The Girl in the Mirror

by Steven Ramirez

  Humming “Peel Me A Grape,” she filled two glasses and handed him one. The whole time, he was looking at her curiously. When Gary trotted in, he gave the cat a questioning look, as if waiting for the animal to clear things up for him.

  Sarah was about to sit when she remembered something. Wagging a playful, warning finger at Joe, she turned and raced—a little wobbly from the wine—into the kitchen. When she returned, she was carrying her phone. She put on some jazz and set it down on the end table. Curling up next to Joe, she placed his arm around her shoulders, and retrieved her glass.

  “There,” she said. “Isn’t this nice?”

  “I guess?”

  “Two old friends spending a relaxing evening together.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “All very innocent.”

  They were quiet for a long time. As she leaned her head against his chest, she could hear the beating of his heart. The sound comforted her, and for no reason, she felt weepy. Pretending she had something in her throat, she coughed and patted her chest until the moment passed.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, just a tickle. Joe, can I ask you something?”

  “Anything.”

  “Are you and Gail still together?”

  He didn’t answer right away, which was a good thing in Sarah’s book, since she wanted him to think before answering. She found a few chest hairs poking out of the top of his sweater and, using her pinky, made a swirling pattern on his skin. After a moment, he took her hand and shrugged so she would sit up.

  “No,” he said. “I broke it off.”

  She sat up straight and looked him in the eye. “Can I ask why?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She ignored him. “But I thought things were going so well for you guys.”

  He sighed. “They were. At first.”

  He drained his scotch and reached for the bottle. Sarah took the glass from him and refilled it. When she handed it back, she noticed his pained expression.

  “If you don’t want to talk about it,” she said, “it’s fine.”

  “No, I do. I need to tell someone.”

  “My gosh, what happened?”

  “I’m not sure. I mean, when we first met, she was nice. You know, funny. And sexy. Really sexy.”

  “Okay, I get the picture.”

  “We had coffee a few times, lunch, stuff like that. Then, I took her to dinner.”

  “At the Biltmore, I remember.”

  “And she suddenly came on to me. I was a little embarrassed—no, a lot.”

  “I’m guessing you had sex?”

  “No. To be honest, I was a little put off. She called the next day and apologized. Said it was the wine. But she’d barely had any.

  “Anyway, we saw each other again. And later, we ended up at her apartment in Santa Barbara.”

  “Nice place?”

  “Yeah. Well, one thing led to another, and next thing I know, we’re in bed. Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

  “Yeah, please continue.”

  “She, um…”

  “Gave you a hickey?”

  “No.” He looked at her, his expression grim. “She wanted me to… To hurt her.”

  “You mean, like Fifty Shades kind of—”

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “So, I got out of there. And that was the last time I saw her.”

  “Joe, I’m so sorry. That’s creepy. By the way, you never told me exactly how you two met.”

  “Yeah, I did. It was at the County Recorder’s office. Don’t you remember?”

  “But you never said how exactly. Women live for the details—I thought you knew that.”

  “Well, I was waiting in line, and she was standing behind me. She asked me to save her spot while she went to the restroom.”

  “That was it?”

  “No. When she got back, she took a phone call. Whoever was speaking to her was making her upset. When she hung up, she was muttering about some asshole attorney. I asked if she was okay, and we started talking.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What ‘hmm’?”

  “It’s just that… I mean, doesn’t it all sound a little contrived?”

  “Sure. And inviting your client to a dance is not contrived?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Men. Are. Clueless.”

  She emptied her glass, set it aside, tucked her feet under her, and faced him.

  “Don’t you see? It’s women who call the shots. Gail gets you to take her out, and I get Michael to go with me to a stupid dance.”

  “Hang on.” She could see he was getting steamed. “Are you saying men are incapable of being proactive?”

  She scrunched her nose. “Well?”

  “I see. Huh.”

  He set his glass on the coffee table, then reached over, and with both hands on her face, kissed her before she knew what was coming. The feel of his lips on hers made her melt, and she let her hands find his neck. Somewhere, Gary was maowing. Sarah scooted down until she was lying on her back. She smiled dreamily as Joe hovered over her. As he lowered himself, he kissed her warm neck, sending her into orbit.

  Her head was spinning from the wine and the scotch, and she couldn’t tell whether the cat was caterwauling or a phone was ringing. She didn’t want this moment to end and wished everything would go away and leave them alone. Finally, the call went to voicemail, and she relaxed. Then, the phone went off again.

  Flushed, Joe sat up and glanced at his phone on the floor. When he recognized the number, he reached for it.

  “No…” she said, trying to pull his hand away.

  But he took it and answered the call as Sarah sat up, visibly frustrated. As he spoke, she picked Gary up and petted him the way a person would if they were trying to transform their cat into a bald Sphynx.

  “Hello? Lou? What’s going on?”

  Concerned, Sarah pressed her ear to the back of the phone. Though Lou’s voice was faint, she could make it out.

  “Hey, Joe. Sorry to bother you so late. I’m in Santa Barbara with the police. I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

  “What?”

  “A woman. I thought you’d want to know.”

