The Trouble With Dying

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The Trouble With Dying Page 30

by Maggie Le Page


  Her words slice through me. Even though most of my memories are still shrouded in fog, my skin nevertheless crawls with the shame, the sadness, the sham my life appears to have been.

  “Nothing’s perfect now, is it?” She picks up one of Faith’s unresponsive hands, gives it a shake, lets it drop to the bed. “It never was. You thought it would be once you’d married Geoff in some quick-fix registry office thing, but you forgot one thing. Me.”

  Her eyes glitter, and in them I see pure malice. My heart lurches up to my throat. She looks almost psychotic.

  “But, Cynthia.” I whip down to the bed and stand directly in front of her. “This is all in the past. You’ve got Geoff now. Be hap—”

  “You stole my future. You took everything I’d planned for my life and you lived it for me.”

  “Cynthia, it wasn’t like that. We were friends. I’d never—”

  “Do you know how it felt to sit at the sideline, day in, day out, watching you live my life? Pretending I was happy to be your friend and confidante and freaking sexual advisor? Watching Geoff play with your daughter when he should’ve been playing with mine? Do you have any idea how that felt?”

  I swallow the lump that’s lodged in my throat. “I do now. I’ve done a lot of watching this past week.”

  “One of the nurses said hearing’s the last sense to go. That’s good, because it means you now know how much I hate you. I just wish you could see me living your life. Then you’d know this was the way it was always meant to be.”

  I drag in a breath on a ragged sob. I feel sorry for her, and sorry for me, and sorry for Geoff. What a mess we’ve made of things.

  Cynthia’s face clears. She smiles, and she looks quite beautiful, in an ice-queen kind of way. I guess, for her at least, this chat has been therapeutic.

  “It’s quite poetic,” she says. “You stole my life; now I’m stealing yours. It’s all balancing out. Everything’s going to work out just fine.”

  She picks up Faith-in-the-bed’s hand and gently strokes it. The feeling rips straight through to me, like clothes against a washboard. Stop touching me! I scrub at my hand, but her thumb continues to draw gentle circles, teasing, taunting.

  “I used to imagine you dead, you know. I used to imagine creeping into your home, stabbing you with a kitchen knife, rolling you off the bed, and shagging Geoff while you bled out.”

  I stare at her, aghast. Her eyes have closed, and a smile is on her lips. She moves her free hand over her breasts, down between her thighs, and all the while her thumb continues to scribe circles on the back of my hand.

  I feel sick.

  “God, yes.” Her lips part and her breathing grows rapid. “That was some fantasy.”

  Her eyes snap open. “You know what? The best thing you could’ve done was go peacefully. But you’re trying to wake up, aren’t you? And I can’t have that. Sorry, darling, but I can’t leave your death to chance anymore.”

  She breathes deeply. Smiles to herself. There’s a strange light in her eyes. “Very soon I’m going to end an ugly mistake, and it’s going to be beautiful. I’m going to finish what I started, Faith, and this time I won’t make any mistakes. This time you’ll die for me.”

  She leans down, so close her breath falls hot against Faith-in-the-bed’s ear, spookily hot against my own ear. “The last voice you hear will be mine. The last person you think of will be me. Your last breath will be for me.”

  Chapter Forty

  Cynthia is gone—for now—but her words are etched in my mind.

  How could I have missed the obvious?

  We’re not close; haven’t been for a long time. The reason I’ve been struggling to see areas of common ground with her is that we don’t have any. Not since I stole Geoff from under her nose.

  Whether it’s actually true or not is irrelevant; that’s what she believes. She looks like a woman who’s not used to failure—of any kind. Faith-in-the-bed must be a constant, niggling reminder of what she sees as her failure. I should be dead by now, freeing Geoff to be with her.

  Except—and this is the bit I don’t understand—they’re already a couple. So why bother going to all the extra effort of killing me? It seems pointless.

