we can tell the kids about.”
“What else do you want me to say?”
Maybe “I love you too”? You know, so I don’t slit my own throat? “I guess the obvious is off the table.”
He was starting to look a little irritated himself. “You’re damn right it is.”
“I love you. Always have.” I yanked on the zipper so hard that it careened off track, and I had to ease it back down again. “Maybe if you weren’t so chickenshit, you’d admit you love me too.”
I felt his eyes on me as I worked the suitcase zipper back down. Then I pulled it up, and it came off the track again. I flexed my fingers, and I was about two seconds from ripping the LV suitcase apart with my bare hands. He sighed and came fully into the room.
“Once again I’d like to point out that you have absolutely no patience.” He patted the suitcase. “Sit.”
I sat a bit despondently. My weight closed the suitcase fully, and Danny leaned down over me to zip it shut. I tried not to breathe as his familiar, sexy scent wafted around me—pine forest from that stupid soap he had in every bathroom and mint from that stupid Eclipse gum he wouldn’t stop chewing.
The silence was deafening between us as he worked the zipper around carefully. When he was done, he stood slowly and planted a kiss on my unresisting mouth on the way up. It was sweet and soft and made my eyes flutter shut automatically. I could never decide whether I liked it best when he kissed me as though he couldn’t wait to tear off my clothes or like that, as though we had all the time in the world. When I opened my eyes, he gave me a look as he leaned back, his head tilted to the side like a curious shepherd.
He leaned in and kissed me again, deeper that time, and nodded. “Just like I thought. Oatmeal-raisin cookies and marijuana.” A small smile pulled at his lips. “Are you serious right now?”
I shrugged. “I stopped by my mom’s on the way home.”
“Rain, you’re a federal agent.”
“What are you, some sort of stool pigeon?”
He shook his head and kissed me again, slower, with more tongue than necessary if he wasn’t going to do anything about it. When he pulled back, he rubbed a thumb over my mouth. Memorizing my shapes by touch alone.
When he spoke again, any trace of amusement was gone. “I guess I am,” he admitted. “Chickenshit, that is. I’m scared to love someone who walked away without a backward glance. Because love is nothing without trust. And right now? I don’t trust you for shit.”
“Yeah. I got that.” Loud and clear, chief. “My investigative instincts and otherwise.”
His hand dropped. “I do trust your instincts.”
“Do you?” I raised my brow skeptically. “There are a couple of bodies in Hellar Creek. Recent. I don’t think anyone’s noticed them missing yet, but they will soon.”
“Is that so?”
Even though his voice was cautious, I continued. “The husband lost control of the vehicle and ran off the road. They weren’t able to get out in time, and they both drowned.”
“Rain.”
“They have a little girl. She’s staying with her grandmother. They were supposed to pick her up this morning. I can’t quite figure out where they’re from yet, but they’re not local.”
“Just… stop.” He shook his head. “I said I trust you. Tate may not believe you, but you’ve proven yourself to me.”
“Just not enough to try and get a dive authorized?”
“With what evidence?” He threw up his hands. “Do you really expect me to go to Tate and tell her a medium told me to drag the creek? For a couple who hasn’t even been reported missing yet?”
“Departments use psychics all the time.”
“Not mine,” he maintained, brow furrowed. “And not me.”
I clambered off the suitcase, chin tilted pugnaciously. The silence between us was awful, and I could see him scrambling to think of something to fill it. I filled it for him. One dollop of nonsense, coming right up. “Weren’t you going to order food?” I set the suitcase on its wheels and lugged it to the front door. “If we’re going to make the airport by six, we should eat soon and get some rest.”
I brushed past him. The clack of one slightly off wheel sounded as I dragged it down the hall. I felt like we’d left a million things unsaid, all jumbled up in my brain. I cursed softly as I heard his room door close.
Maybe we’d said enough.
I WAS walking silently to the kitchen for a late-night snack when I felt the skin on the back of my neck prickle. I rolled my eyes and pulled out the organic peanut butter. Wasn’t as good as Jif, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Although why Danny persisted in keeping it in the fridge, I would never know.
“Hey, Eth.”
“You two gonna give me a show tonight?”
I fished out a piece of celery from the crisper and gently nudged the refrigerator door shut with my foot. “You were watching before?”
“Hell yeah.”
“Perv.”
“I’m a ghost.” Ethan shrugged. “Who you gonna tell?”
As I ran the celery under the tap and pushed the water through the nooks and crannies, I had to admit he kind of had a point. I flipped off the sink with a finger and leaned back against the counter.
Ethan watched me curiously. “Is he going to get Rob and Mary out of the creek?”
“I don’t know.”
“You told him, though, right?”
“I did.”
“So what’s the prob—”
“I don’t know,” I snapped and bit my lip. There was no need to get angry with Ethan. “Sorry. It’s just… not that easy.”
“I don’t understand what’s so difficult about it. They have a daughter that’s going to be looking for them, and you know where they are. You save them time and money.”
