by J. D. Mason
She saw it all so clearly now. Jordan and his wistful and whimsical need to fully follow in his dead daddy’s footsteps. He was reliving a past that wasn’t his, but he romanticized it and wallowed in it until it crippled him. He was no good for her or any other reasonable woman. And in hindsight, he was doing her a favor.
The flood of hot and bitter tears that had erupted when she closed the door behind her in her office eventually stopped. She was not going to feel sorry for herself over Jordan, because he wasn’t worth it. No man was worth her sacrificing her self-respect over.
Robin was just about finished packing when her cell phone rang. It was Alex Richards, her old law school friend.
“Hey, Alex,” she said, trying not to sound as upset as she was.
“I heard a nasty little rumor,” he said after a cordial hello.
“What rumor is that?”
“That you work for Jordan Gatewood at Gatewood Industries.”
Robin swallowed. “Yeah,” she said, trying to sound upbeat. “It’s true.”
“Look at the two of us sharing a boss,” he said sarcastically.
Robin stopped packing. “What do you mean?”
“That case I’ve been working on in Dallas,” he began, “the Lonnie Adebayo murder case?”
“Right. What’s the client’s name again? You got the guy off.”
“No, I got the mistrial. Frank Ross is his name, but Jordan Gatewood pays my bill. Talk about a coincidence. I had no idea the last time I saw you that you were employed by him, too. What do you do?”
Robin sat down slowly. “Corporate. Government contracts.”
“Nice and safe, I suppose. Had enough of the criminal defense bullshit, huh?”
“I did,” she said, her mind whirring around why Jordan would be footing the bill for an attorney of Alex’s caliber to defend a nobody.
“Oh,” Alex said abruptly. “I’m getting on an elevator and will probably lose you. But I’ll be in touch,” he said before hanging up.
Ten minutes passed before Robin finally logged on to her computer and did an Internet search on Frank Ross and then followed it with another search on Lonnie Adebayo.
With a Silver Spoon
MARLOWE HADN’T BEEN to the house since before Abby had renovated it. Abby had spent three days and nights with Jordan at his ranch because she’d been too scared to come back to this place. But this was her home, and she needed to figure out how to make this situation work, ghosts or no ghosts, at least until she could figure out if she wanted to sell the place or not. It didn’t seem fair to sell a haunted house to unsuspecting people. But then again, someone had sold it to her.
“Hey, girl,” Abby said, greeting Marlowe at the front door.
Abby had just arrived a few hours earlier, and so far, the place didn’t seem any different from usual.
“You want a Pepsi?” Abby asked, heading into the kitchen.
“Abby, stop.”
Abby did stop, turned, and saw Marlowe looking at her funny. “What?”
Marlowe slowly approached her and peered hard at Abby’s face and then into her eyes. “You got a bae?”
Abby reared back slightly. “What?”
“You seeing somebody?”
She blinked several times in disbelief. “Your psychic abilities telling you that I am?”
Marlowe arched a brow. “Girl, you’re glowing. Ain’t nothing psychic about that.”
Abby laughed. “Sort of,” she said, excited as a sixteen-year-old girl. “I mean, yes.” She sounded more confident this time because it was true. “I am seeing someone, Marlowe.”
Marlowe’s mouth gaped open. Her eyes stretched as wide as saucers. “Who, Abby?”
Abby felt so giddy that she covered her mouth with her hands and squealed. “You’re not gonna believe it.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Abby took several deep breaths to compose herself. She hadn’t told a single soul in this world about Jordan. Not even her own family knew. Not even Skye knew, and Skye knew every damn thing, except this, about Abby.
“Remember that day that I asked you to come here to tell me how haunted this house was?” Abby paused and stared expectantly at her friend.
“No!” Marlowe exclaimed.
Abby nodded. “Yes!”
“No, Abby! Oh, my … what? What?” Marlowe spun away from Abby and pressed her hand to her forehead. A moment later, she turned back to her. “Are you serious? Him?”
Again, Abby nodded, grinning from ear to ear.
