“Huh.” Levi tapped a closed fist to his mouth. Then he shook an index finger in Charley’s direction. “Let’s explore that for a moment—the urge not to destroy the box. Let’s assume it still exists for a reason. The fact that Peter sent it to you for safekeeping before he died speaks to that. It’s almost as if—”
“He knew the tragedy that awaited him . . . and my mother.” Aubrey was quiet for a moment. “He wanted to make certain Charley had the box because he knew there were predictions yet to come.”
“Maybe a specific one or two that would be relevant.” He shook his head at the mystery laid out before them. “But bigger or smaller than an earthquake, more or less personal . . . who knows?”
“Levi,” Yvette said, “is there an end to the predictions? We know they went beyond Peter’s death, but have they stopped completely since then?”
“I was just getting to that. There are four or five I can’t decode, fit into my filing system.” His finger landed on two pieces of green construction paper and a blue paper star. They were unlike anything else in the box.
“Seems like those three get filed in their own category of vagueness,” Yvette said.
“For now, I’d agree. The construction-paper messages, they’re different. Peter’s handwriting—it’s erratic throughout.” Levi pointed to various examples: cursive writing, all shaky but legible scrawl. “Then we get to construction-paper messages and . . .”
“They’re not as complex.” Aubrey eyed the closest deep green piece of paper, its edges jagged, as if it’d been torn away from a larger portion. “Maybe it’s the crayon.”
“But several predictions are written in crayon,” Levi said, noting another detailed drawing of a bumblebee and a locker, the apple. Levi refocused on the first piece of green construction paper. Written on it was the word “Springfield,” and next to it was a modest drawing of a house. “Interesting. The numbers written on the house, 2017 . . . it could be the year.”
“Or an address.” Levi picked up what appeared to be its mate, the other piece of green construction paper. He tipped his head at the lesser illustration. “Huh. A large bearded man wearing an old-fashioned sleeping cap. A few more stick houses surrounding him. What do you make of that?” Levi said.
“Uh, Santa Claus, maybe?” Aubrey bit down on a snicker. “A little imagination, Levi.”
He shot her an annoyed glance. “Right. Yes, I suppose I can see that.”
“Looks like a bunch of giant Vs drawn behind Santa,” Yvette said from her across-the-table view. Levi turned the paper around. “Oh, I see. They could be mountains in the background.”
“Or tepees.” Aubrey furrowed her brow at the rendering. Levi laid down the pieces of green construction paper. Boldly, she reached past them, touching the edge of the blue star. A sense of déjà vu filtered through her fingers and into her head. “These messages on the construction paper . . . they’re abstract. But the blue one, it’s warm.”
“And is that connecting to anything else?” Levi asked.
The cutout star depicted a house with a red roof, yellow sun, and what looked like waves in the foreground. The word “SUN” was printed out with an arrow, not pointed at the circular sol, but more toward the house. At least that was Aubrey’s interpretation. Before she could deduce anything more, a zing of pain shot through her temple. She let go of the star and jerked back in the chair.
“Are you all right?” Levi said.
Vagueness overrode what was beginning to feel like a cohesive memory. “Yes,” she said. “I think so. That was bizarre.” The pain eased, and she shook her head. “You know how you might have the urge to sneeze and then it vanishes?” They all nodded. “It was like that, something on the rise, then nothing—only sharper.” She felt Levi’s intent stare. “What?”
“Nothing.” He hesitated. “It’s just for everything I might list on a legal pad, organize on a tabletop”—he pointed at the mishmash of papers finessed into Levi logic—“it’s often your cryptic insights that deliver the most critical facts.”
“And it’s what makes you two fools a brilliant team.”
“Charley,” Aubrey said softly, her glance catching on Levi’s. But he looked away, busying himself with the spelled-out future in front of him.
“My apologies,” her grandmother said. “I didn’t realize the obvious was off-limits.”
The room went quiet. When it came to partnerships, Aubrey knew how well they worked together on a story—things with lots of moving parts. After the Missy Flannigan case, after Levi recovered and Pete was born, the two of them had collaborated on a few news assignments. None had come close to the mystery involving Missy or the one in front of them now. Still, Aubrey recognized the energy. Until recently, they’d never stopped working together. They’d repurposed, applying intrinsic partnership skills to their life. Aubrey sighed, at a loss to pinpoint where the ability to solve things together had gone.
