Capelle spoke into his mike, too, but his words were for a certain homicide detective who was probably wondering what happened to his girlfriend.
“Tell him I’m not getting into trouble,” I said to Capelle. He glanced at me, and didn’t convey the message as he finished up the conversation.
I stood up. “What’s your problem with me?”
Capelle stared at me. “You really don’t remember, do you?”
“Believe it or not, I’ve never been arrested. Well, almost once, but I didn’t kill that asshole, so that doesn’t count. And I haven’t been blackout drunk since New Year’s Eve 2015 where I woke up in a hotel bathtub wearing pasties and a tutu.” I leaned in and whispered, “They weren’t mine.”
“God, you’re just as crazy as you were in high school,” said Capelle. “We graduated together, Voiletta. I can’t believe you forgot about Halloween our senior year.”
Shit. “Aaron. Aaron Capelle. I’m sorry. You look really different.”
“I’m not a skinny brace-face anymore.”
“Eh. I liked skinny brace-face.” I looked at him. “I’m sorry about what happened.”
“What happened?” asked Dee.
“None of your beeswax.”
Capelle cracked a smile. “It’s a helluva story.”
“We pinky swore to never speak of it.”
“Violetta!” Matt’s voice echoed into the tunnel. I looked up and saw Matt and Monetti striding toward me. I looked at Capelle and put a finger to my lips … and then I ran the same finger across my throat.
He rolled his eyes, but said, “Not a peep.”
Following behind Matt were all kinds of wonderful people. Paramedics and police and CSI. I figured Matt would be pissed, but he grabbed me like I was last Krispy Kreme donut in the box.
“I’m okay,” I said.
“You scared the shit out of me, you know that, don’t you?”
“I’m sorry.” I cupped his face. “I know I’m … er, a lot.”
“I can handle it. I’ll just have to get used to having heart attacks every week.”
“It’s worth it for the sex, though, right?”
“Definitely,” said Matt.
And then he kissed me.
Epilogue
We stood at the bedside of Angela Martina Monetti. The machines beeped and whooshed and jingled. Monetti’s eyes filled with tears as he leaned down and kissed his mother’s forehead.
“Addio, mamma,” he said. “Ti amo.”
“Such a good boy,” said Angela. Her hand was pressed against her chest, and I felt the heavy weight of grief. It was as if I wore a mantle made of lead. I swallowed hard and gripped Matt’s hand.
Monetti stood up. “I’m ready.”
The doctor nodded to the nurses. One by one they turned off the machines. Then they removed the breathing tube from Angela’s throat. The sudden silence made the moment that much more awful.
“Take as long as you need,” said the doctor, gripping Monetti’s shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
Monetti sat down and wept. Matt put his arm around my shoulders and kissed the top of my head. Tears flowed, dripping off my chin onto my dress.
Angela joined her son. “It’s time,” she said. “I need to go.”
I slipped out of Matt’s embrace and kneeled in front of Monetti. “She’s here. She wants to say goodbye.”
Monetti took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. He inhaled a steadying breath. “Okay,” he said softly. “Okay.”
I looked up at Angela. Next to her, a tall man dressed in a formal police uniform appeared. The moment he arrived, Angela’s own form wavered and morphed into a younger, thinner version. “We get to go into the beyond however we want,” she said. She clasped her husband’s hand. “I’ve missed you, my love.”
He offered a smile and brushed her hair behind in ear. Then he nodded toward his son.
“Your dad is here, too.”
“What?” Monetti looked stunned. I squeezed his hand.
“I don’t know if it’ll work,” I said to the couple. “But if each of you touches my shoulders, he might be able to see you.”
Joseph Sr. and Angela each put a hand onto my shoulders. I felt the weight and warmth of the hands just like I did living people. It was such a weird gift, this connection to the other side. Weird and beautiful and sad.
Monetti’s eyes widened. “Papa,” he said. “Mamma.”
“We’re okay,” said Angela. “It’s you I worry about.”
“I’ll be fine, mamma.”
“Open your heart to love,” she said. “And don’t spend so much time alone.”
Monetti nodded. His father leaned forward and kissed Monetti’s forehead. Amazed, he touched the spot where his father’s lip had grazed him. “I felt that.”
“Goodbye, son,” said Angela. She patted his face. “I’m so proud of you. I love you.”
I could tell Monetti was having a hard time keeping it together, but he managed.
His parents removed their hands from me, and Monetti dropped his head into his hands. His shoulders shook as he wept.
“Angela,” I said. “You wanted to tell him something important.”
She hesitated. “Yes.” She leaned down and whispered in my ear.
She gave me one last smile and then she and Joseph Sr. faded away.
I gave Monetti some space, returning to stand next to Matt. He whispered, “Monetti saw his parents?”
“Yeah,” I whispered back. “Didn’t you?”
“No.”
Huh. I wondered why Matt couldn’t see the spirits. Maybe he was ghost repellant.
A few moments passed before Monetti raised his head. Once again, he wiped off his face. Then he stood up.
“You gave me a real gift,” said Monetti. “Thank you, Violetta. I never thought I’d see my dad again. They looked good together, didn’t they?”
“Hot stuff,” I agreed.
“So. What did Mamma want to tell me?”
“Um … she had a baby when she was eighteen and gave it up for adoption. This was before she met your father.” I looked at Monetti’s stunned expression. “You have a sister, Monetti. Congrats!”
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Michele Bardsley is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of paranormal romance. When she’s not writing sexy tales of otherworldly love, she watches “Supernatural,” consumes chocolate, crochets hats, reads books, and spends time with her husband and their fur babies.
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Copyright © 2017 by Michele Bardsley
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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement from the author of this work.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatever to anyone bearing the same name or names. All incidents are pure invention. These stories are meant for mature audiences who are eighteen years and older.
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Getting in the Spirit (Violetta Graves Mysteries) Page 9
