by Angie Sandro
I stumble against the door leading out of Munchies. A quick glance over my shoulder shows the wide eyes of all the customers focused on me. Then, almost as one, they turn to Mala, tracking her as she runs toward the back of the restaurant.
My legs barely keep me upright. I press a hand against the brick wall, using it for support. The sun blinds me. Breathing in the muggy air feels like I’m inhaling water vapor.
A hand touches my arm, and I jerk free. “Landry? Stop.”
Clarice.
I suck in a wheezing breath, and her eyes widen. “Oh crap, you’re having an asthma attack. Do you have your medicine?”
I shake my head. Squiggly, multicolored spots dance in front of her face.
“Is it in your truck?”
I can’t remember. I haven’t had an asthma attack in years.
“Maybe in the glove box,” I manage to say. She stuffs her hand into my jeans pocket and pulls out my keys. She doesn’t even try to cop a feel, which shows how worried she is. I lean against the wall, then slump into a crouch. I close my eyes and concentrate on each breath.
I can’t calm down.
It burns.
I’m not aware of Clarice’s return until she grabs my chin to open my mouth and thrusts the inhaler against my lips. I breathe in the shot, then grab the inhaler with a shaking hand and take two more hits. Each time, I’m able to draw in a little more air. Fingers brush sweaty hair off of my forehead, and I duck my head.
“Ungrateful ass,” Clarice snaps, dropping her hand.
I stare at her splotchy face and feel like shit. I scared her.
“I’m okay.”
“You don’t look it. Come on. I’m taking you to your parents’ house in case you have another relapse.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“No way. Your mom would kill me if something bad happened to you. You’ll stay there until you’re able to drive home.”
I push up off the ground. It takes two tries before I can stand without wobbling. Sweat soaks my shirt. I’m shaky, and my mouth feels like sandpaper. I need a drink.
Clarice takes my arm and wraps it around her shoulders. I want to pull away, but I’m too unstable. It’s worth having her hands on me if it means I don’t do a face-plant on the cement. For the first time, I regret the oversize tires on my truck. My legs tremble. I grab onto the bar to pull myself up. Clarice takes advantage of my instability by placing her hands on my ass and shoving me up onto the seat. When I look back at her, she wears a smug smile. I frown down at her, but she gives me a quick wink and slams the door in my face.
Damn. I’m not up for her flirting today.
I lean my head against the passenger seat and close my eyes.
She gets my not-so-subtle hint that I’m not in the mood to chat about what’s wrong when I ignore her hesitant attempts at conversation. Takes her a while though. My thoughts jumble together. I try to tell myself I’m confused about what happened in Munchies. That Lainey’s ghost didn’t come to me. Didn’t touch me. But the burning sensation on my wrist is an unwelcome reminder that I can’t lie to myself. Not anymore. I keep my arm hidden against my side.
When Clarice parks in front of the house and turns off the ignition, her head dips. “So? What happened in there, Landry?”
I hold in my harsh laugh. It rings through my head, bordering on insanity. If I let it out, I’ll frighten her. She cares about me. I wish she didn’t, but I’m not a complete ass. I won’t insult her by ignoring her feelings for me. If I could tell her what I saw…it would be so much easier to have someone to confide in. Someone who understands what I’m going through, but nobody will believe me if I say I’m being haunted by my dead sister. If I tell Clarice, she’ll think I’m nuts. She’ll tell my parents.
I haven’t lost my mind. Yet. ’Cause seeing ghosts isn’t crazy, but seeing ghosts will drive me crazy.
Stop thinking. I clear my throat and twist in my seat. I focus on her rich brown eyes, trying to keep this panic from showing in mine. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t play stupid. What did Malaise do to make you freak out? Did she fix a curse on you?”
“A curse?” I run fingers through my damp hair, see the handprint on my wrist, and drop it. I glance at Clarice. She’s staring at my arm with a frown. Did she see it? Her mouth opens, but I beat her to the punch. My words come out hard, mean, as I try to distract her. “Are you an idiot? Did you really ask if I’ve been cursed? Tell me you don’t believe in that hoodoo shit.”
