by Natasha Deen
Nancy took a step toward him. “This is the kind of freaky I can’t explain and I don’t know…” She put her hand to her forehead. “I think I’m in shock.” She swallowed and her hands moved to her waist. Her fingers played with the handle of her gun. “But there’s an opportunity here, one I don’t intend to pass up.” Nancy took a breath that stretched the buttons of her shirt.
“I’m sorry, too.” She took a shuddering breath. “You were such a pain. So is your dad. The rules and laws didn’t give me enough room to do what was right.” Her face crumpled. “And I went with what was easy: I made you the bad guy when the truth was, we were both bad. I should have tried harder for you, Serge, and for that, I’ll never forgive myself.”
He shook his head, his mouth trembling, and his eyes glassy. Embarrassed, he swiped at his face. Serge stepped to her. His fingers shaking, he extended a handshake.
The scene was eerily quiet. Serge made no sound.
She took his fingers, pulled him into a hug.
He held his body tight, as though he couldn’t believe what was going on, as though he expected her to push him away at any moment.
Nancy must have sensed it too, because she tightened her hold and whispered, “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
He froze, stone still.
“I’m so glad Craig turned you solid,” she continued, “because I have a chance to hold you, tell you how much sorrow I feel.” She paused. “To tell you I forgive you.”
He melted into her. The lines of his body went soft, slightly blurry.
She held him tighter and whispered, “I hope you forgive yourself…and me.”
He sobbed, never making a sound. Then he began to glow. Purple, blue, then white, the aura washed out from him like a wave and warmed my face and skin.
Dad tiptoed to me, sat down, and took my hand. He leaned in and whispered, “Is this what you see every time you help a ghost? The colours?”
I shook my head and looked at Craig.
“You’ll see them, now.” His gaze remained on Serge. His sigh dropped his shoulders and relaxed his chest. “This is good.”
He said it quietly, but the conviction and relief in his tone caught me. “What?”
“Serge couldn’t move on—he couldn’t be a protector until he’d let go of the pain of this life. You can’t hold on to your mistakes or to the mistakes of others. They become chains that weigh you down and eventually drag you under.”
Nancy pulled away from Serge but kept her hands on his shoulders. “Honey”—she maintained eye contact—“there’s something I need to tell you.”
Her tone signalled terrible news and I rose, went to him. Taking Serge’s hand, I said, “What is it?”
She took a deep, sad breath. “It’s your mom.”
Serge glanced at Craig. “She’s sick, right?”
Craig frowned and rose slowly to his feet.
Nancy waited until he’d reached us. “No. I’m sorry honey…” Then she quietly said, “She killed herself tonight.”
Serge’s legs buckled.
Craig and I grabbed him.
“Killed—no, you’re wrong.”
Craig slung Serge’s arm over his shoulder. “I—are you sure? She committed suicide?”
Nancy nodded. “There isn’t any doubt.”
“Something’s wrong,” Craig said as he helped Serge to the couch. “She…I didn’t expect this.”
“I thought you couldn’t see the future.”
“I can’t—”
Serge slid to the cushion.
“—but I know probabilities. There’s something wrong. I need to look into it.” He straightened and looked at Nancy. “Are you positive?”
The sheriff grimaced. “She…left proof.”
Geez. I didn’t even want to think about what that meant.
“I’ll be back.” He turned to Serge. “I have to make you non-corporal, again.”
He nodded.
Craig closed his eyes. A beam of light engulfed Serge. When it cleared, I could still see him, but I knew I was the only one. Craig took my hand, held it for a minute.
A bead of light—red-copper—rapidly grew from his chest, expanding vertically until it was a thick line dividing his left from right. Then it expanded outward.
In a blink, he was gone.
“I really need to get drunk. Or eat enough sugar to put myself into a diabetic coma. My brain’s going to explode,” said Nancy, rubbing her forehead. “Serge’s dead but sitting in the family room, Craig’s some kind of supernatural guardian, and Lydia Popov just took her life—”
“She didn’t.” Serge’s voice was rough, gravely. “I don’t care what kind of evidence you have, my mom wouldn’t kill herself. She’s super religious and suicide—”
Nancy’s phone beeped. She looked down at the screen. “Honey, I’m sorry, but—”
“No! Even if she did it, he’s still responsible. He beat me and he terrorized her. He must have forced her to do it.” Anger twisted his features. “Because he wants Amber and her baby. He couldn’t have them and my mother. So he made her kill herself.”
Pity was in Dad’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Serge,” he said.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Me, too.” Slowly, rising as though the movement brought him physical pain, he said, “I’m going to go upstairs and rest.”
“Do you want some company?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, I think I want to be alone for a while.” He turned and moved away from me.