  I look at Faith-in-the-bed. She’s sleeping like the dead, her jet-black eyelashes a stark contrast to the pallor of her skin. She could continue to sleep like that for months—years—to come. She could die in an hour. Either way, I pose no threat to Cynthia. And she knows Geoff and I are separated, so even if, by some miracle, I do wake she must know I’m not about to trample all over their relationship.

  It—she—doesn’t make sense to me. But not understanding just amplifies my fear.

  I start as Sylvia swoops in like some archangel on a mission from God. She comes to an abrupt halt at the end of the bed and takes in the room at a glance. Then she looks long and hard at Faith-in-the-bed.

  She breathes out through her cheeks. “Thank goodness.”

  “Sylvia.” I whip down to her side, all but merging through her in my haste. “I’m so pleased to see you. You have no idea.”

  She breathes in-two-three—and out. In-two-three—and out. She shivers. Reaches for her amethyst.

  “Faith? Are you all right?” She closes her eyes, focusing in on her breathing.

  “Yes.”

  “Ah. There you are.” A faint smile plays on her lips. “Good. I was too late last time. I’m darned if I’m going to let that little part of our history repeat.”

  She opens her eyes, makes her way over to the chair and eases herself down.

  I stay where I am. No more hiding. This time I need her to find me. “Thank you for coming.”

  She nods. Arms relaxed, hands resting palm-up on her legs, she takes deep, meditative breaths. She keeps her eyes open, though, and with laser-like precision focuses on me.

  “You can see me,” I say.

  “Not every detail, but enough to know where you are.”

  “Wow. That’s cool.”

  “I am so freaked out right now,” I add. In case she can’t feel it oozing from my pores.

  She shivers again. Closes her eyes. “I’m sensing evil here, Faith. A threat. Your safety’s at risk.”

  No shit, Sherlock. My safety’s been at risk ever since I woke. The big difference now is that I finally know who my real threat is.

  Sylvia takes a couple more breaths, and it’s as if she’s listening to something. “Yes. Definitely a threat. Weakening, though. I’m guessing you’ve had a visitor recently.”

  Cynthia. Hard-nosed, eye on the goal, bulldozer approach. Scary woman. My pulse races even as I think about her.

  “You are safe for now, but . . .” Sylvia’s eyes snap open. “Nathan. I must ring Nathan.”

  She digs deep in the bowels of her cloak and pulls out a mobile phone, fatter and immensely more cumbersome than the slimline versions everyone else seems to have. This one looks strong enough to withstand a flaming fireball. Whether it actually works remains to be seen.

  “Nathan,” she says, which just proves old technology isn’t necessarily bad technology. “Could you come to the hospital, please?” . . . “Yes. Now would be good.” . . . “Oh. Well, could anyone else sit with her?” . . . “Okay. But Nathan, if she can’t, you’ll have to bring Tess with you. This is urgent.”

  # # #

  By the time Nate arrives, Sylvia has worked herself into a muttering, hand-wringing lather.

  He strides in the door and Sylvia turns in her chair with a relieved sigh. “You’re here. Thank goodness.”

  And I’m thanking goodness with her—thanking goodness I don’t have to be scared of him anymore.

  “Ma?” He hunkers down next to her. “What’s wrong?”

  Sylvia hesitates and looks past him. “Is Tess with you?”

  “No. Kathy—remember her? Faith’s mum—met us at the theatre and took my ticket.”

  “Good.” She studies his face. “Do you feel it? The evil?”

  He frowns. Looks a
round the room. Shoots her a questioning glance. “No.”

  “Oh. It’s so strong I thought you might.” Sylvia pauses, shudders, seems to huddle deeper into her skin. “There’s evil here.”

  “There is?”

  She nods. “Only remnants—like the smoke when you blow out a candle—but evil nonetheless.”

  “Nathan—” she grabs his hand, squeezing tight “—do you remember how to create a circle of protection?”

  He hesitates, then nods.

  “Good. You need to build one around you.” Then, gaze intent, she adds, “Now, Nathan. It’s important. Do it.”

  He opens his mouth to speak then closes it again. Sighs. “Ma, what is going on?”

  “Protection first. Then questions.”

  His jaw sets. “Fine.”

