by Erin Hayes
The waiter arrived to take their drinks order. They settled on a bottle of Vignal Cabernet and toasted their future at Brian’s insistence.
“To health, wealth and bigger, badder contracts.”
She forced a smile as she raised her glass. Everything she’d ever wanted until a few days ago. Now, it sounded frivolous and empty. Like their relationship.
The waiter reappeared and spared her from faking another smile. “I’ll have the Fettuccine Piemontesi special, please.”
“Filet Melissa, medium-rare,” said Brian, giving the menu to the waiter. He reached across the table for her hand, and put her fingertips to his lips.
“So, how was the first week back at work after your death-defying accident?’
“Plenty to catch up on.” She sipped her wine, reflecting on her conversation about reincarnation with Deborah. “Brian, do you believe in life after death?”
He ran his fingers through his hair and laughed. “I’ve heard head trauma can distort people’s personalities, but tell me you’re not turning all philosophical on me. I liked my Material Girl just the way she was.” He reached over and wrapped strong hands around hers. “Speaking of which, did I tell you how incredible you look tonight?”
She leaned her head to the side, letting her long blond hair swish over her bare shoulder. “Aren’t you going to answer my question?”
He gave a low whistle, reached over and twirled a piece of her hair around his fingers. “I believe in the moment.” He leaned in and kissed her teasingly. “It’s hard to focus on anything else when you do that thing with your hair.”
She pulled away and arched an eyebrow.
Brian threw up his hands and leaned back in his chair. “All right, you win. No, I don’t believe in anything there’s no evidence of. Life’s at the mercy of matter, and when it goes, it’s game over.” He paused, a smile skirting his lips. “The dead stay dead, don’t they?”
Kyra mused for a moment. “Maybe.” Or maybe not. She reached out and stroked the back of his hand playfully. “Some really strange things have been happening to me since the accident. I think an angel saved me that day, but there are other spirits after me.”
Brian’s hand stiffened beneath her touch. “Whoa. Wait a minute.” He shot a furtive glance around the room, as if to make sure her comment hadn’t been overheard. “What exactly are you talking about?”
The waiter bustled over with their main course before she could respond. “Bon appétit!”
While they ate, she gave Brian a condensed version of the accident and the subsequent bizarre happenings. He eyed her skeptically, between bites of his steak.
“The doctor thinks it’s post-traumatic stress syndrome,” she finished up, with a sigh.
Brian leveled his eyes at her. “I’m with him. Think about it, babe.” He sat up, and leaned over the table. “Your brain flipped like a pancake, who knows how many times.”
“Deborah thinks I had some kind of reincarnation experience.”
“No surprise there!” Brian threw his head back and laughed heartily. “She still have that UFO detector kit she bought on eBay?”
Kyra glared at him. “Some of what she said made sense.”
“That’s an oxymoron!”
“Give her a break. Why do you hate all my eclectic friends?”
“Not all, only Johnny broker-boy.” He let go of her hand, and grabbed the armrests on his chair. “He’s weird, the way he watches you when you’re not looking at him. Stalker material if you ask me.”
Kyra’s breath jelled to her tongue. She reached for her glass, her heart rate accelerating, and gulped down some wine. Let it slide. It was a harmless remark. “The only stalking broker-boy does is on financial forums. And it pays off. I averaged a twelve percent return on my investments last year. You should think about getting on board.” She twirled her wine glass, sloshing the last of the liquid back and forth. “John’s not the problem; he’s eccentric, not supernatural.”
“Look, you were severely concussed.” Brian sank back in his chair. “You don’t know what happened. Why don’t you review the police report, read through the facts?”
She nodded. “I’ve been thinking about taking a look at the police report.”
Brian picked up his glass. “Let’s drink to that game plan.” He leaned across the table and covered her hand again beneath his. “I missed you. It shook me up when I got your text about the accident. You know how I feel about you, don’t you? I’ll do whatever it takes to help you get through this.”