“How the … what … tell me what happened.”
“I’ll tell you, but you’re gonna have to sit down.”
It was one thing to tell Marlowe that the man Marlowe and Abby had met that day was related to one of the ghosts in the house. Abby relayed the story she’d read on the Internet of Julian and his mistress and then she told her the part that she’d learned from Jordan about Julian’s wife finding out about the two of them and showing up at this house with a gun. It was another thing to watch the expression on Marlowe’s face when Abby pulled up Jordan’s images on the Internet and zoomed in on the one showing him on the cover of Forbes.
“You can’t tell a soul,” Abby said, concluding her presentation.
Marlowe was speechless.
“Not even Ms. Shou, although it wouldn’t surprise me if she guessed it as soon as she walked into this place.”
Marlowe stared at Abby as if she were seeing her for the first time. Having Marlowe staring at you, especially after you’ve told her something that’s absolutely impossible to believe, was never a comfortable feeling. Abby always felt as if Marlowe could see things like auras and actual souls.
“Stop it, Marlowe,” Abby warned. “You know I don’t like you looking at me like that.”
Marlowe blinked. “Sorry, Abby. I just—”
Abby held up a hand to stop her. “Don’t.”
“I’m happy for you,” she blurted out. “That’s all I was going to say.”
Abby smiled and wrinkled her nose. “Really?”
Marlowe grinned. “I am, girl. Truly, I am.”
Just then, Abby looked up and saw Belle, Marlowe’s cousin, ushering Ms. Shou up the steps to Abby’s front door.
“Knock, knock. We’re here,” Belle said, opening the screen door.
“Hey, Belle,” Abby said, hurrying over to hug her. “Hey, Ms. Shou.” Abby kept her distance from the old woman.
“Abigail,” Shou said curtly.
Shou Shou always had a way of making Abby feel like she didn’t like her, but for some reason, Abby wasn’t buying it. Shou Shou had been there when Abby told Marlowe about the day her mother died and saved Abby from dying, too. Right after she’d finished her story, Miss Shou leaned in close to Abby and whispered, “Your angel ain’t never far away from you, Abigail.” She smiled, her breath smelling like peppermint. “She told me to tell you that.”
“How’d your appointment go, Auntie?” Marlowe asked.
“I’m dying,” Shou blurted out indifferently.
“Anytime soon?” Marlowe asked.
“Not today. Probably not tomorrow.”
Shou wore black shades bigger than her head, red lipstick and nail polish, and a floor-length, African-print sheath that swallowed her thin and frail body. She took three steps into Abby’s home and stopped, raised her chin, and tilted and turned her head as if she could actually see something. An immediate chill ran down Abby’s spine. Belle and Marlowe stood on either side of the old woman like bookends, calmly letting her do whatever it was she was doing.
Shou abruptly turned her attention to Abby. “You scared, Abigail?”
Abby nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I saw him a few nights ago.”
Shou nodded introspectively. “’Cause he was probably desperate.”
“Desperate for what?” she asked reluctantly.
“Not what, sugah. Who?”
“Ida Green,” Abby said, even though Shou hadn’t asked.
The old woman smile
d. “That her name?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Shou took several more steps toward the hallway on the opposite side of the living room and then stopped.
“It’s been a long road,” Shou said solemnly, her voice sounding at least two octaves deeper. “One that he keeps walking every single day since he’s been gone. He wears shiny shoes, polished to look like glass, creased slacks, and a pressed white shirt.” Shou hung her head and turned to them with a slight smile on her lips. “Looks like a white man—light, light skin and eyes.” She raised her head and chuckled. “Thick hair with soft waves, brushed back.” Shou raised her head in the direction of the hallway. “What he see in me?” She paused and took a breath, then tilted her head slightly. “In the ground. Buried.”
A tear ran down her cheek. Was it Shou talking? Or was it Ida? Abby froze, fascinated that at least one of her ghosts had a voice.
Shou dried her tears with the collar of her dress. “His love is obsessive,” she said, sounding more like herself. “Maddening love that kind that don’t stand to reason.”