“On the other hand,” she said hopefully, “without effective organization, cryptic information can remain just that.”
But Levi wasn’t listening to melancholy compliments. Instead, he tapped his pen rhythmically against a single stack of segregated messages. “These ghost gifts are also different from the larger mélange of predictions. They do, however, follow a pattern of their own. Each paper contains a series of numbers and dates.” Levi fanned out the papers, more than a dozen. Aubrey knew the look on his face; it was the visible manifestation of the gears turning in Levi’s mind.
“Five or six random numbers on every paper,” he said. “Each bearing an equally random date. No digit higher than sixty-nine. What am I missing here?”
Aubrey focused too, noticing a gap in papers and dates, starting a few years before the turn of the twenty-first century.
With his right hand, Levi picked up one of the curious scribblings. It was written on notepaper from Packed Tight Moving & Storage, Arlington, Texas, and dated November 16, 1987. Then, with his left hand, he picked up another paper, transferring it to his right hand. “February 3, 1991 . . . five more random numbers.” On the side of the notepaper, in pretty script, were the words Honor’s Guests, In-Home Catering, Rye, New York.
Aubrey raised her arm, fingertips hovering over yet another. Levi bumped her hand away, picking it up. It wasn’t deliberate, he was merely deep into his own thought process. With his index finger, Levi pushed one more paper a few inches along on the tabletop. This ghost gift contained five digits, dated October 15, 1993. Notepaper from Baskum Machine & Tool, Meridian, Idaho. “These messages, the series of digits, and a date. Your father recorded each one on notepaper originating from a different state, which we can tell by the businesses.”
“And this one.” Aubrey reached for a lone paper. “Kind of takes it to another level.”
“How so?” Charley asked. “Looks like all the other papers bearing random digits.”
“Except this one is from Surrey—Hennessy’s Funeral Home, on Warren Street.” Aubrey placed the paper on the table, tapping her fingertip on the noted address. It was warm, not unlike the blue star.
“Better yet,” Levi added, “it’s a future date, not too far from now.”
“So while the others are in the past, this paper boasts one more foretelling.” Charley pulled in a reverent breath. “But what do they mean: notepaper from unrelated businesses, each with yesteryear dates and this one, all bearing . . . what?” she said, looking to Levi. “Five or six digits?”
Levi looked at Aubrey; his gaze was confident. “Are we on the same page?”
“A pattern within the pattern. Makes sense to me.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d share your ‘makes sense’ discovery with me,” Charley said.
“Me too,” Yvette chimed in.
“Before, the flip remark I made about the Lisa project prognostication being a lottery ticket.” Levi placed all the papers back on the table. “I think that’s what these are. The digits accompanied by specific dates and locations. They’
re lottery numbers. And the arbitrary businesses . . . not so arbitrary.” He bore down harder with his index finger on Peggy’s Alterations & Custom Sewing, Doylestown, Pennsylvania. “They’re a time-stamped road map to . . .”
“A pot of gold,” Aubrey said. “They point to the location, state, and date where my father, or anyone who deciphered the message, could purchase a winning lottery ticket.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Las Vegas, Nevada
Twelve Years Earlier
Taking a life wasn’t beyond Zeke, especially when it was so obviously owed. A younger Jude Serino had witnessed his parents’ murders; he was the son of the man who’d ended the lives of Ailish and Kieran Dunne. While these facts were clear, the eye-for-an-eye killing of Jude was understandably complicated. He wasn’t the kind of man you could walk up to and shoot in the head, not like Zeke’s father. The CEO of Serino Enterprises had layers of protection and plenty of eyes on him. Yet, over time, Zeke had remained vigilant in his quest. He might have executed his plan by now, if not for two things: Nora getting pregnant and the fact that Ian’s degree from the London School of Economics did not come with a certificate of common sense.
Zeke had pondered this for the last hour, seated at the Montagues’ kitchen table. Across from him was Nora, her frail frame looking as if she swallowed a beach ball, a salt sea of tears running down her face.
