by Erin Huss
“I thought you were staying with your husband?” I say.
“I had to get a good look at this man. I never forget a face. Even if I only see half of the face. That’s him. I recognize his eyebrows. Don’t let him get away.” She disappears, and I check with Mike to make sure he heard everything she said.
He nods his head. “That’s him. Now we don’t need to confront a killer. We can stand here and make sure he doesn’t leave and wait for the cops. Best case scenario.”
“Why are you so scared if you know that we’re not dying anymore?”
“Because the future can always change, and I don’t see the point of putting you or me or anyone in harm’s way if the police are on their way.”
“The police cannot read his mind, and we still don’t know where Connie’s body is.” Honestly!
I walk up the driveway, and Mike reluctantly catches up, not masking his frustration. I pretend not to notice, because that’s what we do for the ones we love. We ignore them when they’re irritated or being ornery for no good reason.
Woodson is frantically stacking boxes into the back of his truck. He’s ditched the uniform and is now in jeans and a T-shirt with sweat circles under his armpits.
“Hello,” I grab his attention.
Woodson jumps back against his truck at the sound of my voice and clasps his chest. His face is panic-stricken, and his brow is wrinkled and dripping with sweat. He’s surprised and confused and has no idea who we are.
So I tell him. “I’m Zoe Lane, and this is Mike Handhoff. We know that you killed Connie Batch. We want to know where she is.”
Mike thunks the heel of his hand against his forehead, but I’m not sure why. There’s no point in beating around the bush here.
Woodson fishes his keys out of his pocket. “I-I have to go.”
Mike splays his hand on the driver’s side door. “The cops are already on their way, man. It’s over.”
This is the moment where I expect Woodson to pull out a gun, a knife, or scissors. I expect him to deny he did anything. I expect him to threaten our lives if we don’t move. I expect him to swear and punch and put up a fight. I expect him to press the end of a pistol to my head. I expect him to make a run for it.
I do not expect him to surrender.
Which is exactly what he does.
Woodson drops the keys on the driveway and puts his hands up in the air. “Take me in,” he says. “I did it. I killed her.”
Mike and I exchange a look.
“Uh … we’re not actually cops,” Mike says.
“No, but we are looking for Connie,” I say. “Where is she?”
“In the locker room in the old pediatric wing of the hospital,” he says without hesitation.
I see the abandoned locker room in his thoughts. It’s where he killed Connie. A single shot to the head. He was so upset about Dylan that he couldn’t think or see straight. Becca had told him that morning that Russell didn’t even bother showing up to the meeting and that Connie refused to believe her son was a bully. Both Becca and Woodson wanted Elijah expelled, at the very least suspended. They were both so sick and tired of their kid getting pushed around, and they could not believe neither Connie nor Russell would make their kid take responsibility for his actions. Something inside Woodson snapped. He decided to deal with the problem himself. He told Becca that he would go talk to Dr. Batch. He didn’t tell her he planned to do so at gunpoint, though. She warned him to keep his cool.
He didn’t.
After he killed Connie, he planned to go after Russell. Then he got the call from Becca. She told him Connie had just called to warn Elijah to not go home with anyone else, and Mr. Fanster had asked her to give Elijah a message to go home with me. She told Woodson that she didn’t give either of the messages to Elijah, because she felt he didn’t deserve to know what was happening since Elijah was bullying her son. However, she was worried that Woodson had threatened Connie with physical violence and made the situation ten times worse.
“We both know how you get,” she’d said to him on the phone. His temper is why he and Becca had divorced. When he was mad, all he saw was red and nothing could calm him down. And there were few things that could set him off faster than the thought of someone hurting his son.
Woodson didn’t tell Becca about what he’d done to Connie, and he assumed Connie sent the email and made the call right before he’d arrived. If she’d had access to a phone while she was in the exam room, then she would have called 911, not the school, is what he thought at the time.
After he hung up with Becca, the magnitude of what he’d just done caught up with him. He had instant regret, and he even contemplated turning himself in. Then he thought of Dylan and realized that he had to come up with a plan.
Woodson put Connie in a locker for the time being and went back to his post to erase the surveillance video of him entering her offie with the bandana on. When he got the call from Rose, he realized that she thought Connie hadn’t come in yet, which is why he quickly wrote the note about Connie needing time to think and left it on the desk. If he could buy some time, then he could figure out how to get away with the murder.
The worst part for Woodson is that an hour ago, Woodson showed up at Becca’s home, admitted what he did, and tried to convince her and Dylan to move to Mexico with him. It was then that Becca informed him that Dylan admitted to her that he’d made the whole thing up. Elijah Batch never touched him, never made fun of him, never pushed him into a locker. Dylan hates school and doesn’t have friends. He thought if his parents believed he was being bullied, they’d homeschool him. Desperate, Dylan gave himself a black eye today and blamed it on Elijah.
Becca refused to go to Mexico, but she promised not to tell the authorities what he’d done for the sake of their son.
Now he’s going to flee to Mexico.
At least he was, until Mike and I showed up.
The sirens are fast approaching, and Woodson drops to his knees and puts his hands behind his head.