Yeah, well. He kind of has to trust me first. I massaged the back of my neck absently. I certainly hadn’t signed on to be the crazy ghost whisperer for the rest of my life, but apparently that’s all I had left. So I should probably get on with it. “I want to talk about you. Did you decide?”
He scowled. “Why does it have to be one thing? You’ve got to be the laziest medium I’ve ever come across.”
“Your father isn’t too fond of me. Let me try to summarize his return email for you—he wants a bullet to meet my face. My only advantage is he doesn’t know I’m coming.” I pointed the celery stalk at Ethan. “Besides, you don’t know another medium.”
“I do, thank you very much. Or I did,” he corrected with a frown. “You can’t push too hard, you know. Especially when you try to invade their dreams. Lack of sleep and thinking that they’re crazy can make people do strange, desperate things. Sometimes it’s hard to keep them from offing themselves before they get your message….”
I stared at him for a moment. “You knew pushing this could push me to the brink of suicide?”
“That’s neither here nor there.” He flapped his hands. “We’re friends now.”
“Get on with it, Casper.”
“I want them to know the real Ethan before they move past me for good. Not the straight fucking A. The Ethan who ran drugs, got high, and made mistakes.” He looked down at his hands. “The Ethan who hated piano and resented the lessons. The Ethan who was never going to become the doctor they wanted and loved to work on motorcycles.”
&nb
sp; “Are you sure?”
“No.”
I nodded. “I’ll tell them.”
“I finally figured out that they can’t let me go if they never really knew who they were mourning. They’re trying to hold on to hope that I’m still alive, even though they know that’s not the truth. And they’re trying to hold on to the fact that I was perfect, and it’s time they knew that isn’t true either. You can’t miss me if you never knew me.”
And if he was right, that meant I wouldn’t be seeing Ethan anymore. It was clear from the look in his eyes, he knew that too. I looked down at the jar of peanut butter and the inroads my celery had made in the smooth cream. That should have made me happier.
When I looked up, he’d moved closer. His hand drifted toward my face and I half closed my eyes and waited for the touch that never came as he brushed the hair there behind my ear. My hair didn’t move. I felt a chill, but I didn’t shiver, and he smiled and stepped back.
“See ya next lifetime, Rain.”
When I opened my eyes, I was once again alone in the kitchen. That didn’t make me as happy as I imagined.
Chapter 29
DESPITE GRAYCIE’S threatening messages, I decided to take care of my medium business first. Wednesday I went straight from the airport to Ethan’s parents’ home, a large stucco split-level with a well-maintained lawn and an older Buick in the driveway. As expected I was kicked summarily to the curb. Then I cornered them in their church vestibule at Thursday afternoon Bible study and made them listen to what I had to say. We had an awkward, stilted conversation over coffee, but I wasn’t entirely sure they believed it. They agreed to meet with me the next day, and I agreed to try to “bring” Ethan. For once the irritating spirit cooperated.
They asked questions, and I answered them. Mrs. Sands cried, and Mr. Sands’ stoic face softened. They hugged me. Thanked me. Me. When I left that night, I started to imagine that being a medium wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Helping people move on and talk to their loved ones? It could be worse.
And then I saw that article.
Written by one Phillip Nichols. I hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting the fuckwit reporter yet, but the moment I did, there was room for the man in my basement freezer. And never mind the fact my apartment didn’t have a basement. I’d build one. Then bury Nichols in it.
I read that stupid article all weekend. Early Saturday morning, I spit my coffee out all over it. Saturday afternoon I reread the coffee-speckled newsprint. Late Saturday night I perused the article in the tub as I soaked like a debutante. If debutantes also liked cold beer and soft rock with their soaks.
By then I’d convinced myself that it wasn’t quite as bad as all that—that Graycie would consider the article garbage, and that it was only worthy of lining a bird cage. Resolved to line my bird cage with it. Resolved to buy a bird, just to line its cage with that crappy article. Listening to the happy pigeons chirping on the power line outside my window, I realized that would be stupid.
All of those events led me to my current predicament. I sat in a hard-backed chair in Graycie’s office and waited patiently for a well-deserved ass chewing. In the month that I’d been gone, Graycie had added another magnifying glass to his collection. It had a long wicker handle, intertwined with bamboo threads. Once again he cut right to the chase. “I assume you saw the article.”
“What article?”
Graycie almost tore the supremely thin newsprint as he turned it around. He clearly wanted to jam it directly underneath my eyeballs. “Here. Right here. This article. FBI Uses Real-Life Ghost Whisperer? That fucking article.”
“Didn’t see it.”
Graycie pushed the paper at me again. “Take it. Read it. I’ll wait.”
“I saw it,” I admitted crossly. “What’s the big deal? It’s just one reporter’s opinion.”
“One reporter buttressed by two parents—the parents of the victim. They were more than happy to speak about the wonderful agent who was working on their case, who gave them a message from their dead son.”
I had nothing to say to that, so I watched window ghost contemplate his eternal jump in silence. Graycie continued, his voice icy. “I’m trying to understand what would possess you to go to Ethan Sands’ parents and tell them something like that. I don’t suppose I need to tell you that Shawna Paul’s parents called me. They’d like to speak to you again.”