“Is it really as bad as the cruise line mess?” Zeke was trying to assess the damage, and Nora was not great with numbers. She was hysterical enough to get that much of the story wrong.
“It depends on your perspective.” She sniveled, and Zeke handed her another Kleenex. “The cruise fiasco was close to a million dollars. Ian said this is only two or three hundred thousand, at least to get the books looking right.”
“Two or three . . .” Zeke’s jaw slacked. Even if it wasn’t a million dollars, he wasn’t sure Nora comprehended the amount; it didn’t matter. Regardless of the sum, the Serino brothers would not be pleased.
Not long after Nora and Ian married, his half-brothers had put Ian in charge of a modest day cruise line that operated out of South Florida. In record time, he’d managed to run the cruise line aground. Literally might have been better. At least that way the Serinos could have collected the insurance. Surprisingly, Bruno Serino had been forgiving, insisting he and Jude give Ian another chance. They’d offered him a position with a small chain of restaurants that operated out of Serino resort properties—established eateries, backed by successful hotels: Aspen, Las Vegas, and Miami. “How bad could you possibly screw it up?” Jude had said, slapping the back of Ian’s reedy frame.
Nora sniffled again, rubbing her hand over her stomach while verbalizing her brother’s memory. “All that joking about the impossibility of Ian messing up again. I never imagined it could happen. And now . . . you should know, it’s not just the business problems.”
“Meaning what?” Zeke leaned closer to the table and his puffy sister.
“I’m leery of them. Jude especially.”
“Why, did he threaten you? Did something happen?” Zeke rose from the chair, thinking today might be the day for cold-blooded murder.
Nora shook her head adamantly. “No. Nothing like that. But there’s more than meets the eye. Did you know the IRS audited Jude’s side of the business—twice? And as for Bruno . . .” She hiccupped again, her eyes, red-rimmed, darting away. “It’s just the most dreadful story, the kind that never dies. Bruno and Suzanne’s teenage son, Eli, he committed suicide while she was off skiing and Bruno worked at one of the Serino European resorts. Apparently, Suzanne was devastated—as she should have been. I heard she suffered a mental breakdown; Bruno had her locked away in a psychiatric hospital. It was that bad.” Nora’s hands gripped protectively around her round belly. “Then, Bruno, nearly the moment after they buried their child, he went back to his Boston office as if nothing happened. Can you conceive of anything so cold?” Nora’s hazel eyes drew wide, and Zeke sank back into the chair. “As for Ian, I have no clue how he got into such a mess with the restaurants. It had to be an accident, or maybe the business was faulty to begin with.” She aimed a wet blink at her brother. “Do you think they teach math differently at the London School of Economics?”
Zeke didn’t reply, sure the catastrophe had less to do with Ian’s arithmetic skills than his inability to grasp the wants and needs of vacationing Americans. Having been raised in England’s Notting Hill area with nannies, private schools, and safari retreats to Africa, Ian’s knowledge of middle-class American desires ran puddle deep.
“Zeke, I’m worried about what will become of us if the brothers fire Ian. Did you know Serino Enterprises holds the note to this house?” Nora pointed a trembling finger at a spacious kitchen, connected to a pleasant upper-middle-class home.
Zeke followed her index finger, calculating yet another complication. No, he wasn’t aware that the Serino brothers held the mortgage. Nora had been so excited to move into her new home, the one that came with a garden and a foundation. “A house, Zeke! I’ve never lived in an actual house! There’s even a tub with bubbling water! Can you believe it?” Nora’s dream come true had affected him deeply, a willowy echo of all the things that Aubrey had once desired. Even if he hadn’t seen her in years, every part of him wanted happily-ever-after for both women.
Nora went on with her concerns, smothering Zeke’s comparison. “Jude’s such a powerful man.” She blotted her runny nose. “I prefer not to learn how ruthless.”