  Joe stared at Sarah. “Why? What are you talking about? What woman?”

  “I think you know her, Joe. We found your business card in her wallet. Looks like you’d written something personal on the back.”

  “No, it can’t—”

  “Joe, it’s Gail Cohen. She’s dead.”

  Sixteen

  Joe let the phone slip from his hand, and it slid to the sofa cushion. Somewhere, like a faint radio signal, he could hear Lou describing what they found in Gail’s apartment. And what the body looked like.

  “Joe, you there?”

  When he didn’t respond, the connection dropped. Sarah took his hand and rubbed it. She pulled him close and held him, as if he were a child who’d learned his parents had died in a plane crash.

  “You’re not in this alone,” she said.

  Though she’d never met Gail Cohen and, in reality, considered her a rival, Sarah was heartbroken that something so tragic could have happened to Joe. He didn’t deserve this. She had entertained the idea that, if things had worked out with this clearly unworthy woman, she would wish them well and promptly get on with her life. Find someone new. Though, in truth, the only man she could ever see herself growing old with was sitting next to her.

  “Did Lou say what happened?” she said

  “Something about being attacked in her apartment.”

  “Joe, I am so sorry.”

  He reached over, grabbed the whiskey bottle, and refilled both their glasses. For a time, they sat in silence next to each other. He could feel the warmth of her hips next to him, and if this were any other night, he would have made love to her right there on the sofa. But he felt numb. This
thing had happened—this horrible thing. And sure, he hadn’t seen any kind of future in a life with Gail—especially after what happened between them. But her death deserved to be acknowledged.

  “Do you think they’re going to want you to ID the body?” Sarah said.

  “Maybe. She told me she didn’t have any family.”

  “I can go with you, if you want.”

  He looked at her, and she noticed the tears in his eyes. For as long as she’d known him, Joe had never cried—not even at their wedding. Did Gail mean more to him than he was letting on?

  “I’d appreciate it,” he said.

  He rose and, leaving his drink, reached for her hands. She gulped hers, set the glass down, and stood, too.

  “I want to lie down with you,” he said. “We don’t have to do anything. But I need you, Sarah.”

  She had never seen Joe so vulnerable. He’d always been the comforter in the relationship—the strong one. And, to be honest, she was a little uncomfortable. But she was strong, too. It was simply that she’d never been given the chance to show her strength when she was with him.

  She touched his face and, taking his hand, led him to her bedroom. Without words, they lay on top of the bed. She put his head on her breast, and he closed his eyes. Soon, she found herself stroking his hair, the way a mother might do with her child.

  In any other circumstance, the fire that consumed them both would have flared into a raging bonfire, and they would have made mad, crazy love into the night. But as the effects of the wine and the whiskey took over, mixed with an overpowering sense of dread, Sarah found herself drifting off to sleep, the sound of Joe’s soft, steady snoring accompanying the horrifying dreams she was sure would come.

  It was late, and Sarah found herself in the dreaded room in the cellar of Casa Abrigo. She was dressed the same as she had been that evening. Outside, a cold wind was blowing, and Sarah could hear tree branches scraping against the house like fingernails on a chalkboard. She was alone. The feeling of dread was overwhelming; she wished she could wake up.

  She heard voices. It sounded like a boy and a girl. They were whispering and giggling. As the talking grew louder, Sarah panicked and turned toward the door where she came face-to-face with the ghost. She was standing in front of Sarah, her skin a deathly gray, her lips a pale pink. Her eyes were closed.

  Sarah could feel her heart pounding. The sound was deafening. She tried moving past the girl, but when she stepped to the side, a hand composed of bone and wilted flesh grabbed her wrist and held her firmly. As Sarah struggled to free herself, the hand’s skin flaked off and floated away like cinders. The girl’s eyes flew open, revealing two pools of oily blackness that led to an endless void. She opened her mouth impossibly wide.

  “NOT DEAD!”

  When Sarah opened her eyes again, it was morning, and Gary was sitting on Joe’s stomach, kneading his paws and purring. Not wanting to disturb Joe, she slipped out of bed and went into the bathroom to take a shower.

  She had finished washing her face and was about to step into the steaming jet of water when Joe walked in, naked. Without a word, he entered the shower with her. As the water drenched them both in a hot, luxurious downpour, he stood behind her and pulled her to him in a powerful embrace.

  As showers go, this was probably the best Sarah had ever had.

  Harlan Covington sat at his desk, rereading a short article in the Local section of the Santa Barbara News-Press.

  A woman was found dead in her luxury apartment on upper State Street around 10 p.m. last night, the apparent victim of an animal attack. According to police, there were no witnesses. Neighbors had heard someone screaming and called 911. When the officers arrived, they made the grisly discovery.

  When asked if there were any signs of foul play, Officer John Dougherty, a spokesperson for the Santa Barbara Police Department, would only say that they were considering the accident “suspicious.” The name of the victim has not been released.

  He laid the paper down and reached for his coffee. So far, everything was going according to plan. There had been no witnesses—nothing to connect him to the woman’s death. And, though he felt a twinge of guilt, he justified himself with the knowledge that she had willingly chosen her fate. She had, in essence, written her own death sentence. As did the other one.