Kyra smiled on cue. Would you battle demons for me? There was a certain comfort in believing Brian meant it. But no one could help her get through this. Draining the last of her wine, she leaned back in her chair and fudged a yawn. “Let’s get out of here.”
Brian signaled the hovering waiter and took care of the check. Kyra shrugged into her jacket, grateful for its warmth as the chilly night air outside hit her face. They strolled back to her car, hand in hand.
“Let me take you home,” Brian whispered in her ear, leaning against the driver’s door as she pulled out her keys. She shook her head. “I’m exhausted.”
Brian made some comical whimpering sounds of longing as he opened the car door for her. They both laughed, and Kyra’s tension eased.
“I’ll call you,” she said.
“Keep me posted on the police report. I want to know if there’s anything in it about winged creatures or flying objects.” He gave her an elaborate wink and blew her a kiss.
She rolled up the window, and watched him stride off. No surprise that he hadn’t been receptive to her theories about what was happening to her. It didn’t jive with his pragmatic worldview. She reached for her seatbelt and snapped it in place. Flying objects, winged creatures. For some reason, his parting words kept looping around like a tantalizing clue to something she’d missed.
Chapter Twelve
The hawk! In a flash, the memory of the bird’s wingtips fluttering in the breeze came back to her. She hadn’t been hallucinating. It was a living, breathing bird. She could have reached out and touched it. She had been flying! She had transferred through time and space into a whole other dimension, unbound by natural law. The angel at the accident was real. Invisible but real. A clammy feeling crept over her. That meant the Soul Stalkers were real too. Out there in the universe, tracking her. An unseen world, one more macabre than anything she could have imagined, had positioned her in its crosshairs.
Her palms were damp with sweat by the time she pulled into her driveway. She hurried into the house, turned on all the lights, and did a quick scan of every room. Exactly as she had left it; the couches and chairs neatly positioned around the coffee table, her books and potted palms assembled in tranquil, feng-shui groupings. She inhaled a thready breath and scoured the kitchen. The bare granite counter gleamed under the canned lights. No unwanted surprises. She leaned back against the wall and darted another glance around the space.
Maybe she was feeding the fear, but despite the air of normalcy, she couldn’t help but wonder if she were really alone. She should have let Brian sleep over and had him wrestle with whatever beings might be lurking.
For now, sleep was not an option. She fixed herself a cup of tea and grabbed her pile of mail. She ditched the credit card offers and circulars in a robotic daze, then picked up her Waterford Crystal letter opener, slit the envelopes open and stacked them largest to smallest. She grabbed her bank statement from the top of the pile, and hesitated when she caught sight of something lying at her feet. She looked around to make sure she hadn’t dropped anything else, then leaned down and snatched up a gray, square envelope.
Odd. No return address. She flipped over the envelope. Nothing on the back to identify it either. An uneasy premonition clamored inside her. Her name was printed on the front in a heavy, Gothic font. No postmark. Hand delivered.
Just like the file folder.
She clenched her jaw, picked up her letter opener and slit open the linen envelop
e. Inside lay a single, folded piece of paper. She balked as her fingers touched it. The words Kyra Williams - deceased flashed into her mind. A fresh wave of panic barreled over her. She stared at the envelope, flipping it over several times, trying to drum up the courage to pull out the sheet. Still clutching the letter opener, she reached into the envelope, grabbed the smooth vellum note, and slowly unfolded it. Her lips mouthed the words centered on a single line on the page.
Rest in peace.
A pulsing pain gripped her palm as the crystal handle of the letter opener burned into her skin. The note fluttered to the floor. She looked down at the gleaming blade in her left hand and gasped. A skeletal reflection stared back at her.
Shrieking, she flung the knife across the room, the muscles in her arm convulsing. Glass shattered all over the floor as she bolted. Her mind jammed, fear crashing her system.
They want me dead.
The thought circled inside her head. Shaking uncontrollably, she tore out of the house and wrenched open her car door. She threw herself behind the wheel and backed erratically into the silhouetted street. Stepping on the gas, she careened out of the subdivision into the darkness, startling at every shadow cast by glowing street lights.
