Past Tense

by Samantha Hunter

  Margaret raised her eyebrows at Roger. “That’s pretty specific for a hallucination.”

  Roger ran a hand over his face. “Margaret, I know you’re trying to help, but-.”

  Margaret set her hands on her hips in a combative style Sophie didn’t see often. “You are failing to consider one whopper of a thing here, Detective,” she said pointedly.

  Roger planted his feet wide, leaning in, more than happy to face off.

  “Yeah? What might that be? The phase of the moon? The Chi of my shirt?”

  “Your shirt is a whole other discussion,” Margaret said, overly-sweet. “But whether you believe Sophie or not about this man she saw, one thing is true.”

  “What?”

  “He’s the only one who might have seen the killer. He could be the killer or connected in some way, but your hallucination or ghost or whatever is your only freakin’ witness. With your fiancée’s life on the line, I think you might crack that hard head of yours open a bit and consider every possibility. If Sophie said she saw something, then she did. And she doesn’t need this crap from you when your buddies down at the station are already trying to railroad her for this crime.”

  “You have to be fuckin’ kidding me! Where do you get off? Sophie, do you think that’s what’s going on?”

  Sophie was in the proverbial rock and hard place. While she appreciated Margaret’s loyalty, Roger deserved the same from her. They were both right and both wrong.

  “Guys, please don’t fight about this. We can figure it out,” she pleaded with them.

  Roger turned to her. “You won’t be figuring anything out. The police will figure it out, and you’ll be well rid of this place when it’s gone.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking back behind him. “Lunch is out there. I’m not hungry. You two enjoy it. Sophie, I’ll see you later.”

  Both women watched his back as he walked out, and Sophie dropped her head back with a groan. Margaret crossed to give her a hug.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Sophie. I didn’t mean to cause problems with you guys, but he gets my panties in a wad when he acts like that. I don’t know how you stand it.”

  “He just gets. . .worked up. He means well. What you said earlier is kind of true when it comes to both of you guys.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You both could be right. I don’t know what to do, Margaret.”

  “You have to believe in yourself, and go from there. For what it’s worth, I do believe you.”

  Sophie shook her head. “Thanks, Mags, but I don’t know. What the heck could any of this have to do with Patrice? I mean, why is this ghost thing coming up now?”

  “I don’t know. If for whatever reason you do have some kind of family gift, you may not be able to deny it. Who knows, maybe it’s an age thing, and it’s kicking in now, but you may have to accept that part of yourself. The universe is sending you some pretty strong signs.”

  Sophie shrugged. “Signs of what? If they’re signs, they’re pretty crappy ones. Soon I’ll be married, in a new job. There’s no place in my life for this.”

  Margaret sighed. “Sometimes we don’t have a choice in the matter. The universe picks you, not the other way around.”

  “That’s not very helpful,” she grumbled at Mags and blew out a breath, hoping she’d be able to figure this out without any more upset in her life. It was clear Roger wasn’t open to any paranormal possibilities. Margaret’s words rang in her ears, that the man, the ghost or whatever he was, might be the only one who could tell her anything about Patrice’s death.

  Whether it was a real ghost—and Sophie had her doubts about that—finding out who he was, or what he was doing was the answer to what was hiding in her head. Like it or not, it was her job to figure it out. Mags was right. She had to believe in herself.

  Sophie knew that she couldn’t base her belief about what was going on around her on anyone’s perceptions but her own. If she was going to trust what she’d seen, and follow her gut, then she needed to start trying to get more information. From an expert.

  Hopefully she could keep her life and her future intact while she tried to do that.

  Chapter Four

  Roger came over later that night, making nice in the way Sophie had become accustomed to on the rare occasion that they fought: beautiful flowers, hot pastrami sandwiches and great sex. She knew they should have talked somewhere between the sandwiches and the sex, but she needed the break, too. It was easier to be physical and shut her mind off for a while.