  He closes his eyes for ten seconds, perhaps twenty, then opens them again. “Done.”

  And he has, too. I gape in wonder at the shimmering white-gold light surrounding him. How did he just—?

  Then Sylvia speaks and, turning, I see she has done the same. Her surrounding light has more of an aqua hue.

  “Thank you,” she says, visibly relaxing. “Nathan, I don’t know who is involved or what’s about to happen or why. All I know is that Faith is in grave danger.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Patience, darling.” Her eyes close briefly, as if she’s searching for some herself. “Someone wants Faith dead. He—she?—oh, I’m not sure . . . Whoever it is, they’ve wanted her dead for some time, but now they’re getting impatient. They’re angry, vindictive, and exceptionally determined. Anyone who gets in their way will be pushed aside.” She eyeballs Nate. “And I know you, Nathan. So—please—keep that circle of protection around you.”

  The brief upward flick of his eyebrows is his only acknowledgement.

  “Do you know anything about this person?” he asks. “Anything at all? Height, race, age, location . . .”

  She shakes her head miserably.

  “Then how do we identify them? You said you can feel the threat. Will you feel it if they’re in the same room as you?”

  “Yes.” She wrings her hands. “I’ll smell it, too.”

  Nate shoots her a sceptical look. “Smell what?”

  Sylvia purses her lips. “I know that tone, young man—”

  “Thirty’s hardly young, Ma.”

  “—and you can stop right there. I interpret odours. I smell happiness and sorrow, new life, impending change . . . And evil has a very special stench, son. You may not detect it, but I most certainly do. Faith’s attacker has evil on their mind, so they’ll have an odour that’s unmistakable.”

  Nate blinks. For a moment he doesn’t speak. Then, “Okay. Well, that’s a start. Anything else?”

  “Not yet.”

  He grunts.

  She stands and catches his hand in hers. “Nathan, we have to protect Faith. It’s imminent.”

  “Sylvia.” I feel as if I need to raise my hand before I speak. “Sylvia, I know who it is.”

  “Hmm.” Nate looks thoughtful. “The staff here are fairly vigilant about who’s allowed to visit the patients, given it’s an intensive care ward. But maybe we should put more formal security measures in place. I’ll speak to John.”

  She nods. “Thank you.”

  I try again. “Can you hear me, Sylvia?”

  “In a minute, Faith,” she says. “First things first.” Then, to Nate, “She needs a circle of protection, and pronto. It’ll be much stronger if we work together for this.”

  I figure I need all the protection I can get, so I let them get on with it. In seconds a faint glow appears around Faith-in-the-bed, strengthening as I watch. By the time Nate and Sylvia open their eyes again my circle of protection is a shifting, shimmering wonder.

  Sylvia smiles at Nate. “See? It’s like riding a bike. You never forget.”

  Fascinated, I move closer. It’s different to theirs; from some angles it looks white, from others it looks like a magnificent rainbow, and sometimes it disappears altogether.

  I take a deep breath, exhaling slowly, and maybe it’s just my imagination but I even feel different. Stronger, somehow. More calm.

  “Until the police add security,” continues Sylvia, “we need to keep vigil. Faith must never be alone. This is of the utmost importance, Nate.”

  “I agree. It’s the only way to be sure she’s safe.”

  Sylvia nods, then turns my way with unerring accuracy. “Faith. Sorry, dear, you had something to tell us?”

  I don’t beat around the bush. “I know who’s trying to kill me. It’s Cynthia.”

  Sylvia’s eyebrows disappear towards her hairline. “Cynthia?”

  Nate stills.

  “Yes,” I say. “She visited me this afternoon.”

  “What about Cynthia?” barks Nate.

  Sylvia’s eyes are troubled as she turns to him. “She’s the one with the bad smell.”

  He instantly picks up on her meaning. His eyes burn with chilling intensity. “I should’ve seen that coming.”

  That goes for both of us.

  “She hates me,” I say, unable to repress a shiver. “Really hates me. She’s going to make sure I die. Soon, by the sound of it.”

  Sylvia relays my words to Nate.