Her face crumples. “Don’t call me names. It’s a legit question. God, Landry. Malaise LaCroix made you scream like a scared little girl and run out of the room. I’d laugh if I didn’t see you afterward. You couldn’t breathe…”
“I had an asthma attack.”
“Not for years. She fixed a curse on you.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“No, you’re being stupid for denying it. Everyone who saw what happened knows she cursed you. Maybe they’ll be too embarrassed to admit it out loud, but they’ll be thinking it. Just like I am.”
I know. God, I know exactly how it looked. That’s why I’m freaked.
I open the door, not wanting to have this conversation. It’s ridiculous for me to even think this way. I don’t want to lie. But I can’t say the ghost of my sister burned her handprint on my arm. I’d sound nuts. “Thanks for driving.”
Clarice grabs my arm. “Stay away from her, Landry. Please, for me.”
I pluck her hand off my arm and jump out of the truck. Clarice follows. The whole time she stares at me. I won’t meet her gaze. Finally, she gives up and walks slowly across the street. I watch her until she enters her house. It’s the least I can do after her saving my ass with my inhaler. Plus I’m avoiding going into the house. I’m scared Lainey will be waiting. I don’t know what she wants. Maybe she needs something from me or from Mala to put her spirit to rest.
When I finally work up the courage to go inside, I’m surprised. The house is quiet. Peaceful. I pause in the entryway and inhale. The thick aroma of onions, garlic, and spices mingling with rich beef comes from the kitchen. Mom cooked beef stew. It has a distinct odor. Lainey loved Mom’s stew. It was her favorite dish. I follow my nose into the empty kitchen, then check the simmering pot. My mouth waters, and I give in to temptation. Heaven.
A figure passes the window as I’m rinsing out the bowl. Mom, wearing a straw hat, pushes a wheelbarrow with an unopened bag of fertilizer toward her rose garden. Her cheeks glow from the heat. Her serene expression lightens my heart and puts a tiny smile on my lips. I didn’t realize how worried I’ve been about her. The way Dad talked, well, I’m glad she’s okay. For right now, she seems normal.
I’ve put off what I need to do long enough.
The stairs creak. Sasha runs up with me, tangling around my feet. I scoop her up so I don’t trip and rub her head. The poor cat must be lonely. She slept with Lainey every night. Mom won’t let her in the master bedroom. And I’m not living here anymore.
I pause in front of my sister’s bedroom and prepare myself for the emotions that will sweep over me once I open the door. The room has become oppressive. Each item contains a memory. An imprint of Lainey. It’s intense. I haven’t been able to go back inside since the day George told me she died.
Hell, I’ve avoided coming back home even though Dad begged me to visit Mom. I couldn’t do it. My roommate went home for summer break, and I have our place to myself. So I hid out in my tiny-ass apartment for the last four days, drinking and playing video games. Alone. Maybe I should bring Sasha to my apartment. At least we’ll have each other.
My hand shakes as I open the door. Sasha lets out a yowl and twists, clawing at my arm. I drop her with a muttered curse. She’s a black, furry blur as she darts beneath the bed. Fickle cat. The room hasn’t changed. The bed’s still made. Her clothes hang in the closet. George searched the room when he was here last. Now I know why. He was looking for clues to her murder. Now it’s my turn.
I search beneath her bed and inside her dresser drawers. The walk-in closet holds a trove of personal information. Lainey kept a diary ever since she learned how to write. The old ones are still stored in a trunk in her closet, but the newest diary is missing. A whole documented year of her life has disappeared. It has to be here. Where else would it be?
In one of her tennis shoes, I find a key with a tag: #101. It’s too big to be for a locker…maybe it’s an apartment or hotel room key. It must be important if she hid it in her shoe, right? I stuff it in my pocket and keep searching. In the farthest corner of her closet, beneath a pile of clothes, I find a bottle of whisky.
Oh yeah! I take a shot directly from the bottle—a silent toast. To Lainey. Thanks for caring enough to beat my ass with a shoe after catching me drinking in high school. And for not telling Mom and Dad. Love ya, sis.
After a few more shots, I’m ready to tackle the big job. The bookshelf’s one of those floor-to-ceiling, custom-built jobs. My sister liked to brag about reading a book a day. A couple hundred books line the shelves. I start pulling them to see if one may be the diary in disguise.