Chapter Thirty-Three
That night was spent with Dad and I trying to explain my abilities to Nancy. The next morning, I was in Nell’s art deco bedroom, lying on a quilt of red, black, and white squares, and telling her everything. Her eyes, already wide, grew rounder as I talked. By the time I got to the attempted murder on Amber, I was so worried Nell’s eyeballs would fall out, I tried to peddle back but she threatened me with bodily harm if I didn’t finish, so I continued with The Thing, Craig, The Voice, Nancy finding out, and the mysterious woman only Serge and my boyfriend seemed able to see. When I was done, I settled back on her king-sized pillows and waited. And waited.
She sat cross-legged, her pink silk pyjamas clinging to her curves, glass of soda in hand, and her mouth opened so wide I could have fit an accent pillow inside.
“Are you going to say something?” I asked.
She continued to stare.
“Nell,” I said, irritated. “I can see the dead but I can’t read minds. What do you think?”
Her mouth closed with a snap. “I don’t. You’ve managed to blow my mind.” Her head swivelled left then right. “In fact, I’m looking for pieces of my brain. I’m sure they’re scattered on the floor or sticking to the walls.”
I grabbed a gingersnap cookie from the white saucer on her black night table. “Hurry and gather, because I need answers.”
She blinked, long and slow. “Craig’s ten thousand years old?”
“Give or take a millennium.”
“How do you think he is in bed?”
“Geez! Nell!”
“Gimme a break.” She uncrossed her legs. “I’m trying to focus on the things I can comprehend and slowly moving my way up.” She rolled to her stomach and set her glass down on the floor. Flipping her hair back, she said, “A ferrier?”
I nodded.
“Carries the dead from…well, one place to another.”
Another nod.
A faint frown puckered her forehead. “You’d think a guy who’s lived through history would do better in social studies.”
“Nell, I’m begging—pleading—please focus on the problem.”
“Problems,” she corrected. “You’re facing multiple crises—” She cocked her head. “Crisie? What’s the plural of crisis?”
“You,” I said and reach
ed for another cookie. It cracked against my teeth and the scents of ginger spice filled my nostrils.
“Do you think The Creature and The Voice are related?”
I shook my head. “No. The Creature wants Serge. The Voice wants me.”
“You’re a real dynamic team,” she said drily. “Remind me not to hang out with you after sunset.”
I tossed the cookie crumbs at her. “Shut up.”
“Seriously, though…”
I waited for a brilliant plan of attack.
She scanned the ceiling.
I took a swig of tea.
“You’re sure you don’t know how Craig is in bed?”
I slapped her with a crimson-coloured accent pillow that was embroidered with dragons.
She laughed. “I can’t believe I ever envied you. Just your past twenty-four hours will keep me in therapy for years.”
“More like institutionalized if you ever told anyone.”
Nell’s smile faded, her expression sobered. “What a life you live.”
“Yeah, but it’s the only one I got, so…”
She sighed. “So, the issues at hand.” She rolled on to her back. “Are we sure Lydia Popov killed herself?” Her eyes met mine. “Is it possible that Mr. Husband of the Year did it?”
My mouth twisted to the side. “Possible, but Nancy seemed pretty sure she killed herself.”
“How?”
“Oh. I don’t know. She just said Mrs. Popov suicided.”
“Whoa,” breathed Nell. “How’s Serge?”
“Hiding in my room and not talking to anyone.”
A humourless smile slanted her lips. “I never thought I’d say this, but poor guy.”
“Tell me about it.”
Nell grabbed her drink and crawled over to me. She reached across my lap for a cookie and flopped on the pillow to my left. “It’s weird, don’t you think, that she’d kill herself? Isn’t that a big bible no-no? And she’s a pastor’s wife.”
I shrugged. “Craig seemed surprised by it, too.”
“That’s saying something.”
“You know what else he was surprised—well, not surprised, but—” I turned to face my friend. “When Nancy and Serge were talking, he insisted his dad had murdered him, but Craig…he seemed hesitant.” I sat back. “Craig knows who really killed Serge and I don’t think it was his dad.”
Nell brushed the crumbs from her top. “No one else had motive.”
I snorted. “Uh, it’s pre-death Serge. Half the town had a motive. Still, his dad seems the one with the biggest reason to murder.”
Her pixie features contorted. “Maybe, but if you think about it…Popov was screwing Amber since she was in grade nine.” Her face slackened. “Holy crap, that’s so gross.” She shook her head. “But she’s been sleeping with him for four years. Why would he kill his son, now?”
“Because Amber was pregnant.”
“So?”
“So…” So, what? “Okay.” I pressed my fingers to my temple. “Let’s think this through. Originally, Popov was supposed to reject Amber and the baby. She’d kill herself and that act would spur Serge to take what he knew about his dad to the cops.” My eyes widened as I realized what I was saying. I grabbed Nell’s wrist. “Serge’s moral compass.”
“What?”
“Look, he was a sleaze ball, but the death of Amber and her unborn child would galvanize him—”
“Which means…?” Nell asked doubtfully.
“Which means he has a moral compass. When Popov made the decision to accept the pregnancy, he knew Serge had to die.”
Nell frowned. “Why?”