  The lawyer looked down at his aging, liver-spotted hand and considered the ring. He knew he was getting old, like the old man with the staff etched in onyx. He hadn’t found the ring in Venice, as he’d told Sarah Greene. No, the ring had found him. And its power was undeniable—a force he had served faithfully for nearly fifty years. But he was quite aware that, at some point, he would need to let the ring go to pursue its next owner. He would miss it, though. Even in death.

  Sarah Greene. It was only after their meeting Harlan realized that she presented a real problem for him. She was, according to his source, able to see things that were not meant to be seen. She and that buffoon of a policeman had all but admitted she’d found the mirror. And she seemed to know what secrets it held. Why else would they have hidden the wretched thing? And then, that business with the cemetery. He’d succeeded in keeping Sarah from uncovering anything about Peter Moody. Ultimately, though, he’d failed. Now, Chief Fiore had exhumed the body.

  His phone had been lying on his desk, silent. When it vibrated, he glanced over and noticed the number. He was expecting the call. He had played many roles in his life, and it was time for him to be the silken-voiced consigliere who brought a sense of calm while controlling the situation. Taking a breath, he answered. The voice at the other end sounded frantic.

  “I realize what a shock this is,” Harlan said, doing his best to mollify the caller. “And I’m very sorry. No, I don’t have any idea what happened, but I promise to start an investigation. Yes, I will.

  “Any luck locating the mirror? It’s up to you now. No, I’m not trying to sound— Might I remind you, this whole thing was your idea, and you’re going to have to see it through. Yes, I already said I would.” He softened his tone. “Alright, talk to you later.”

  He disconnected and looked at the paper again. He wondered why the police had hinted that the death was suspicious. It was probably nothing. That cop Dougherty was a nobody with little experience in homicide investigation. Harlan was certain the death would be ruled accidental. But he still had Sarah Greene to contend with. He didn’t know the extent of her abilities, and that troubled him. He would have to keep an eye on her.

  At some point, she would present a real problem, especially if she learned any more about the mirror. What would he do? Eliminate her? Was the mirror worth that much to him? He already knew the answer. It would be messy, though. He had never taken an innocent life before. Still.

  Harlan had always known the risk. It was what happened when you chose to dance with the devil.

  Seventeen

  Sarah and Joe sat in the next-of-kin room, waiting to be called. She had let Rachel know they wouldn’t be coming into the office for a while but provided few details. Joe had let Manny know to continue working on the house in his absence. He would be along sometime after lunch.

  They’d come over together mostly in silence, Joe hardly making eye contact. He said nothing about their “special” morning together, even after Sarah had made a stupid joke about possibly needing a bigger hot water heater. Sarah recalled the last time she and Joe were together after someone died. It was the trip to the church for the funeral of Rachel’s husband. Now this. Though she wanted to be supportive, she dreaded the thought of seeing that dead woman.

  The door opened, and Dr. Chestnut stepped through, wearing blue scrubs, followed by Lou Fiore and another man in green slacks and a tan sport jacket that spelled cop. Sarah lay down the magazine she was reading and, hesitating, got to her feet. This was a mistake. What was she thinking? The last thing she wanted was to see a mutilated corpse and, possibly, the angry spirit who had occupied it.

  “Mr. Greene?” the plainclothes
detective said as he approached the couple. “Vic Womble, Santa Barbara PD Homicide.”

  Catching her deer-in-the-headlights expression, Joe squeezed Sarah’s hand.

  “I believe you know Police Chief Fiore.”

  “Yes. And this is my business partner, Sarah Greene.”

  “Your business partner has the same last name?”

  “I’m also Joe’s ex-wife,” Sarah said, barely able to get the words out.

  Sensing she had not made a favorable impression, she stepped forward to shake the detective’s hand when Lou moved in.

  “Sarah’s been helping our department out on a case.”

  “I see,” the detective said, utterly disinterested.

  Womble seemed irritated about something and, forgetting her nervousness, Sarah decided she didn’t like him. He had the air of a mansplainer. She pictured him in his brown shoes dishing it out to the women on the force who could only suffer in silence. And what was with that name? Womble? It sounded like something squirrels did as a prelude to vigorous sex. And that pencil moustache. Who did he think he was—John Waters?

  Sarah felt herself getting upset. This asshat had a helluva nerve acting superior. Here they were cooperating like any good citizen, and this short man in cheap, off-the-rack clothes was giving them attitude? She was about to make a sharp remark when Dr. Chestnut cleared his throat.

  “Shall we go in? I’m sure Joe and Sarah have a busy schedule.”

  “Right,” the detective said, and led them back into the autopsy room without saying anything further.

  As Sarah passed Dr. Chestnut, she mouthed the words thank you. Suppressing a grin, he followed.

  The room was clean and well lit, with a row of gleaming, stainless steel autopsy tables standing in a single row down the length of the room, the last of which had a body lying on it covered by a sheet. So far, Sarah had only seen such a place in movies and on television shows. She expected it to reek of death, but surprisingly, the only thing she could smell was a strong combination of detergent and bleach.