Sadly, Zeke could answer Nora’s concern. He wanted to tell her “The hell with the Serinos. Forget Ian.” The two of them could leave town—damn, the one thing they knew how to do was vanish. Zeke could protect his sister, even his niece- or nephew-to-be. But sitting at the kitchen table, a near-empty pot of coffee between them, Zeke couldn’t suggest any such thing. Nora loved her husband; she’d never leave him. His sister loved the life she thought she had. He reverted to his initial thought: maybe today was the day. Snuffing out a chunk of Nora and Ian’s problems and avenging his parents’ deaths in one fell swoop.
He turned the prospect over in his mind. But Zeke couldn’t risk that scenario this second. Not with Nora a week away from her due date, wanting no more than the everyday things anybody had a right to: a home, a family. A blatant, front-page murder—committed by her brother—was not in Nora’s best interest. Maybe it wasn’t in Zeke’s either. What if he got caught? It was a rational concern, and part of the reason he’d been so long-suffering in his goal. When Zeke took out Jude, he planned to do it cleanly. A half-cocked plan would jeopardize his endgame. Right now, he needed to be present for Nora. In that effort, Zeke defaulted to the vow that rivaled revenge—Nora’s happiness.
Maybe he could manage that much. Last winter, Zeke had made his annual pilgrimage to Charlotte. She was still living part-time in New Mexico, traveling between her Albuquerque rental and Aubrey’s Massachusetts home. After midnight, when the house was dark and Charlotte asleep, Zeke made his way to a cedar storage closet where Peter Ellis’s letter box lived. Like previous visits, he carefully chose his next handful of ghost gifts.
Over the years, he’d never removed a noticeable amount of predictions. Other thieves might have gotten greedy; Zeke did not. A good grifter had his lines and limits. Zeke had maintained modest wins, never wanting to draw suspicion from entities like the IRS, or worse, Peter Ellis’s ghost. He’d also taken to giving away a solid share of whatever a ghost gift yielded. It seemed fair. While Robin Hood moments left Zeke with a clearer conscience, it also left him living, for the most part, off his Serino Enterprises paycheck—an unforeseen irony.
He mentally rewound hunches that had turned into advantages: the nonsensical numbers scribbled on notepaper were indeed lottery wins. His first drawing, from Mankato, Minnesota, had been small—a $10,000 ticket. A year later, the next set of numbers he’d taken proved a more profitable $25,000 win; he’d given nearly half to Chicago Children’s Charities. Today, in his wall
et was Zeke’s only remaining ghost gift—a slip of paper from Jed’s Log Homes in Aberdeen, South Dakota. It noted tomorrow’s date, and on it, Peter Ellis had recorded the numbers 23, 9, 41, 29, 59, 31.
“Nora, listen to me.” She tried to halt her jerky breaths. “Focus.” She blinked at him, and Zeke spoke in the reassuring tone that had held together his sister’s whole broken life. “Tell Ian not to do anything stupid and to give me twenty-four hours. He can do that, right?”
She appeared to think for a moment, then nodded. He came around to her side of the table and crouched, gripping Nora’s swollen but small hand in his.
“I can’t promise for sure, but I do have one Hail Mary pass. I’m willing to throw it for you.”
Not long after, Zeke left for the plains state, unsure if the lottery win would be pocket change or the kind of money that would get Nora and Ian out of a serious jam. No predictions had been life-altering wins. Hell, it was a fucking ghost gift stolen off a dead guy. There was no guarantee Zeke would recoup the plane fare.
Arriving in Aberdeen, Zeke made his way to Jed’s Log Homes. Next to the lumber-inspired business was a Fresh Start convenience store. It’d been part of the notepaper prophecy and pattern: every business address was within eyeshot of a liquor store, gas station, or convenience store—the places lottery tickets were sold. Zeke picked his numbers and bought a Hostess fruit pie, bag of Doritos, and a six-pack of Coors Light. Then he hunkered down in a Days Inn motel and waited for the local eleven o’clock news to end.
At 11:35, that year’s buxom soybean queen pulled white plastic balls that popped like corn while Zeke’s leg did a junkie’s jiggle. His heart rattled as she read thirteen as the final number drawn. Then the soybean queen giggled, saying, “Whoops! I mean thirty-one!” With astonished relief, Zeke yelled, “Oh, thank God!” and threw himself flat onto the bed, reaching for the phone. The win had wholly exceeded his expectations.
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