“No, you know this is different, Jayce. That’s why we’re on edge.”
I shudder a little. “Yeah. I know you’re right.”
“He died in a car crash,” David points out. “Why would he return as a ghost if his death was an accident?”
Kenna nods at him. “You’re right there, David. That means something else was going on when Charles died. Something unresolved. Maybe she wants us to handle that?”
Her query has me shaking my head. “No. She was too unsure about the ghost being there. This is about her. I can feel it.”
Kenna’s eyes flash. “You think she knew something of what was happening to the boy? We all saw that scar. It didn’t happen by playing ball in the yard.”
Before I can remark, a knock sounds at the door. My gaze flashes over to the desk where, beside the silver lamp, there’s a small clock.
“It’s her,” David whispers, even though no one can hear him apart from me. “She said she’d give you time to freshen up, and she’d be back by three.”
Nodding, I get to my feet and head for the door. Opening it, I plaster on a smile. “Marla.”
“Jayce.” She beams at me. Only, her enthusiasm is genuine whereas mine is covering up a whole load of dread.
None of us really knows what’s going on here, but the atmosphere in this place... Kenna is right. It’s not good. And that’s a hell of an understatement.
Chapter Four
Jayce
“I’m having coffee and tea and a small afternoon snack brought, in half an hour, to your suite,” Marla tells me, ever the gracious host. I can tell it’s imprinted on her very bones.
It’s actually quite creepy.
From the silent, shrouded occupant in the limo, to this lively woman... The sheer difference could give me whiplash, and I peer at my ghosts to see if they’re as perplexed.
Thankfully, they are.
“Wow, she’s changed, hasn’t she? She was all sad before. Now she’s...” David scowls. “Weird.”
Either it’s a role, or Marla’s buoyant about-face is because I’ve confirmed Charles is following her around, as well as the fact I’m not a con artist. Or it could just be she’s schizo, and I’ve signed myself up to help her.
Great.
Kenna’s right, I need to stop walking into these situations blind.
As Marla shuts the door, Charles slips in. Barely managing to enter the room before he’s crushed by the heavy oak wood.
Clearing my throat, I murmur, “Marla, I don’t want to presume, but when you walk into a room, be sure to close the door slowly.”
She frowns at me, her clear brow scrunching in a way that confirms she hasn’t had Botox, but there’s no way in hell she hasn’t had some help. The woman has zero wrinkles, and she’s in her mid-forties—something’s gotta give. I mean, I know her mom is like a queen or something, but even blue bloods get old and crinkly. “Whatever do you mean?” she asks, perplexed by my statement. I can’t blame her. It is a little out there.
I wrinkle my nose. “It’s just a small courtesy for Charles.”
Her mouth drops open. “For Charles?” she squeaks, then peers around her. “He’s still with me?”
All the ghosts, including Charles, roll their eyes. I want to, oh so badly, but I clear my throat instead. “Yes. You’re the center of his world, Marla. But when you rush through doors, he can get trapped behind them.”
“And he can’t pass through? Like in the movies?”
“He can, but like I said, it’s a courtesy. Ghosts still feel human. They still want to be treated with kindness.”
Her plump lips, rouged with an expensive pencil, forms a perfect ‘O.’ “Thank you, Jayce. I’ll make sure to amend my behavior in future.”
Her earnestness eases my discomfort a little. “It’s the little things,” I tell her. “Before getting into the car, let him in first, and just waiting a second before closing the door really does make them feel happier. Because I can see them, it’s different, but I’m even cautious about where I sit. They don’t like being sat on.”
Talking of seats, the sofa beckons and I settle down beside David as Kenna has moved to the armrest. Marla sits opposite me. Charles to her left. He’s too small for the love seat. His feet, in those expensive high kicks David mentioned earlier, hang over the edge, the soles pointed at me.