“I shouldn’t have done it,” he says. “I was blind with rage, and I couldn’t think straight.”
I know, I feel like saying, but I don’t. There’s no point. Unlike the many killers I’ve caught before him, Woodson has remorse for what he’s done. Which is a nice change of pace. I’m sick of impenitent killers.
Soon an army of police officers with their guns drawn surround the house. Woodson is cuffed and read his rights and shoved into the back of a patrol car.
We caught Connie’s killer.
That was relatively easy.
Almost too easy.
Nineteen
There are a lot of interviews that have to happen when you solve a murder. Mike and I were separated and taken down to the station to give our statements. I spoke to one detective then another, and then another, and one more after that.
If this were a month ago, I wouldn’t have told the police that I was a medium. I wouldn’t have told them Mike could see the future. I wouldn’t have told them about Connie’s spirit blasting into my room. I would have kept my mouth shut and called an attorney even if I weren’t under arrest.
But that was then, and this is now. I refuse to be ashamed of my gifts, just as I refuse to fork over money to a lawyer when I did nothing wrong. The detectives cannot deny that all the evidence matches up perfectly with my story. Nor can they deny that even though we are separated, Mike and I have the same account of how the day unfolded.
There is nothing else for us to add, and we’re released just after 6:30 AM the next morning.
Woodson is booked for murder.
Becca is in custody.
Dylan is with his grandparents.
Russell and Elijah are safe.
My work here is almost done.
There’s still the business of Connie’s transition.
When we arrive at Connie’s home, Russell invites Mike and me in. Elijah and Connie are in the living room. There is a reverent silence, and a lump forms in the back o
f my throat. It takes a great deal of effort not to cry. This is by far the most emotional good-bye I’ve ever been a part of.
For the next hour, Connie apologizes to Russell for not being more involved in their finances. She says that she loves him, and she makes him promise to take good care of their son and to control his temper.
Russell apologizes for not attending the meeting at the school this morning. He promises to make brownies for Elijah and watch over him.
Connie’s farewell to her son is gut-wrenching, and I’m hardly needed at all during the conversation. Elijah can hear almost everything his mother is saying. Perhaps it’s because Elijah has his own paranormal gifts, or perhaps it’s because their connection transcends death. Either way, it’s a tear fest, and all I want to do is go home and hug my own mother.
“When the time comes for college, don’t be afraid to attend the local JC,” I say for Connie. “The professors there are excellent, and you can take the two years to figure out exactly what is that you want to do.”
Elijah nods his head with a yawn. It’s hard to think about college when you’re only eleven and overly exhausted.
“That’s it for now then,” says Connie. “He’s been up all night. Let him sleep.” She kisses Elijah on the forehead, and he closes his eyes.
I rise to my feet and twist from side to side, working a kink out of my lower back. My body is sore and tired, and I’m in desperate need of sleep.
Mike stands up. He looks about as good as I feel. It’s been a long twenty-four hours. “How do you feel, Connie?”
“I am amazing,” she responds with a laugh. “It took my death to see just how strong I actually am.”
“What is she saying?” Russell asks. He’s sitting on the couch with his arm wrapped around his sleeping son.
“She thinks she’s amazing.”
Russell smiles. “I’ve been telling her that for years. She has a tendency to overthink everything.”
Don’t I know it.
I turn to Connie. “Are you ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“To transition. All your earthly business is taken care of, and you can now peacefully transition to the next phase of existence. I hear it’s lovely.”
“How can I possibly transition when my family is still alive?” She folds her arms. “I’ll wait.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll stay and watch over my family.”
“But—”
“They’ll know I’m here because they’ll feel me. And when I need something bigger, I’ll come get you.” Connie sits beside Elijah who is now asleep. “What you can do for me right now is keep an eye on Don. Had I known about the previous tests and his medications, I would have taken a different approach to his care. Make sure he gives his next doctor a full medical history.”
Right. Don.
“I think he’s going to be in jail for a while, but I’ll look into it,” I promise. “Are you sure about staying here?”
“Absolutely.”
“So you’re just going to hang around your house forever?” Mike asks.
“Yes,” she says confidently. “I am not going anywhere.”
I relay this to Russell. He’s not entirely sure how he feels about his wife’s ghost hanging around the house forever. On one hand, he loves his wife and he doesn’t want her to leave. On the other hand, he’s wondering if having a haunted house will affect his appraisal. But those are all feelings he’s going to have to come to terms with at a later time. I’m a medium, not a therapist.
“Then I guess our work here is done.” Mike extends a hand to Russell. “Let me know if you’re interested in the Goalmouth. You’re fast, and we need one more person on our team.”
Russell slips his hand into Mike’s and gives it a firm shake. “I’ll think about it.”
Twenty
I have never been happier to see my house in all my life. The thought of reuniting with my bed is the only thing keeping me going.
Mike parks my car in the driveway. We kiss good-bye, and he shuffles to his Jeep while I shuffle to the front door.
My mom is sitting at the table eating a yogurt. “Zoe! What happened to you? I’ve been worried sick and—”
“Who is the lady in Los Angeles?” I cut her off, too tired to dance around the issues.