Abby looked at Marlowe and Belle, who stood there looking at their aunt like she spoke the language of ghosts on a daily basis.
“You were right, Marlowe.” She nodded in Marlowe’s direction. “It’s not finished. It won’t be until he gets what he wants, until he gets her, but she’s not ready for him to have her yet, because he’s not ready.”
“Is he angry?” Abby found the courage to ask.
“Frustrated, Abigail. Weary. His hope is fading, but…”
Shou’s but hung in the air like a lead weight.
“He’s forgotten something. Something that she wants him to remember. Until he remembers it, he can’t have her and he thinks he might have found somebody who can help him.”
“Me?” Abby asked, placing her hand to her chest.
“Naw, not you, girl. Whoever that is that’s got you chirping like a bird, though.”
What? Abby wasn’t chirping. She looked at Marlowe, who shrugged. Belle pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.
“Is he … could he hurt me if I stay here?”
“He’s not interested in you, except that you sometimes remind him of her.”
Abby thought carefully before asking the next question. “Can you tell him to stop scaring me?”
“Now you’re being silly,” she said dismissively.
“I’m not trying to be silly, Ms. Shou,” Abby retorted. “He scared the hell out of me the other night.”
“I’m sure there’s some hell left in you, Abigail.”
Abby rolled her eyes in frustration.
“Don’t,” Shou said, raising that walking stick in Abby’s general direction. “Watch your respect, Abigail.”
Again, Abby glanced at Marlowe and Belle. “Yes, ma’am.” Abby sighed. “Can you just tell me if it’s okay for me to be here?”
“It’s your house, ain’t it?”
“Ms. Shou,” she beseeched her. “Please?”
Shou held out her hand, and Belle immediately appeared at her side and walked her over to where Abby stood. Marlowe grabbed hold of Abby’s arm and pulled her to stand in front of Shou. The old woman raised her hand, and Belle helped her place it on Abby’s cheek.
“He’s not the man you need to be afraid of,” she whispered and smiled. “Be brave, my sweet girl. Be strong, ’cause that man of yours is the biggest and scariest thing that will ever happen to you.”
Abby swallowed.
Shou removed her hand and laughed. “Belle, I want me some of that fried catfish you brought me the other night.”
Belle led her aunt to the door, followed by Marlowe. “Didn’t that doctor tell you to lay off the fried food, Auntie?” Belle fussed.
“Like I give a damn what he said. I’m gonna live longer than him. I’ve already decided.”
Abby shuddered at Shou’s declaration that could’ve been interpreted any number of ways.
“Oh, catfish sounds so good,” Marlowe agreed, disappearing outside with the rest of them.
Abby just stood there, dumbfounded and speechless.
Someone’s Underground
“SORRY TO BE CALLING SO LATE, but it took me some time to convince him to call me back.”
Robin sat up in bed and turned on the lamp on the nightstand. “It’s all right,” she said, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
“He’s got it in his head that he’s going to go down in a blaze of glory, a hail of bullets, war cry, and his ass being carried out in a body bag,” Alex Richards explained in a dismal joking tone.
“He doesn’t trust that you can get him off at the retrial?”
“He’s an idiot,” Alex huffed.
“Where is he?”
He sighed. “Tell me what you want with him, and maybe I’ll tell you where to find him.”
“It’s personal, Alex.”
“He’s my client, Robin, and the last thing I need is for that idiot to say anything to anyone that might incriminate him.”
“I’m not interested in incriminating him.”
Alex was silent for a few moments. “You can trust me. Whatever you’ve got to say to Frank, you can say to me.”
“And you should trust me,” she said calmly, “and know that anything I’ve got to say to Frank Ross is very personal and that I have no intention of hurting this case, Alex. I have my reasons for wanting to talk to him, and that’s all you need to know.”