Marla sits in a position that’s uncannily like Kenna’s. All neat primness. Her brown hair has a faint wave to it, but it’s neatly contained in a chignon now—the bun having disappeared between our first meeting and this one. Come to think of it, so has her accent. Huh. She must have put on the Alabama drawl to keep me off the scent of who she really is, because once you see her, there’s no mistaking her identity. Her makeup is flawless and classy. Her clothes are elegant but neutral.
She’s dressed like a First Lady, as far away from a country bumpkin as I am to a Martian.
The notion makes me cough a little, especially as she tugs a pearl necklace from under the boat collar of her prim pencil cut dress. Talk about channeling Jackie O.
She eyes me for a second, a study I return. I’ll not lie, I’m still a little star struck even though she’s weird.
Marla’s mother married a European prince back in the sixties. Marla is the product of that relationship, only for some reason, she isn’t a princess. I don’t know why. Not sure of the politics, but I think Jane Davison renounced her daughter’s claim to give her a more normal life.
I want to snort at that.
Like the daughter of royalty could ever have a normal life.
Jane gave up Hollywood, but when Marla hit eighteen, she took it by a storm. She starred in three huge movies in her twenties, then disappeared. News broke that she’d copied her mother—had married a prince, from Saudi Arabia though not Europe—and that was that.
The reason she’s an urban legend is because there hasn’t been a sight of her since. Not a picture, not a snippet of a headline. Nothing.
Like she’d been erased, or something.
It was weird enough to catch my attention. I loved her movies, loved her mother’s too. When I was old enough to be interested in celebrity gossip, Marla did her disappearing act, and she caught my and the public’s attention. And now I find out she had a son also. A son no one ever heard about! A son who died in an accident that wasn’t covered in the press.
It’s crazy.
More than that, it’s impossible. Yet it happened.
To be seated across from her is the weirdest part though. We’re in her house, in our country—a country no one knows she’s even residing in. We’re talking like she’s not been in some kind of hiding since the nineties.
We all figured she was tucked away in Saudi Arabia. As the years passed without mention of her, we, uncharitably and pretty much turning racist, reckoned she must be in Purdah or something.
Instead, she’s here. Dressed to impress no one, because this place houses nobody other than Marla, her dead son, and the retinue of staff needed to keep this monster running.
I feel like Belle, only without the Beast and the talking furniture. Well, Belle had Mrs. Potts, and I’ve got ghosts.
Who trumps whom?
Hiding a snicker at the thought, I decide to start the ball rolling because fascinated though I am, I don’t want to stare at her all night. “You asked me here for a reason, Marla.” I haven’t been invited to call her by her first name, but I do it anyway.
She hasn’t even told me who she is. I’m not sure if it’s a sign of arrogance or just her being a realist in thinking I’d know who she was.
Marla bows her head, and the gesture is so regal, I feel like I’m looking at thousands of dollars of deportment classes at a Swiss finishing school. It’s kind of hard to see the woman and not the product of her environment.
Damn, that sounds cold, but there’s something faintly robotic about her, which is very disappointing.
They say you should never meet your idols... so far, they’re right.
I’m hoping she’ll prove that theory wrong.
“You’re correct. I have, and I’ve been avoiding the issue since you arrived.”
“Was there something suspicious about Charles’s death?” I ask the question but really, it’s a statement. There isn’t a doubt in my mind something happened to Charles outside of a car crash. David hit the nail on the head—it’s highly unlikely Charles would be here if he’d simply perished in an accident. It does happen; Kenna’s a perfect example. But it’s very, very rare.
She fidgets a little—well, she shifts upright, shoulders straightening, and I can tell that is about as fidgety as she gets. “It’s a difficult subject.”
“Of course, it is, but you knew you’d have to discuss it when you brought me here,” I point out, not exactly gently.
I’m not here to have my time wasted. And I’m sure as hell not here to be creeped out by the vibe in these digs.
She nods. Once. Lips tightening, she murmurs, “Charles wasn’t my husband’s son.”
That has my brows lifting.
David sums it up with, “Whoa.”
“That must have been...” Shit, I have no idea what that must have been. Awkward? Embarrassing?