Lainey liked to do that. Hide her diary in the dust jacket of another book. She was tricky, but I still knew all of her secrets. Mainly because when I was a kid, I didn’t care that her diary was off limits. To counter that, she started writing in French. She knew I was too lazy to learn another language.
“Landry?” Mom stands in the doorway. Her eyes widen as she looks around the room. “What are you doing?”
I follow her gaze. I’ve trashed the place. Crap!
“Mom, I’m sorry. It looks bad, but I swear I’ll clean up after I’m done.”
“Do you know how long it took me to clean up your sister’s mess? I wanted this room to be perfect.” Her blue eyes bore into mine. They’re filled with confusion. Her hands shake. “What are you doing in here?”
Her words filter in. It took a while. I guess I drank more of the whisky than I thought. My tongue feels thick in my mouth. “Lainey’s diary. It’s missing. Did you find it when you cleaned the room?” I drop the romance novel I’m holding onto the pile on the floor.
Mom lets out a tiny wail when it hits, and the pile slides to the floor. She staggers forward to collapse onto the bed. Her dirt-encrusted hands rub her face, leaving mud streaks on her perspiration-damp forehead. “Why are you doing this to me?” she mumbles.
I go to her side and sink down beside her. “It’s important, I think. Finding it.”
Her hand rises to cup my cheek. “Son, this is no longer your home. You can’t barge in here doing as you please.”
“I said I’ll clean up. This is important.”
“Your sister doesn’t want you in here messing things up and neither do I. Get out of my house, Landry. And don’t come back unless invited.”
I rear back, shocked. “Wait…you’re kicking me out?” My heart thunders. She doesn’t mean it. I’m her son. She’d never kick me out. Not for real. She loves me. “Mom, don’t be like this. Please.”
“Go,” she hisses. She shoves my chest, and I fall backward. She rises. Her eyes flick over me. “Stop by the barber shop. You need a haircut. You’re getting shaggy.”
What the hell?
Her lightning-swift mood change sends a chill down my spine. Her eyes are cold. They used to be so warm. Filled with love. Now it’s gone. No wonder Dad wanted me to stop in to check on her. She’s not handling Lainey’s passing well after all.
Hell, neither am I. Most people would say seeing your sister’s ghost means a psychotic break from reality. I’m going crazy. Mental illness clusters in families, so why couldn’t I be nuts if Mom keeps flipping the switch on her sanity? My shoulders slump once Mom walks out of the room. The jittery prickles on my arms fade with each step she takes down the stairs.
I kick the pile of books, wishing I had the guts to go full-on temper tantrum and trash the bedroom. A random key, a missing diary, a bottle of whisky, and the privilege of getting booted out of my parents’ house like a teen delinquent who smokes pot all day. Obviously, this search for clues is an epic fail.
Why did I think I’d find anything here anyway? It’s obvious Lainey’s trying to send me a message. What? I don’t know. But Mala saw the imprint of Lainey’s hand on my wrist too. She spoke Lainey’s name. She breathed in the cold spot and felt the icy energy coat her lungs. Does Mala know why I’m being haunted? Did she purposely sacrifice Lainey in some hoodoo ritual and trap her spirit on earth for nefarious purposes?
Nefarious, I like the word. It reminds me of a black widow spider that lures its prey and eats its mate.
I grab the bottle of whisky from the closet and down a huge gulp. The liquid burns down my throat, and I breathe out heavy fumes. Warmth burns in my belly and spreads out to relax my muscles. I have to learn the truth from the source. Rumor says the LaCroix witches speak to the dead. If that’s true, Mala can ask Lainey why she keeps coming to me.
Chapter 12
Mala
Through the Looking Glass
Go away! You’re not real.” I squeeze my eyes shut, suck in a deep breath, and let it out in a heavy sigh before I crack open one eye. She’s still there. Unlike a framed portrait, she seems solid enough that I can reach out and touch her. I bang my palm against my forehead and wince. “I’m hallucinating.”
Lainey dips her finger into the cut on her wrist, then scribbles letters on the mirror in blood.
My stomach heaves, and I back away from the sink. “What’re you trying to tell me?”
Lainey slams her fist against the glass. Again. And again.