  He’d also brought her the relatively good news that while her name was still first on the suspect list, forensics hadn’t come up with anything to strengthen the case against her. With no apparent motive and no weapon, the case was in limbo for the moment.

  Tracing her finger over the masculine lines of Roger’s chest and snagging the St. Christopher lightly as he pushed away from her and fell to her side, pulling her up close, she smiled a true smile for the first time in days. Satisfaction made them both languid and mellow. She hated to bring up anything that would break the spell.

  “That was fun,” he commented, kissing her hair as he always did.

  “It was,” she agreed. And it was true. Though she didn’t have any basis for comparison, they’d always been good together this way. At least, she had no complaints.

  Why couldn’t life be this easy all the time? Maybe it could once they got past this mess. For her part, she was feeling better since she’d decided to just have faith in herself and take some action to find out what was going on.

  “What did you do after I left today?” Roger asked.

  “Mags and I finished cleaning up and talked, kicked a few reporters out of the store, and then I came up here and tried to catch up on my school work. I erased about fifty messages from news inquiries.”

  “They’ll back off soon”

  The phone on the desk rang. Roger grabbed it, as he was closer.

  “Hello? Yeah, who is this? Who? Okay, uh, wait a sec,” he said, looking at her curiously. “Dr. Gabriel Mason? Who the hell is that?”

  She shot him a look as he didn’t even bother covering the receiver. She took the phone, aware of Roger watching her closely, keeping her conversation to “mmm-hmmms” and “sure” and “okay,” and writing down a time and place on the notepad she kept by her dresser before hanging up. Roger was waiting like a cat ready to pounce.

  “I thought Doc Thomas had already settled that you’re suffering from stress.”

  “Dr. Mason isn’t that kind of doctor, exactly,” she hedged.

  Talk about bad timing. She’d called Gabriel Mason earlier in the day, hoping he might be able to shed some light on her recent experiences. She wasn’t sure if she was going to tell Roger, but how the ghost-hunter was out of the bag, so to speak.

  Roger’s brow furrowed and then his eyes widened. “Wait a minute. . .I know that name. I saw him on a poster at the B&N downtown . . .he’s the ghost guy. The ghost therapist?” He looked at her in disbelief. “Oh, Sophie, please, don’t tell me--”

  “That’s only what the papers call him. He’s a real doctor, a licensed psychologist, a PhD, a professor at Northeastern, and he writes books and does paranormal investigations on the side.”

  “I see. And why is he calling you?”

  Roger wasn’t jealous—he knew he had no need to be—but that would almost be easier than discussing the real reasons she had contacted Dr. Mason.

  “I want to ask his opinion about the man I saw at the shop, and the other. . . things.”

  Roger’s face said it all, though he remained silent.

  “Roger, please. Why is it such an issue for you?”

  “I’m trying to do what’s right for you. For us.”

  “Maybe the way you see it, Roger, but what about me?”

  They both dropped back to sit in tense silence for a moment.

  “Sophie-”

  “No, Roger. I don’t like it any more than you do, maybe less, because it happened to m
e, and it’s my life that’s being turned inside out.”

  Roger’s eyes flashed between anger and hurt. “Not your life, Sophie. It’s not just you anymore. That’s the point. When are you going to start realizing that?”

  Sophie threw her hands up, unable to answer, or at least unable to answer well. She loved Roger, and she knew he loved her. Still, it was her ass on the line for Patrice’s murder, her mind that was doing wonky things she couldn’t explain, and her questions that needed to be answered. Did loving someone mean that she didn’t exist by herself anymore? That she needed his approval for everything? What century were they in?

  “Maybe somewhere, deep down, I do wish I was psychic, that I had some lasting connection to my Dad, to Aunt Doris. . .why were they like they were, and I’m not?”

  His expression softened slightly. “I don’t know honey, but you don’t even remember much about what they did. They said they were psychics, but you know, maybe it was just. . .”

  “A lie? My family was a bunch of frauds now?”