Kenna murmurs, “A trying time.”
I repeat the words with relief, and there’s a faint twitch of Marla’s lips at what can only be a complete and utter trivialization of what she went through during that period of her life.
“You have no idea.” She lets out a sigh. “I married my husband on the strict promise I was a virgin. I wasn’t. I’d slept with one man, a bodyguard who made me believe I’d fallen in love with him, who made me believe he loved me. When he learned I was a virgin, he laughed at me, and told me he wanted nothing to do with me. I felt guilty about lying to my fiancé, but as I’m sure you can imagine, virginity is prized in the Arabic culture. In my mind, if not my body, I was a virgin.
“We married soon after meeting, and my bodyguard left my employ shortly before that. Though there was no outward proof of my virginity, my husband was satisfied. I was inexperienced enough on our wedding night, as well as uncomfortable and nervous enough, to induce him to believe he was my first. Then, I discovered I was pregnant.
“I thought nothing of it as the bodyguard had used protection, and was thrilled at the thought I was carrying my husband’s child. Then I learned I was three months pregnant when I’d only been married six weeks.” She clears her throat. “The doctors told my husband, and I was sent here. I’ve been in this house ever since.”
“Holy shit,” David breathes. “This is like something from that crap you watch through the day, Jayce.”
I want to tell him that my soaps are not shit, but hell, he’s right. The storyline would take center stage on one of my shows. Easily.
“Does your husband...?”
Marla sucks in a breath. “No. He doesn’t visit. He doesn’t believe in divorce, so I stay here, and he stays there. Never the twain shall meet.”
A sudden thought occurs to me. “You don’t think he hurt Charles, do you? Conspired...”
She immediately shakes her head. “Redouane resented me, not the child. He sent him gifts at Eid-al-Fitr, an important holiday in his culture, and never argued when I spent a lot on his education.”
“Then why am I here? For that matter, why is Charles here?” I confess, “I was leading you on earlier, Marla. I know something suspicious had to have happened to Charles because he wouldn’t have come back as a ghost otherwise. Only spirits with unresolved issues return. Charles is obviously one of those.”
Though he’s seated beside his mother, Charles has been quiet throughout this short conversation. I’m surprised actually. He’s pithy enough to make a running commentary, one that would distract me, but he’s still as a statue.
Either all this is coming as news to him, or he’s hurting.
Either way, I hurt for him.
He was a precocious little bastard back in the limo, but I can’t hold that against him forever.
Marla’s about to reply when a knock sounds and the door opens. It’s a tea trolley, like something from Kenna’s day. It’s a wonder we didn’t hear the maid coming down the hall because it rattles like crazy—I guess it’s a sign of how engrossed we all are by Marla’s story. The porcelain cups chime a little if they click together, and the silver coffee and teapots ring too.
The maid is dressed in a neat shirt and skirt. Nothing French maid about it. She just looks smart.
“Ma’am, everything’s here like you asked. Do you want me to serve?”
“No, it’s okay, Jennifer. Thank you.” She dismisses the staff with a small smile then gets to her feet. “Do you want tea or coffee, Jayce?”
I purse my lips. Tea would probably chill me out and coffee will churn me up, but I need the caffeine. This is getting stranger and stranger.
“Coffee, please.”
Kenna tuts at me, but I ignore her, leaning forward for the dainty cup Marla passes me.
“Do you want cake or a sandwich?”
“Neither. But maybe later. Thanks though.”
Marla nods, pours herself some tea, then takes a seat again. There’s a weight on her shoulders. A burden. I can feel it.
“I was driving the car when we crashed,” she murmurs softly, her voice as quiet as a lamb’s first bleat. “I wasn’t going too fast. We weren’t driving around a bend, and the weather was fine. There was nothing in the road. There was no reason for me to crash. But I did.”
“You suspected foul play?”
“Of course, I did,” she snaps, then sucks in a breath that’s meant to soothe. “I apologize. This isn’t something I find easy to discuss.”
