I reached out to touch him. My fingers trailed through his cheek. I couldn't feel him, either.
He shuddered. "I felt…"
I gasped. "My touch?"
"Not your touch, but a…" The word he tried to say choked him. His eyes screamed that the word wasn't right.
I gave him a smile that held a gentle nudge. "It's all right. Say it. It felt…"
"Cold."
"That's because the air I'm touching is moving faster. I made a breeze."
Rich grinned. "Every time I feel a breeze I can imagine that's you."
"It might be. I have to go now."
"I don't want you to."
"I know, and I really don't want to go, but I have to."
"I wish I could help…"
"You can," I said. Fire sparked in his gaze. He wanted to do something to set things somewhat right for me. "Can you tell me what happened to my notes?"
He looked bewildered. "Notes?"
"The research I was doing on my criminal justice project. It's gone."
"I didn't know it was gone."
"I looked downstairs, and it's not on the table anymore."
I heard a car pull into the driveway at the same time Rich did. Anger grew in Rich's eyes. He jumped from the bed and walked to the window. "I'm not leaving."
I went over to him and gazed outside. His parents walked to the front door.
"They want me to leave. Get a new place. I won't leave here. You're still here."
I nodded toward the boxes by the closest. "They told you it was time to do that."
"I can't, not now. Should I ever?"
"I don't need the clothes. Someone else could really use them. I want you to donate them."
"I don't want to hurt you."
"I'm a ghost. You can't hurt me."
Rich held his hand up near my cheek as if he cradled it in his palm. "What makes you is still here. Your love. Your dreams. Your spirit. I don't want to hurt that part of you." Rich went to hug me, arms wrapping around himself. "They won't force you out of my life. They couldn't when you were alive, and I won't let them do it now."
I thought of Willow. I thought of Ann and the job I should've been doing. I always felt Rich's parents had wanted me gone, but it was a huge blow when finally confronted with the fact it was the truth.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
"Couldn't get much easier than that."
Easier, my derriere.
One of the mysteries of the world was why people felt the constant need to change things in order to make life easier, like the new system for keeping police reports. One had to turn on a machine, type in some cryptic password, and try to find file names, file folders, all to gain a sliver of information. At least Abby had gotten me into the part of the machine that was the electronic file cabinet. Now if I could only figure out how one filed a document inside all those chips, wires, and electronic gadgets.
A good old-fashioned steel file cabinet was quicker. I could just tug on the drawer that matched the first letter to the topic sought, it opened with a creak, then I flipped through the folders until material galore was at my fingertips. In case the memory wasn't so great, someone could take a picture of the document and write down everything in their handy-dandy notebook. Couldn't get much easier than that.
Nowadays, an investigator was forced to figure out an insane combination of letters and numbers to have the device holding the information open, and spelling counted. The old way worked as long as the first letter matched. You could just keep flipping until you found your man or woman. Now, a system of letters and numbers was assigned to each case. How did a detective figure out which file to take a peek at? What rhyme or reason was there to this system?
I decided the best course of action would be to use the 'Find' function, so I typed in the date she was murdered. There couldn't be too many matches.
Take a note: Remember what decade you're in.
I didn't know there were enough people alive to commit that many crimes in one day. From the notations, I saw a lot more behaviors were considered crimes rather than the 'close your eyes and don't look' philosophy of my time.
Voices filtered through the closed door. I didn't need to hide, but I couldn't start typing away at the keyboard. The click-clack might draw their interest. The voices drifted down the hallway. I concentrated and pressed the key with the arrow pointing down. Not too quick, but enough so I could read each line, and so only a small click emitted from the plastic.
I found the police report on Abigail. Her cause of death was repeated blows to the head. Blood and some of her hair had been found on a large hardcover book, a book on forensics. Rage churned in my spirit and the air crackled and popped around me. Why such a vicious attack on a defenseless young girl? This wasn't a botched robbery. Only passion—or a job well done—produced that type of result.
No sign of forced entry and no fingerprints that didn't belong in the apartment, just those of Abigail, Rich, Abby's parents, Paul, and Rich's parents. I needed to ask Abby if she had let anyone into her house.
The first question I needed to answer was the intention of the act—random or calculated? In the beginning of an investigation, it was more a matter of who didn't do it, rather than who did.
The door creaked open. I moved from the chair and hovered in the corner beside the door. I didn't want to be seen, nor did I want to be sat on and send chills up someone's spine. Unless it was Legs. A trio of detectives, two men and one woman, all in suits, entered into the room arguing about some case.
"Shot him in the privates," a male detective said, chewing on the end of a toothpick.
"Lucky for him, she decided to finish him off and put one in his heart, too." The older male detective turned to the harsh-looking female detective. "Bet you think he got what he deserved, huh?"
"Shouldn't have been sleeping with her sister. But I do think the heart shot was a little uncalled for."
"I think I'll call Bruce and warn him."
She grinned wickedly. "I already have. My husband knows to keep it zipped around other women."