Mom spoons yogurt into her mouth. “I have no idea what you are talking about,” she says. “Oh, would you look at that.” She shows me her phone. A local number is displayed on the screen. “Someone is calling me! Isn’t that great? Must be about the house over on Lampson Street. I better take this. I-I-I should just go!” She grabs her purse and scoots out the door so fast you’d think there was a flash sale at the Dress Barn.
Whatever. I’m too tired to care right now.
I scuffle down the hall to my room and … wowza! It stinks in here. Even with the window open, I can smell the tuna. Yuck!
I plug my nose and bend down to dispose of the rotting fish, when I notice a chunk of tuna missing from the can. My door was closed. My window is open, yes, but there is a screen that is secure. Someone or something ate tuna. And that someone or something was already in my room when I left.
“Jabba?” I unplug my nose. “Jabba, I know you’re in here.”
I check under my bed. Not there.
I check in my closet, tossing everything I own onto the floor. He’s not there either.
There are only so many places to hide in my room.
I eye my doll hutch. Did I look through there? I’m too tired to remember. Could Jabba have squeezed himself underneath? He’s not exactly lean, and the space between the bottom of the hutch and the floor is not exactly big.
I grab my phone to use as a flashlight and notice I have a voicemail from a blocked number. It’s probably someone calling about Jabba.
“Hello, Zoe Lane, this is Darla from Dr. P’s office. Good news. We had a cancellation for tomorrow at nine. Due to today’s events, none of the patients on the wait list ahead of you are comfortable coming in right now. I can assure you, the building is secure and all those involved in the incident have been arrested. If you are able to come tomorrow, then we can get you established as a patient. Otherwise it would be months before we get to your name on the wait list. Please call me back to confirm. Thank you.”
I completely forgot about the doctor’s appointment with the Sherlock of medicine. I’ll need to call and cancel.
But first, Jabba.
I can barely see underneath the hutch. It’s too dark, even with the flashlight on my phone. “Can you please just come out, Jabba?”
No response.
A rodent could have taken some tuna, which is a horrid thought.
The doorbell rings.
I ignore whoever is here. I’m too grumpy, and now I have to move this stupid hutch to check for a cat or a rat, which means unloading all these dolls.
The bell rings again, followed by a knock on the door.
Someone can’t take a hint.
I place a Scarlett O’Hara doll gently on my bed and go out to the living room. The bell rings again, and again, and again.
“I’m coming!” I swing open the door. “Hi …” My smile kind of freezes, and the air seems to have gone blurry.
It’s Don.
Twenty-One
Don is standing on my doorstep with his backpack and a knife and a scowl.
My head is shouting messages at me: Run away, Zoe! Leave! Exit! Depart. Go!
Unfortunately, my mouth doesn’t quite understand. “I thought you were in jail,” I say.
“I’m out on bond.”
Bond? Seriously? When I was arrested, I was kept for twenty-four hours before I was denied bail. And I didn’t pull a knife or scissors on anyone!
“How’d you find out where I live?” I demand.
Don holds up the flyer. On the bottom I’d written my name and address.
Oh.
Stupid flyers.
Don steps inside, and I back up until I ram
into the back of the couch. His thoughts are clouded and frantic, and I can sense his paranoia.
“Why did you break into my apartment?” he asks.
Okay, so he’s still stuck on that.
“Don, I’m a medium.” I sidestep around my couch until I’m in the middle of the living room.
Don kicks the door closed behind him and holds up his knife. “I don’t know what that means.”
“I can see and speak to the dead. I can read thoughts, and my boyfriend Mike, who was with me, can see the future. We were worried that you had something to do with Dr. Batch’s murder, but you didn’t. Now I’m worried about what you plan to do with that knife.”
Don comes around the couch, and I back up into our grandfather clock.
“You have no idea what it’s like to be me.” His voice is so hoarse he sounds like he’s swallowed sandpaper. “I’ve been sick for a year, and I can’t work, and I can’t sleep, and I can barely eat.”
I remember the AirPods in Don’s ears and the sweat on his forehead when he found us outside his apartment. “At least you can exercise,” I say, trying to sound as optimist as one can when they’re being held at knifepoint.
“No, I can’t! I break out into cold sweats whenever I do anything. Dr. Batch was supposed to help me. She promised. Then she told me I was crazy.”
“In her defense, you are inside my home with a big knife.”
“I’m sick and tired of people calling me crazy!” Don lunges forward, knife first.
I roll out of the way and get tangled in the new curtains covering the front window, accidentally pulling them from the wall. Now I’m lost in a heap of heavy, purple fabric.
Maybe this is the purple from Mike’s vision?
I’m drowning in velvet. I kick and thrash, desperate to find the way out of these stupid curtains. There’s a sharp stabbing pain in my leg, and I cry out in agony.
I finally pull the curtains off from over my head.
Standing above me is Don, and he’s staring at the knife in his hand as if it betrayed him. “That was an accident,” he says in a rush. “I didn’t mean to stab you. I was trying to get you out.”