“You can give them my number.”
“I did.” Graycie stared at me. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”
“You read the article.” I swallowed. It was one thing to have a psychiatric break that the bureau could sweep under the rug. It was an entirely different ball of wax to admit to what I was admitting to.
“So it’s true.”
I nodded jerkily.
“And that lieutenant in Brickell Bay. Lieutenant Tate. What she told me… that’s true too?”
Another nod.
He sighed. Tossed the newspaper down on his desk. “You know you’re talking all kinds of crazy right now, don’t you?”
“I’m not crazy.” My voice was firm. That I knew for sure.
“According to you. Half of me thinks you should be committed for observation.”
My head tilted as I tried to pick up on his subtext—all the things he wouldn’t allow himself to say. Maybe he wasn’t quite as skeptical as he’d have me believe. “And the other half?” I finally asked.
He stared at me. Hard. When he spoke again, it was clear he was picking his words carefully. “You know this means your career, don’t you?”
“Yes.” I forced the word out. It was the right thing to do. And I could honestly say that the ghosts needed me more than the bureau ever did.
“Fuck.” He jabbed his hands in his hair. “Fuck.”
“Nice, Grace. You kiss your mama with that mouth?”
He ignored my flippancy. “I sent you down to Brickell Bay to get clarity, Rain.”
His use of my first name was rare and really drove home how final it was. I nodded yet again. “I understand that.”
His voice hardened. “Is this about McKenna?”
“No.” I took a deep breath. “This is about me.”
I couldn’t possibly expect someone like Graycie—who thought in terms of black-and-white, as I once had—to understand something like that. I still wasn’t sure about the ghost business, but I was sure I wanted to shed my monochromatic, placid lifestyle.
I was tired of spending all my time dotting my t’s and crossing my i’s. Following all Graycie’s rules. Driving a perfectly boring, nondescript sedan. Hell, I was even tired of the dark gray, lightweight cardigan I kept on the back of my chair in my office, just in case I got cold. I was ready for the unpredictable. I was ready to see what strangeness life had in store for me. I was ready for color and confusion and… messiness. Most of all? I was ready to go home.
I probably was going to go grab that cardigan, though. It’s Ralph Lauren. I’m quitting, not crazy.
Window ghost finally spoke for the first time. “He’s always been like this. Stubborn as a mule.”
I tightened my fingers on the chair handle, but other than that, I refused to react. It was really not the time.
But window ghost continued. “Alfie never could understand things he couldn’t touch. Feel. See. So literal. Probably as a result of my death. I took something even more important from him than a father for all those years. I took away his hope.”
“There are worse things,” I said under my breath.
“Tell him I’m sorry. Sorry for all of it. And that I didn’t mean what I said the night I died. I’ve always been proud of him.”
I swallowed. “Thank you for telling me that.”
Graycie frowned in annoyance. “Telling you what?”
“Nothing.” I cleared my throat. “Will you give me a good reference?”
He snorted. “To whom? I don’t know what kind of reference I’d have to write to get you another position after
this.”
“I might work someplace in Brickell Bay,” I maintained stubbornly. Because whether Danny wanted me or not, that’s where I wanted to be. Working on our trust. I sighed. I had a feeling it was going to be a long haul. But no matter how much credit the bank of “shit happens” tried to extend me, I wasn’t going to borrow any more trouble. “I’d be an asset in the cold-case sector.”
“FBI to the police department.” He shook his head. “Going backward.”
“Says who? Your ego?” I said coolly. “Can I go? I have someplace I need to be.”
“I hear unemployment doesn’t open until ten.”
“Cute.”
“I’m assuming you’re back with him?”
“Back with whom?” I asked coldly.
“That big, dumbass detective who let you go the first time.”
I stared at him for a moment. It was a telling statement. After all those years, I hadn’t even picked up a blip of interest from Graycie. Some profiler I was. “I wasn’t aware my dating habits were part of this review.”
Graycie slammed the folder shut and leaned back in his chair. Clearly he couldn’t decide what made him madder—the Danny thing or the ghost thing. “You walk out of that door, you don’t come back.” It wasn’t a threat. It was a fact.
I pushed out of my chair and headed for the door. Hand on the knob, I turned. “Grace. Your father was an agent?”
His voice was irritation personified. “Yeah. Why?”
“He called you Alfie.”
The hand on the folder stilled. “What the fuck are you doing? Parlor tricks?”
“He said he didn’t mean what he said the night he died, and that he’s always been proud of you. He’s standing behind you.”
“Get the fuck out of my—”
“He’s a bit of a whistler. Won’t stop whistling ‘Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay.’”
Graycie almost seemed to stop breathing. He paled and stared at me for a long, hard second. “You’re not bullshitting me, are you.”
It wasn’t really a question, but I shook my head anyway. “No.”
“That’s his favorite,” he said, voice a little shaky. “That song. It was one of his favorites.”