“Because there’s one person Serge loves and protects. His mom.” I leaned forward and drew my knees to my chest. “I think it was one thing for Serge to look the other way with the affair but if there was a baby born, it would have humiliated his mother.”
“Why? She probably already knows what’s going on between her husband and Amber—”
“Yeah, but that’s behind closed doors. Now, she’ll have to see it every day.”
“Oh. You think he would have gone to the police because of the baby?”
I sighed. “Yes—maybe. This is what I know: he loves his mom, he’d do anything to protect and care for her, his father’s having an affair—”
“Lydia excused the affair for years. I don’t see how a baby—” She stopped. Her eyes went wide.
“What?”
“Remember the blood drive?”
“Yeah.”
“Well…I was doing some background checking—”
She wasn’t making eye contact with me. “You were snooping.”
Nell blushed. “I was—but with the murder, I thought knowing the family’s medical background might come in handy.”
“And?”
“And Serge is AB, RH-. Both his parents are blood type O.”
I gave her a blank look.
“This is why you shouldn’t have skipped the bio classes on genealogy. Popov wasn’t Serge’s biological dad.”
“What?” Memory blazed into my mind. “That’s why he always called Serge her son and made all those weird comments about morality.” I shot Nell a dirty glare. “Why didn’t you say this before?”
“Honestly, I didn’t think it mattered. Either Popov always knew Serge wasn’t his or he’d found out just before his kid was killed—”
“Uh, duh, yeah. You don’t think that’s a motive?”
Her cheeks turned scarlet. “I thought it’d make more sense to kill Lydia, not Serge. Besides, with the way he treated his kid, I figured he’d always known.”
I sat back. “Yeah, that’s true.”
“And anyway, you said it wasn’t Popov who killed Serge.”
I fidgeted, the sensation that I was missing something obvious crawled along my skin and scuttled along my brain. “I know, but Craig’s expression—it wasn’t that he totally discounted Serge’s assertion, it just seemed like there was more to it.”
We went quiet. The only sound was the wind outside sending the tree branches scrapping against the window.
“What if Popov set up the murder?” asked Nell.
“But who—” And the answer came to me. It made the blood rush to the outmost layers of my skin then race back to my heart and left my flesh tingling. I turned to my friend. “I know who killed him.”
Her eyes turned glassy. “It was Mrs. Popov, wasn’t it?”
I nodded slowly. “I think so. Serge can’t remember the night, can’t remember who killed him, but if it had been his dad, he’d have known. He hates his father. Serge blocked the memory because—”
“She was the one person he loved.”
I was so horrified, I couldn’t even think of a good enough curse. “I should have seen it, sooner. His relationship with his mother—she was bonded to her husband, not her son. The kid’s the product of an affair or something that happened before they got married. She’s always been ashamed of him—”
“—and Popov never lets her forget it. He throws it and her son in her face all the time.” Nell’s face darkened.
“Whenever Serge talked about her, he was in the protector’s role. His mom never looked out for him. He looked out for her.”
“Amber gets pregnant. Popov decides to keep the girl and the kid, but now Serge has to die.”
“And once he’s dead, everyone thinks the baby’s his. Popov’s in the clear.”
“I hate this guy,” said Nell. “I super hate this guy.” She traced the rim of the glass with her index finger. “But how would he get Lydia to kill her son? She’s a screw-up but isn’t offing your children a Godly no-no?”
I shrugged. “In abusive relationship, maybe the abuser has the power of God over the victim.”
Nell breathed out. “In thi
s case, Popov was definitely Lydia’s God.”
I stumbled to my feet. “I have to tell Nancy—” I looked at her, stricken. “Do I have to tell Serge?”
A tear tracked its way down her cheek. Slowly, she nodded.
I closed my eyes, turned away. He’d been so afraid he was going to hell. My knowledge was about to put him there.
Chapter Thirty-Four
When I got home, I found everyone in the family room. Buddha was on the floor by Dad’s feet. Ebony was curled on Serge’s lap.
“Hey.” I dropped my jacket on the couch arm. “Uh, I need to talk to Serge about…” I moved to him and gently sank to the chair. The furnace breathed to life and the drone of heated air filled the room.
He scratched the cat’s forehead.
“Um, how are you doing?”
The urge to say something sarcastic passed like lightning across his face. “I’m okay.”
Dad’s phone beeped. He looked down then gestured to the television. “I thought he might want to watch the football game with me.” Setting down the cell, he asked, “What did you want to talk to Serge about? Should I leave?”
I shook my head. Reaching over, I took the ghost’s hand. “I have a theory about your mom’s death but I need your help.” I paused. “And I need you to stay calm.”
Wary, he nodded.
“Amber is pregnant. Had you lived, what would you have done when you found out?”
“Gone to the cops,” he said.
Ebony preened, stretched her front legs and purred.
Serge smiled and rubbed her forehead.
“Why?” I asked.
“If he wanted to screw her, fine, but no way am I changing diapers and pretending his kid’s mine.”
Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. “Is that the only reason?”
“What do you mean?”
Dad tracked the conversation on his cell.