  “Not if I can help it,” he growls.

  Grim-faced, he pulls out his phone, punches a couple of buttons, holds it to his ear.

  “Brady. There’s been a development. We need backup down here at the hospital.” He pauses, listens. “Yep.” . . . “No, not tomorrow. Now.” . . . “I don’t care if it’s the effing Prime Minister giving the orders. Tomorrow is a cop-out and you know it.” . . . “Really?” A pulse works in his jaw. “Well, you tell your boss from me it’ll be on his head if shit goes down, because I’ll do what has to be done and I don’t give a flying fuck about his rules.”

  He ends the call with a ferocious stab, shoves the phone in his pocket, and glares out the window.

  I swallow nervously.

  Sylvia watches him, her face a mixture of pride and fear.

  Nate turns around and gives his mother a twinkling wink. “I give them an hour, maybe forty-five minutes. What’s your bet?”

  # # #

  Sylvia and Nate have been chatting quietly, refusing to pop out even to the kitchen until security arrives. I feel special—and grateful. Their presence is reassuring.

  Their conversation peters out and that’s when Sylvia notices the photo album in amongst a pile of magazines.

  “Oh, look,” she says, her features softening. “Tess remembered to bring in an album. What a good girl she is.”

  She picks up the album and opens it at a couple of random pages.

  “Yeah,” says Nate, “she’s a great kid.”

  “You know she’s psychic?” says Sylvia, tone casual, as she turns another page.

  “I do now.” He chuckles to himself. “That was a lesson in humility.”

  “Oh?” She looks up.

  He gives her a sheepish grin. “I didn’t believe her. Refused to believe her when she told me she was talking to Faith.”

  He glances around the room. “And if you’re listening to this, Pix, that was well played. Very well played. You always did have a mind that could wrap itself around those stupid cryptic clues. Drove me nuts that I couldn’t see the answers.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say. “Thank you.”

  Sylvia laughs softly. “Yes, Faith is listening, and she’s thanking you for the compliment.”

  She traces her finger around a photo of a younger Tess.

  “What else do you know about Tess?” she asks.

  Nate looks at her hand, now hovering over the photo, and glances sharply at his mother. “Nothing much. Why?”

  She balls up her hand, then wipes it down her blouse a couple of times.

  “Never mind,” she says, and now I’m wondering what that photo told her. It looks like a standard kiddie pic to me.
<
br />   Nate doesn’t push her to say what’s on her mind; he’s obviously used to Sylvia’s off-beat comments.

  He looks at his watch. His mouth turns down at the corners. “Forty-five minutes and counting.”

  “Maybe they won’t send anyone tonight,” says Sylvia. “It’s a bit late in the day to roster people on.”

  “Ma, it’s never too late to prevent a murder.” He pauses, gives a rueful grin. “Then again, there’s a reason the police department and I don’t get along.”

  The door swings open and Nate smirks.

  “Ah, Brady,” he says. “Right on time.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Nate folds his arms, regarding Brady with amusement. “You convinced your boss, then?”

  “No. Every time I mention your name he gets this look in his eye like you slept with his mother or something.” He pauses. “Did you?”

  Nate chuckles. “No.”

  “He told me to tell you to fuck off.” He pauses, looks at Sylvia, and clears his throat. “My apologies, Mrs de Luciano.”

  Her lips twitch. “Don’t hold back on my account, Detective.”

  Nate shakes his head. “I can’t believe he’s still sore with me.”

  “Go figure,” says Brady. “Guess that happens when some jumped up journalist sniffs out a rat in the force and embarrasses the top dogs.”

  Nate grunts. “So it’s a flat no? He won’t allocate even one cop?”

  “I asked for clarification on the ‘fuck off’ and he said too much crime, not enough cops, have to prioritise, no evidence it’ll happen, yada yada.”

  “Stupid prick,” says Nate.

  “But predictable. So I laid it on thick. Said it’d look really bad for him if Faith wound up dead because he didn’t respond to the family’s pleas for help.”

  “Family’s?” Nate’s eyebrow twitches.

 

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