The older cop looked into the eyes of the younger one. "Never marry a cop, kid."
The rookie detective sat down and stared at the computer. "Did one of you need this?"
"Hell, no. We couldn't get into the damn thing. That's why we got you." He looked at the dame. "Some bright idea, changing the code every other freakin' week. I finally get it stuck in my head, and they make a new one."
"Keeps us on our toes."
"Like the criminals and those freakin' lawyers don't do that enough."
The female detective clicked her tongue and held out her hand. "Saying 'freakin' still counts. Pay up."
Grumbling, he pulled his wallet from his back pocket and handed her three one-dollar bills. "Gonna call my wife and snitch to her?"
"Nah, we both agreed to give each other a cut of the money we got during the day."
"Damn stupid promise." He thrust another dollar at her.
"Frankly, I don't understand. You didn't mind the cursing when the kids were growing up."
"That's because we had sons. It's just not right to curse in front of a grandchild."
"You mean granddaughter, you chauvinist," the female officer responded.
"Granddaughter, grandson, they're all the same to me."
"Flunk biology?" the rookie asked.
The old timer smacked him in the back of the head. "Just pull the case up, so we can get this over with. Why the he… helicopter we need to do this, I don't know. She said she did it, and her fingerprints are on the gun."
"Procedure," his partner reminded him. She grinned. "Damned lawyers."
Not all of them, but I had met a few in Limbo.
"So none of you needed this case?"
They both looked at the screen. "Abigail Harris? Ain't ours. Trip needs to be reminded to clear the computer when he's done."
It couldn't be too hard to find a detective named Trip. I sure hoped it was his real first o
r last name and not a nickname. If not, I was going to have to make sure he got put on leave for emotional distress.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Abby
I lingered in front of the townhouse. It was hard to believe I didn't live there anymore with Rich, or live anywhere anymore, for that matter. Or was Limbo considered living? I guessed that depended on what a person valued most about living. To me, Limbo, the whole knowing I wasn't—couldn't—be with the one I loved, wasn't living. It twisted my soul.
I felt a sharp, burning pain. I knew it wasn't physical injuries suffered when I was killed, because the ability to feel that type of pain anymore was gone. I needed Rich, even though I knew I couldn't ever have him again.
"You can take it with you," a taunting voice said from behind me.
I spun around, and there was the man from the alley. I knew why his words sounded so strange and cryptic, and it no longer scared me. He had known I was dead when I hadn't. He had tried to help me, but his old-fashioned speech had left me confused… and I hadn't been ready to listen.
"I'm Abigail." It would be nice to know some people in my new phase of existence, as Uncle Callous called it. Even dead, I wanted some friends.
He flashed a marvelous grin. "Nice of you to give a formal introduction, sweetie."
"So, us both being dead means we can be familiar, honeybuns?" I crossed my arms and glared at him.
A gravelly laugh rumbled from his throat. "I like sass and spitfire. The biggest problem with Limbo is the times keep a changin', and it's hard to keep up."
"When you died, it was okay to run around calling women 'sweetie'?"
"Walking, running, strolling, dames didn't mind endearing names being used to identify them. As a matter of fact, they preferred it."
"Is that so?"
"'Tis." He bowed and swept his arm down.
"When I come from, endearments are special." My gaze drifted back to my… Rich's house. I saw the outline of his body against the curtains, as he paced back and forth in the living room. What was he doing?
"Crying," he said.
"What?"
"Your man. He's in there crying." He made a noise of disgust. "Thankfully, nobody is around to see him doing that."
My heart or spirit squeezed. I couldn't quite make out if it was in joy or pain. "There's nothing wrong with that."
"In your time. In mine, being a sissy was a death sentence."
"Is that why you died? You were being a sissy?"
He turned an empty gaze on me, and I immediately regretted my words. Something inside me quivered. Did everyone's gaze turn into an empty bleak hole after being in Limbo for a while?
I tried to picture in my mind if Uncle Callous had those eyes, but I couldn't remember. Though, I didn't want to concentrate too hard because I would end up going to Callous. I didn't want to tell him where I had been, and where I hadn't been. I didn't think he'd be happy about my choices.
"How long have you been here?" I started drifting away from my house.
"Long enough."
I glanced up and down the street, not knowing which way to lead the man that followed me. "What's troubling you?"
"Nothing."
"My Uncle Callous says people are only here because of unanswered questions."
"Why find an answer when choosing ignorance allows a ghost to stay and interact with the living?"
"You're the one who said you were here long enough."
"I did. I've been here long enough to know how this level works."
"Well, how many years?"
"Are we that familiar with each other?" A smile lined his face, but there was no hint of amusement in his eyes.
I didn't know if that was because he was trying to hold back all emotions, or because he was one of those people destined never to feel happiness. When a person arrived in Limbo, there was no real reason to change their outlook on life, since they were dead. "I have to go."