  “You know, there are a lot of people who think they have psychic abilities, but they don’t. Other people just need to believe it, for some reason. It’s not a crime, it’s just. . .life.”

  “Well, I think it can be real. Mags said it can run in families, Roger. If this is possible, then I need to know. What if it’s connected to what happened to Patrice? What if there’s something here that could clear me or help find what really happened to her? I have to try.”

  His patience was visibly thin; she’d been with him long enough to pick up on the vibe. “You’re not making sense, Sophie, and it worries me. This is superstitious nonsense. I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn, so insistent. It’s not like you. You definitely should not be sticking your hands into this investigation. You’ll do more damage than good.”

  “It’s exactly like me. I can take care of myself, though you don’t think I can. Have I leaned on you so much that you can’t see me as my own person anymore?”

  She realized with a sudden, sinking feeling that that could be the case, and it landed hard around her heart. When they’d met, she’d been young, wounded and alone. Roger had become the biggest part of her world except for the store, but her world was changing. What did that mean for them?

  “I thought we were doing okay, working toward something here, Sophie. Every time we talk about us, or moving forward, you put me off. Now, with all of this other stuff happening, it’s like you’re going against my opinion almost to push me away on purpose. Is that what you want?”

  She looked at him in surprise. “Is that what you think? That I’m being obnoxious to push you away? Roger, I love you,” she said with all her heart, unable to bear him thinking otherwise. “But you can’t keep me wrapped in gauze, making all of my decisions for me. When you try, maybe I do push back. Your doubts. . .they’re always there between us. I feel it. The way you reject my past, my family. . .it, well. . .sometimes it hurts. They’re still a part of me. Always will be.”

  He sighed, and relented. “I know. I know. I would never hurt you Sophie, you know that. I want to help, to make things better for you. For us to be together. The past well. . .it was what it was. It wasn’t happy. I want you happy. The future should be different, not drag all of this forward.”

  “I know that, but you can’t always make things okay for me.”

  She walked over to him and made the first move, kissing his cheek, willing him to understand. “I just want to talk to him, that’s all.”

  “I still don’t like it,” he said, but with less acid.

  “There’s no harm in it, Roger. Maybe he can help me understand. Is that so bad?”

  They didn’t often argue, and she didn’t like it. She wanted to be close, snuggled up naked in bed, and to have him listen and accept her for all of her wild and crazy thoughts. It wasn’t going to happen. As usual, the closed look came over his eyes, and his voice changed in the way it always did when he decided to lock out anything that he was uncomfortable with. Usually she let it go, accepted it as just part of who he was, but not this time.

  “You know, I have cases piling up on my desk, and we’re both on edge. I think it would be better if I spent the night at my place,” he said wearily, backing out of her arms.

  “Rog, really, can’t we-”

  “Sophie, you obviously want to do this, and I can’t get behind it. So let’s just call it a night and talk again tomorrow. Get this out of your system, and then maybe we can forget it.”

  She fumed at his tone. She wasn’t sure she could just get visions of bloody murder “out of her system,” but refrained from saying so.

  “Fine. Maybe you’re right.”

  “You be careful. Don’t go poking around in the case, I mean it,” he said pointedly and she couldn’t help but feel resentful, even if he did have her best interests at heart.

  Roger pulled his coat on and walked to the door, where he paused again, looking back. The sharpness of the love and concern in his eyes made her want to agree to everything he wanted, to be anything he wanted. She had to follow her instincts on this.

  “I’ll be fine. I love you,” she said, but she didn’t make any other promises that she didn’t intend to keep.

  “I love you, too,” he said before he left.

  Sophie sighed, going to the sofa, sitting down and turning on the TV, though she didn’t even notice what was on. Maybe she was an idiot to make an appointment with Gabriel Mason. She was probably even a bigger idiot having agreed to meet Alan Bledsoe at his office. She’d meant to tell Roger about his call, but everything had gone kaplooie before she could. No doubt he would have had a fit about that, too. Maybe rightfully, but while Roger was barred from the investigation because of professional limits, Sophie had to do something. She just hoped it ended up being worth it.