Cracks spiral across the glass from the impact. The fractures separate my face into red-tinged fragments—wild eyes, mouth open—a jigsaw puzzle. One last hit and the mirror shatters. Jagged shards of glass fly at me.
My hands rise to protect my face as I duck beneath the counter. I curl into a ball, pressing my back against the metal pipes. I can’t stop shuddering. Cold settles so deep into my bones. They ache, and the more I shake, the harder I rock back and forth.
“I’m okay. I’m okay. She’s not real,” I chant.
I sniff, wiping my face on my upraised knees, leaving a red smear on the denim. My hand flies to my nose. A thick clot of bloody mucus plops from my nostril onto my palm. I must’ve jammed my nose when I dove for cover. I reach out from beneath the counter and grab a handful of paper towels from the dispenser above my head.
This totally sucks. I’ll die of shame if anyone finds me like this—hiding under a sink like I’ve lost my ever-lovin’ mind. I pinch my nostrils shut, roll onto my knees, and crawl out. My gaze skitters sideways, darting to the mirror. The glass is unbroken, but the words Lainey smeared in her rage have been rewritten. I’m not crazy. I bite my lip to keep from speaking the words. I don’t want to believe I’m imagining the whole thing—but, on the flip side, it can’t be real. Mama’s insane. Not me.
Unless she’s right? If Lainey’s haunting me, it’s for a reason. What does she want from me? I draw in a deep breath and hold it. MIH. DNIF. Doesn’t make sense. Stupid ass backward ghost. I blow out the air in a giant gush. Backward, duh. Lainey had written FIND HIM. Find who?
* * *
The ride from town to the bus stop takes forever. I huddle in my seat with my eyes closed and my headphones blasting. Nobody talks to me, not even Dena. Although I know she doesn’t try only because my body language screams FUCK OFF!
When the bus pulls up at my stop, I pick up my purse. Liquid drips on my foot, and I glance down to see a spreading yellow stain. I glare at Thing One and Thing Two, the only jerk-offs left in their seats.
“Which one of you pissed in my purse?” I yell.
Carl shrugs and holds up his hands. “Not us. We didn’t do nothing. I swear, Mala,” he says, but with a smirk on his lips that itches to be smacked.
God, I wish I really could lay a gris gris on them. Twist a curse that’ll make the boys’ lips swell up or give them the squirts. “I�
�m sick to death of getting messed with by you two. Keep it up and you’re gonna be in a world of hurt. Don’t forget, I know where you live. And I know how hard you sleep at night. You won’t even hear me coming.”
I stomp off the bus to the sound of their laughter.
“Hold up,” Dena yells. “I’m walking with you.” She jumps off the bus, bypassing the stairs. She lands in the mud and hops out with a laugh. “Guess I need to start looking before I leap.”
The laugh sticks in my throat and turns into a snort. I choke it off with a scowl. “You didn’t have to come, I’m fine. No lasting injuries from my run-in with Landry Prince.”
Dena blows a ragged curl out of her eyes. “I’m not doing it just for you. I don’t want to get grounded for beating up my baby brothers. Those boys have gotten on my last nerve. ’Sides, I’ve been thinking. What if the stalker’s back?” My glazed look prompts further explanation. “The guy who followed you to the bus stop this morning.”
“Oh hell, with all that’s been going on, I’d put that out of my mind. Thanks a lot for reminding me, Dee.”
I pause at the base of the trail through the woods. With the sun shining and birds singing, it looks normal. I can almost convince myself that my experience this morning is a figment of my imagination. Or if it did happen, that someone had just been wandering innocently across our property. Maybe I scared them more than they scared me. But, then again, if Landry had been telling the truth, his sister had been murdered.
I assumed the cuts on her arms were self-inflicted. But no, someone deliberately stole her life and dumped her body in my bayou. I’ve always felt safe roaming around, but now I get the shivers thinking that someone may be lurking behind a tree watching me. Thing is, I have to know for sure. I can’t let fear hold me back from finding a clue if the killer has indeed been stalking me.
“I guess I’m glad you’re with me,” I tell my cousin.
Dena bounces up and down on her toes. The girl can’t stay still to save her life. “Lead the way.”