“Naturally. I just want to know the facts so I can figure out a way to help Charles.”
She bows her head in understanding continuing like I haven’t spoken, “I had the car checked. There was nothing wrong with it. I can’t remember the crash or the few minutes preceding it. It’s blocked in my mind, but there were witnesses who confirmed that my vehicle lost control in the middle of town.”
She takes a sip of tea, winces at the heat, but it doesn’t stop her from taking another scalding drop. The steam from the cup beads on her top lip, but she doesn’t seem to notice she’s holding it there against her mouth. She’s frozen in another time. Buried in her memories of a moment she regrets, a moment she wished never happened, but will carry on plaguing her for the rest of her life.
“I’m sorry, Marla,” I tell her softly, pity filling me.
No wonder the house has such an atmosphere.
Marla is in purdah, after all. One of her own making. This is where she must stay to atone. A place she undoubtedly hates as much as she loves it for all the memories it houses.
“There’s no need to be sorry, Jayce,” she tells me, and I get the feeling I woke her up from whatever reverie she was lost to. “I just want your help.”
“But how? I’m not affiliated with the police, Marla. I can’t reopen an investigation into Charles’s death if you think there was foul play.”
“I know you can’t. I don’t want you to.”
“Then what is it you do want?”
“Revenge.”
Chapter Five
Jayce
Kenna eyes me with unease. “I told you there was something weird going on in this place.”
Choosing to ignore my ghostly companion, I tell Marla, “I don’t think I can help you.”
“How do you know you can’t? I haven’t explained my requirements yet.”
I shake my head. “Because vengeance isn’t what I deal in, Marla. I talk to ghosts. That’s it. I help the ghosts, not the people they follow around.”
She frowns at that, takes another sip of her tea. “Why?”
“Why do I help them?” I question. “Or why won’t I help you get vengeance?”
“Either. Or.”
For a second, I stare at her, studying her cold perfection, the flawless make up and chilly elegance.
The warmest bit about her are the parts of her face exposed to the steaming hot tea. At least, it seems like that on face value.
Vengeance might be a dish best served cold, but it takes a shit load of anger to get to that point. That means this woman, for all the calmness she exudes, is a seething hotbed of emotion. Volatile emotion at that.
Houses don’t have to be built upon ancient Native American burial grounds to be haunted. I mean, technically this place has Charles wandering around it, but I mean haunted in a more emotional sense. Marla is alive, blood still pumping through her veins, yet she’s the one creating these freaky ass vibes around this house. Ghosts add nothing to the atmosphere of a living environment. They’re just there. Unless you’re like me, you can’t feel their energy at all. But a house can be filled with the turbulence of its occupants’ emotions, which is what’s happening here.
Marla’s bitterness is becoming an entity all of its own, and to someone whose sensibilities are fine-tuned enough to sense ghosts, it’s disturbing.
With that in mind and uncertain if I want to stay long enough to help, I settle my cup and saucer down on the coffee table in front of me. “Put it on a coaster,” Kenna hisses at me, and I obey—only just managing to refrain from rolling my eyes at her.
“Look, Marla, whatever you think you’ve read about ghosts, you can’t believe it. I’ve read a lot of the literature out there. The stuff written in a non-fictional tone and then, the creative stuff. I’ve never come across any work that even comes near to the reality.
“So, our culture likes to believe in guardian angels.” I purse my lips, disapproval flooding me at the thought of that nonsense. “They don’t exist. Charles isn’t your guardian angel. He isn’t watching over you to protect you or to guide you. He’s here because he’s stuck. End of story. He has nothing better to do than watch you mope around, and the truth is, the fact you’re not over his death is feeding him. Ghosts get weird when they’re dead. They’re not the people we lost. They mature, as everyone does, only they’re alone now. They’re without their families. They have no positive influences. They’re left alone with their bitterness, and it festers away, twisting them. So, you think he’s a guardian angel? Well, really, he’s getting off on your misery.”
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