"I'll leave you to your mission. If you ever get bored, look me up. I can show you around and fill you in on some stuff Callous might not tell you." He flashed another dimpled smile. Light filled his eyes, and a brilliant ocean-blue color beamed at me. "You know guys from his generation don't believe dames should do the same type of work as men."
I smiled. "Thanks."
"Remember my earlier words."
I shrugged. "Sorry, forgot them already."
"You can take them with you." He looked back toward the house I once owned and faded away.
What did he mean? Did I want to know what he meant? Or should I? I blew a kiss toward Rich. "Bye, love. I'll see you again."
I closed my eyes and concentrated on Ann and Limbo. I didn't know if I needed to close my eyes, but I knew that, with them opened, my mind would remain centered on Rich, and the place that still claimed my heart.
Did everyone in Limbo have a job? Did you need to have one, or was it the ghost's choice? If it was, why did some people work and others… well, I didn't know what they did.
"I should be there or somewhere," I muttered, opening up my eyes. I smiled. I had gotten it right this time. I stood in Uncle Callous's office. I walked over to the door and opened it.
I expected to see Ann sitting at her desk, flipping through her files, or complaining at being left behind as office decoration. I guessed she could be the kind of woman who preferred being regarded as a decorative item, but I didn't put much faith in that theory.
If she didn't want to work, she would be doing whatever it was in Limbo a person chose to have a restful time. It could boil down to the simple fact that jobs required contact with the living world in some capacity and, due to experiences, some ghosts would rather not go back. Been there, done that, dead now. Didn't want a do-over.
"Also, because there are some rules you don't want to break," a female voice broke into my reverie.
The blond girl standing in front of me was the same one who had comforted me after my first meeting with handsome. "Ann?"
"That's me." She walked over and gave me a hug. "I'm sorry you're dead."
I nodded. I could feel the fear and confusion coming back. My mind reeled. My priest had never explained this place. It was either living or dead, no in-between. Now, I had to come to terms with being dead, but being in a conscious state.
Ann patted my hand and led me to a chair. "Everything in the universe is not meant for us to know."
"Are you going to be here forever?"
"Revenge doesn't let a soul settle." Ann tugged a chair close to where I sat. "Do you have any idea who killed you?"
"Yes."
She leaned toward me. "Who?"
"Don't take this wrong. I mean I'm not normally a paranoid person or believe everyone is out to get me."
Ann rolled her blue eyes. "Honey, you got killed. It's not paranoia."
"Good point."
"Well?" she prompted.
"Rich's ex-girlfriend, Kim, or his mom."
Ann nodded. "The ex-lover or the disapproving parent. It's possible it was both of them."
"So, what do we do now? Are you going to poke around, or do I? Or you and I?"
Ann gave me an impish grin. "Callous is the detective around here."
I didn't miss the eye roll when she said detective.
"Your uncle came from an insane time when they honestly believed men were better and should do all the brain and muscle work."
"Women did the jobs that required sitting or taking care of them."
"Exactly."
"How long have you been with him?"
"Almost thirty years."
"Really?" Anger tingled up my spine, and I gripped the sides of the chair. My uncle wasn't quite the man I had made him out to be in my mind. "It doesn't bother you? Callous not believing you're his equal? Why stay here working for him?"
She waved off the words. "What can you expect? And it sure is entertaining to watch him squirm and try to backpedal. He has gotten better."
"It must be hard for him to relate to women wh
o've died recently and come to him for help." If I were a cartoon, one of those light bulbs would have just appeared over my head. That was the reason Uncle Callous wanted me to talk with his new client, Willow. He ticked her off.
"Lucky for him, I'm good at smoothing out the rough spots he creates," Ann said.
"Where would we find Willow?"
"It's hard to really know, Abby. I don't know her, or where her rooting places are."
"Rooting places?"
Ann's mouth curved into a smile. "The places that help us think, the places of our past that hold significant meaning to us. Either happy or sad."
"Why would we return someplace that made us sad?"
"Because no place and no one can ever just give us one or the other. We confuse ourselves by believing that. Each place holds both the good and bad. Sometimes, the memories we linger over are not the ones we end up bringing back with us after a visit to the past, and to the living." Ann took my hands. "Sometimes what was pleasant in our living years will only bring us pain in our new state."
Why did her words tremble across my spirit like a warning?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
"Crimes don't come from nothing."
The door flew open, and a detective tumbled in.
Papers and photographs slid out of the file folder he carried. He grabbed at them and almost tossed his body onto the floor in his frenzy to capture the objects in midair.
"Nice move, Trip," the older detective chuckled.
Trip's eyes centered on the computer, and he frowned. He picked up the papers and photographs and put them back into the folder. "I wasn't told anyone else was assigned to the case."
"This case?" The rookie tapped the edge of the monitor.
Trip let out a sigh and gave them a disgusted look. "What other case would I be talking about? Of course, the Harris case."
"If you don't want anyone nosing around in it, don't leave it on the computer."
"I didn't have it up on this computer," Trip said, a hard frown lining his face.
"Beats us. We're here on a different matter."
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