They’re coming for me!
Her fingers locked around the wheel as she peered through the windshield into the darkness. The light at the intersection ahead glared red, like a psychic eye in the night tracking her flight. She slammed on the brakes, shoved the car into park, and covered her face with her hands. She was trembling too violently to drive, her emotions swirling into madness. The overpowering fear was infesting her mind, she couldn’t process a logical thought. Where am I going? The light turned green and she gripped the steering wheel. Bridget! If she could make it to her sister’s, she would be safe. Jerking the gear stick into drive, she floored it and the car squealed forward.
Kyra gulped sporadic breaths as she drove, shivering when the steering wheel slipped through her sweaty palms. Nothing looked familiar. After countless wrong turns, she finally pulled into Bridget’s driveway, the fifteen minute drive like fifteen agonizing hours adrift. She stumbled out of the car, ran to the front door, and held the doorbell until the porch light turned on and Bridget appeared at the door. Kyra released her cramped finger and sank to her knees on the concrete step, the startled look on her sister’s face her last conscious thought.
Chapter Thirteen
The bathroom door burst open. Martina’s shoulders convulsed as if she’d been shocked back to life. The piece of glass slipped from her shaking fingers, and clinked into the rust-stained sink bowl. She turned her head, catching her breath in short stabs. A bug-eyed Taggert held the door open, cradling the first aid box under his arm.
“Mom! Are you all right?”
The skin on the back of Martina’s neck dripped sweat, as if she’d been high on something frightening and powerful, and crashed in the wake of its sudden retreat. She opened the faucet and let the warm water pour over her cold, trembling hands.
“I’m … fine. I cut myself on a piece of glass. Just … leave the box on the counter. Why don’t you make me a cup of tea, Tag, while I get cleaned up?”
“Geez, Mom. You scared me screaming like that.”
In the awkward silence that followed, she sensed his eyes scrutinizing the pink-splotched enamel bowl. She sloshed some water around to rinse away the evidence. He sniffed a few times, walked over and set the first aid box down on the edge of the sink.
“Call me if you need something else.” His footsteps faded as he made his way back down the hall. Martina sucked in an icy breath, and turned off the faucet. She leaned heavily over the sink. What child walks in on his mother about to slit her wrists? Taggert had two abusive parents. He would be better off without either of them.
The swelling on Martina’s bruised face went down over the weekend, but it still took an excruciating thirty minutes to coax her cheap makeup into masking the remnants of Hal’s rampage. She pulled out a long-sleeved blouse that would do an adequate job of covering her bandaged wrist. Hopefully the support bandage made it look like she’d sprained it, less suspicious than a crepe bandage wrapped across her radial artery. Stupid! She hadn’t been thinking straight after Hal smacked her in the head. If Taggert hadn’t come in when he did she’d have finished the job.
She combed out her hair and took a last look at herself in the bathroom mirror. She’d only just hit thirty, and already her miserable existence was written all over her face. The liquid foundation wasn’t a perfect cover-up by far, but it would have to do. She pulled her hair around her face, and left for work.
At two minutes to eight, Martina slunk in the back door at Collision One. She kept her head down and barely acknowledged the technicians huddled around the time clock, drawing a last drag of their cigarettes before the paint shop throttled up for production. In the stuffy front office, she hung up her coat, and rinsed out the torched remnants of Friday’s coffee from the pot. Eddie strolled in, whistling loudly. She leaned farther over the sink, giving the carafe another vigorous scrubbing, wincing at the twinge in her wrist.
“Mornin’ Eddie. I’ll have a fresh pot brewing here in a minute.”
He rubbed his hands and slapped them together. “Thanks, Martina.”
She flipped down the cracked, plastic lid on the coffee machine, switched it on and retreated to her desk to process the week’s stack of repair orders. Squaring her shoulders, she slowly typed out the first repair number, every keystroke smarting her wrist. Glancing over to the other side of the office she noticed Eddie studying the previous week’s productivity reports on his computer. The discrepancy wouldn’t show up until the end of the month. Unless he’d pulled the financials early. She bit her lip, and waited. After a few minutes, he resumed his whistling, and she let out her breath. He helped himself to some coffee and slurped with a satisfied sigh before placing a set of keys and a file folder on her desk. “Green Honda’s good to go, ready for billing.”