* * *
Laredo International Airport. Much to her relief, there was an actual airport in Laredo, Texas. Robin hadn’t bothered to go back to sleep after hanging up from the call with Alex. He had texted Frank Ross’s number to her, and she’d immediately called him and talked him into agreeing to meet with her the next afternoon.
Robin flew from Dallas to San Antonio and then changed planes to take a flight into Laredo. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep, and she felt like she was running on caffeine and fumes. Had it really come to this? Staring out of the window at nothing but clouds, she felt like a fool, like she was a robot just moving without thinking. Is this what it felt like to be desperate for a man? Not desperate to have him, because she had had him, and she’d lost him. But desperate to punish him and to make him suffer.
Jordan was supposed to have been the one. Robin felt it the moment she first laid eyes on him. He was back at work after being out for nearly two months recovering from the shooting when Robin was introduced to him for the first time after being hired on to the company. The striking figure of Jordan Gatewood took her breath away, and the way in which his eyes locked on to hers, told her that he was just as interested in her as she was him.
She loved him. Why else would she feel so shitty knowing that he wasn’t hers anymore? She loved him in a way she’d never loved another man. Robin had been willing to put him first in her life, to bend over backward or sideways to do whatever it took to make him happy. For the first time in her life, she wasn’t the priority. He was. And now she felt like such a fool. More than fool. She felt ridiculous.
The reasonable thing to do would be to just walk away, leave the company and maybe even Dallas, lick her wounds for a while, and start over someplace else. But she couldn’t let it rest. He had taken her for granted and used her. He’d disposed of her when it suited him, like she was nothing and like she never meant a gotdamn thing to him. Men like him were used to tossing other people aside when they’d soiled them up. He’d discarded Robin like a used napkin, and he had to see, to know that that was not acceptable. Not for her.
Of course, Robin could’ve been wasting her time with all of this. She could land in Laredo, meet Frank Ross, and come away absolutely empty with nothing to show for her efforts.
She deserved better. He had been right about that. Robin had been with men who’d have given their right arm to have her. But Jordan deserved something, too. He deserved to know that someone else in this world didn’t worship the ground he walked on. He needed to know that he stood on a slippery
slope, and if he wasn’t careful, Robin would be the one to push him off of it. Jordan Gatewood was a walking, talking secret. And men like him had the dirtiest kind.
Lonnie Adebayo probably knew what they were. How he’d managed to keep his relationship with the woman a secret, especially during this trial, was nothing short of a miracle. Of course she was the reason behind him putting so much money into Frank Ross’s defense. Nothing else made sense. Adebayo was his type, successful and beautiful. She was an award-winning photojournalist before she died, traveling the world to cover newsworthy stories that won her accolades throughout the entire journalism industry. Robin suspected that the two of them had been lovers, which could’ve been the reason behind his wife’s suicide. The devil was in the details, and Robin flew all the way to Laredo hoping that Frank Ross might know some of those details. And even if he didn’t, Robin knew how to read people and read between the lines. She could more than fill in the blanks left open by Ross.
Frank Ross had been working on a good drunk and a death wish when she’d spoken to him. The mention of Jordan’s name gave him reason to pause and was a sign to her that she was on the right track in following this trail to him. She took a cab to a seedy motel off Highway 35 and knocked on the door to room 107. She must’ve knocked for five minutes before he finally answered the door, shirtless, with faded and dirty jeans barely hanging on to his hips, barefoot, and smelling like a brewery. He didn’t even bother to say hello. Frank looked at her, turned, and left the door open for her to follow him inside.
He was tall, as tall as Jordan, slightly heavier, darker. She thought she’d noticed other similarities, but Robin quickly pushed those notions aside.
The room was small and filthy, littered with food containers, empty beer and soda bottles, dingy socks, and a pair of beat-up leather boots.
“What’d you say your name was?” he asked gruffly, stretching out on top of the unmade bed, crossing one ankle over the other.
Robin gingerly took a seat across the room in an old wingback chair, being careful not to lean back in it.
“Robin Sinclair,” she said.
The room reeked.
He stared long and hard at her before finally cutting to the chase. “What do you want?”