  * * *

  Sophie hurried past Harvard yard and turned on Cambridge, moving quickly through the underpass toward the engineering complex, and the Maxwell-Dworkin building where she’d been told to find Bledsoe’s office.

  It was a modern-looking complex. A set of blocky, Lego-type buildings set among the more traditional brick constructions that people associated with Harvard from the movies. She’d never really explored all that much of the campus, even though she’d grown up in the area. She stayed south of the Charles mostly.

  Bledsoe’s secretary was a prim older woman who appeared to be expecting her and spoke in soft, formal tones, directing her toward the door.

  “Thank you. I’m so sorry about Patrice,” Sophie said, testing the waters. The woman eyed her coolly and nodded once.

  “Yes. Very sad. You can go in now.”

  Heartwarming response. Come to think of it, why had Alan wanted to meet her here instead of at his home? His wife was murdered and he was at work? Maybe he was afraid of her, Sophie considered. Wouldn’t Roger get a kick out of that idea, but Sophie was the prime suspect. Maybe Alan thought it was safer to meet here.

  As she walked in the door, Alan Bledsoe sat behind a huge, wooden desk that was somehow out of keeping with the metal and glass structures around him. Several large, clear windows looked out over a picturesque building nearly perpendicular to the one they were in.

  “Hello, Alan.”

  “Yes, Ms. Turner, a moment, please,” he said distractedly, squinting at something on his computer before turning his attention back to her.

  She hadn’t seen him in years, and for some reason, remembered him as older than he appeared now. She supposed when she was seventeen, everyone had seemed much older, but had Patrice robbed the cradle? He was at least ten years Patrice’s junior, if not more, Sophie guessed. The suit he had on was dark, in mourning, she supposed, but expensive and trendy, and hardly conveying a “stuffed suit” image. Patrice had been heading into her sixth decade, though she’d been a very beautiful woman in her own right—and somewhat of a cougar, it appeared.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  “I’m so sorry abou
t Patrice. She was a very special woman,” Sophie said sincerely, holding out her hand. “You know she meant the world to me, and I can only imagine your grief.”

  He reached across, taking her hand in a firm grasp, and she caught a scent of cologne that wasn’t at all unpleasant. Of course Patrice would never marry a man with bad taste, she figured.

  “Thank you. Please, have a seat.”

  Raising her eyebrows at his flat response to her condolences, she covertly took in his flat stomach when his jacket pulled at well-developed biceps and sat down, wondering if maybe Patrice was seeking a divorce for other reasons. Maybe Alan was having an affair, or something equally vile. He was an attractive man. Maybe marriage didn’t sit well with him, but Patrice’s money had.

  She noticed there were no family pictures in the office. No pictures of Patrice. Only some generic art hung on the walls, a number of framed awards and degrees, like hunting trophies meant to display his academic prowess. The overall effect was impersonal, unlike many of her professors’ offices which were made to be homes away from home. There were no leaning towers of student papers or books stacked where shelves overflowed. Everything was in its place. Precise. It didn’t add up that someone so well-groomed and organized would commit such a messy murder, but who knew what lie beneath?

  “Thank you for meeting me, Sophie,” he said.

  “Glad to do it. You wanted to talk about what happened?”

  “Yes, yes. I know this is most unusual, but you were the last to see Patrice, and I wanted to know what she talked to you about. I want to know if she was . . . happy, for lack of a better word. I hate to think she was upset in her last moments.”

  Sophie hated to admit it, but she couldn’t imagine this man as a killer. His hands were too finely manicured to wield a knife, and she couldn’t believe Patrice would have such poor judgment as to marry someone with a violent streak. They had had, and lost, a child together, for goodness sake.

  “She was . . . she was fine,” she said, hedging. Patrice hadn’t been to be happy at all, by her own admission, but Sophie wanted to see how he would respond. “Maybe a little overwhelmed,” she added, hoping to draw him out.