“I’ll get her done,” Martina said, trying to nail a chirpy tone. She bent her head slightly, allowing her long hair to shield her from Eddie’s scrutiny.
He put a hand on her shoulder. “You all right, Martina? Anything you want to tell me?”
“Me?” She plastered on a smile and swiveled around to throw him a quick glance. “I’m great.” Her voice faded as she followed his gaze to the wrist support peeking out from under the cuff of her blouse.
“Oh, that,” she gushed. “I tripped on an old broken window in the back yard. Wasn’t paying attention.”
He hefted a shaggy gray eyebrow upward. His way of letting her know he didn’t believe her. But Eddie rarely got involved in his employees’ domestic issues, and she didn’t blame him. The tangle of child support and alimony draws he had to pull from paychecks every week was enough of a headache.
“Get that slug of a husband of yours to straighten up the yard,” Eddie barked. The harsh tone belied the compassion in his eyes. He knew her life at home was hell.
“Yeah, maybe I’ll put that slug of mine to work on the yard this weekend,” she replied. Fat chance. Hal was more likely to dig her grave out back.
“Right then, I’m off to the shop floor,” Eddie said. “You got the front?”
“Got it. It’s all good.”
He nodded at her and sauntered off with his clipboard to make his rounds.
With a heavy sigh, she settled into her work, flexing her wrist from time to time to ease the pain.
“Morning Martina.”
She looked up, startled, at the sound of Mrs. Garcia’s voice. Her heart thumped as she struggled to meet her gaze. “Good morning, Mrs. Garcia.” Eddie hadn’t told her his wife was coming in today. It was too early to close the books for the month. Martina twisted her sweaty hands in her lap. Had Eddie noticed the money market account was off? Anything you want to tell me? Maybe that was why he’d put his hand on her shoulder earlier. To give her a chance to ‘fess up before he called her on
it.
“Any fresh coffee in the pot, Martina?”
“Uh, sure, let me get you a cup. Black, right?”
“Yes, please.” Mrs. Garcia set her purse down on Martina’s desk, picked up a file, and flicked through the paperwork inside.
Martina filled a styrofoam cup and carried it carefully back to her desk. “There you go,” she said, handing her the coffee. The cup shook and a trickle spilled over the lip and onto Mrs. Garcia’s fingers as she reached for it.
“Ouch!”
“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry. Let me get you a paper towel.”
Martina stumbled back behind the office partition and yanked a few squares from the roll of paper towels above the coffee pot. Her mind raced as she tried to come up with something that would make it all seem plausible. I was desperate, scared for my life, Taggert’s life—
“I got it,” said Mrs. Garcia, reaching over Martina’s shoulder and taking the paper towels from her shaking hands. “Are you okay?”
“I ... don’t feel so good.”
“You don’t look too good. Why don’t you go home? I have a few things I need to take care of here anyway. I’ll cover for you.”
Martina bit down on her lip, her thoughts spinning as she struggled to muster a response. It wasn’t like Mrs. Garcia to be this sympathetic. Was she trying to get rid of her? If she left now, Mrs. Garcia would have to close out the completed jobs. There was a chance she might check the money market balance and find the transfer. But maybe that was why she was here in the first place. Martina’s pulse pounded in her temples.
“Go on,” Mrs. Garcia urged. “I insist. I’ll let Eddie know.”
“Uh, okay, then.” Martina lifted her purse out of her desk drawer and pulled out her car keys. Panic crowded her brain. Eddie must have noticed something. She opened the tiny fridge by the coffee pot and pulled out her cheese sandwich. There was no way she could go home this early or Hal would ask all sorts of questions. “Thank you,” she called out as she pushed open the side door to leave. Her breath froze in her throat when she looked back over her shoulder.
