by Mary Behre
Moira gave her a sad look and shook her head. “There are a lot of souls out there, lost and searching for a way into the light. She sounds like one of them.”
“Why aren’t you there? In the light, I mean.” Moira’s aura glowed silver, giving Jules pause. “You’re the first spirit I’ve met who seemed totally at peace, but you’re here. I thought that kind of peace only came from passing over?”
The ghost shimmered brighter until the edges of her hair sparkled. “I’m waiting for Samuel. It won’t be much longer for him now. He has one more important task, then I’ll take him home.”
Jules glanced down again to the sleeping man. He didn’t appear sick, but then neither had her mother. One day she was healthy and playing catch in the backyard; the next she was gone. “He’s going to die?”
A shiver worked through her.
“It’s okay, Jules.” Moira smiled. “His time is near and he’s been waiting a very long time for it to happen. Don’t be sad.”
Stunned by the news, Jules couldn’t do more than stand there until Moira’s gentle voice whispered into her mind again. “I think I see your friend, Aimee-Lynn. She’s at the mouth of the alley.”
Jules turned to see Aimee-Lynn floating above the ground. Her aura pulsed light red then vermilion then crimson around her translucent figure.
Spinning back quickly, she projected, “Thank you,” to Moira, then headed to the end of the alley, which spilled out onto Atlantic Avenue.
“Aimee-Lynn?” Jules said telepathically. “Can you talk to me?”
The ghost gave her a wan, pitiful smile and nodded. “You know my name?”
“Yes.” Jules mentally winged out the reply. “If you can hear me, then we can just walk and talk like this.”
Aimee-Lynn nodded. Her form appeared more defined than it had before. Today she sported a shiny black corset and loose-fitting blue jeans.
Although still translucent, her figure seemed almost corporeal. The sunshine shone down on Aimee-Lynn’s dirty blonde hair and illuminated her blue gray eyes.
Eyes that held pain and fear and a trace of hope.
The pain-filled eyes tugged at Jules’s heart, but it was the flicker of hope in the ghostly orbs that pulled her in. Jules might crave a normal life, but this poor, lost soul craved something too. And for whatever reason, she thought Jules held the key to her peace.
A slick, oily sensation of being watched went down her spine. She glanced around Atlantic Avenue then back down the alley. Moira was gone and Samuel still slept. The only other two people around, alive or dead, were Jules and Aimee-Lynn.
Still, the feeling persisted. Squeezing the purse tighter under her right arm, she curled her fingers around it. Using her crift, she projected her thoughts. “What do you remember about what happened to you?”
The ghost smiled. “When I was alive, my name was Aimee-Lynn Masters,” she answered, then vanished, only to reappear across the street. “I was going to be a mother. And a wife.”
Aimee-Lynn vanished again, this time reappearing in the same spot where she’d first appeared to Jules.
“Did you live around here?” Jules winged her thoughts.
“No, I’m from Lancaster, Pennsylvania.” Aimee-Lynn paused, as if confused, then added, “Wait. Yes, I lived here.” She grimaced. “How could I forget that? My parents divorced when I was young and my mother came to Tidewater. I moved in with her when I went to college.
“My fiancé and I lived . . . lived . . . I can’t remember that part. But we were going to have a baby. A boy.” She frowned. “No one knew about the baby. I wanted to wait until we were married before I announced it. Why did I wait?”
Aimee-Lynn’s aura pulsed to green then blue and back again. She drifted backward, lazily, down the street, like a cloud blowing in the wind. Jules followed her slowly along the cracked sidewalk.
“I’m sorry for what happened to you.” Jules focused on projecting her thoughts. “It was you in the car, right? Someone strangled you?”
The ghost’s aura shifted from green to muddy brown and she stopped drifting. “Yes. He killed me.”
“Do you remember who did it?”
“The knight,” Aimee-Lynn said with a curt nod of her head. “I thought my prince had come to rescue me. But he hadn’t. And the knight killed me.”
Before Jules could ask for a less Arthur-and-the-Round-Table description, Aimee-Lynn’s eyes went wide.
“Jack! Don’t!” Aimee-Lynn shrieked. “What are you doing?” Aimee-Lynn’s panicked voice blared through Jules’s head like a foghorn. “Stop!”
The final word kept repeating until Jules was nauseous.
“Aimee-Lynn?” She sent out a mental push, but before she could do more than that, something struck her hard in the right shoulder, knocking her off balance.
Jules stumbled forward, even as something behind her tugged at her right arm. Hard gloved fingers dug into her bicep, forcing her to spin around to face her attacker.
“Gimme the purse, bitch!” The man yanked on it.
Acting purely on instinct, Jules threw her cup at her assailant. Her hot coffee splashed into his face. He screamed out in pain, shoving her aside. Jules tumbled to the unforgiving pavement, landing on all fours. The purse smacked to the ground beneath her.
From this vantage point she could see who’d grabbed her. Dressed in a navy-colored hoodie and matching sweatpants, he looked like any other jogger out for a morning run—except for the huge dark stains coating the sleeve of his left arm, the front of his shirt, and the left side of his hoodie.
He shoved back his hood, swiping at his cheek with his hands. His face no longer in shadows, she recognized him but she wasn’t sure from where.
Her startled realization had her on the ground longer than she should have been. She shoved to her feet, snatching up her purse as she went.
But he was faster. He grappled with her for the handbag, shouting, “You’re gonna pay for that!”
“Are you kidding me?” Jules screeched, half in shock and half in terror. “Ghosts, visions of women strangled to death, and now I’m getting mugged? Take the danged thing! It’s only got twenty bucks in it.”
She released it, but her rant, which really was more of shocked outrage than anything else, gave her attacker pause. The bag clattered to the ground between them.
“What did you say?” he asked in a pronounced lisp.
Recognition slammed into her. This man had been in her shop two days ago. She gaped at him.
He must have realized she could identify him because his face, already red and puffy on one side, contorted with rage. He lunged for her.
She ducked, grabbed her purse from the pavement, and threw it at him. The corner of the bag hit him solidly in the nose and smacked back to the ground.
He threw one hand up to cover his now bloody nose while he dove for her, pulling something from the waistband of his belt. Sunlight glinted off a long, silver object. “I’m gonna make you bleed for that.”
Panic jolted through her and she turned to run. His fingers grappled for purchase at her shoulder, then an icy pain sliced her left arm.
Determined to survive, Jules kicked back with her right foot, aiming for his knee.
Contact!
He released her with another howl of pain. She tripped over her forgotten purse. With a squeal, she lost her balance and fell. Her hands slapped the pavement as her knees crashed against it.
From the corner of her eye she saw something brownish streak past. It took a moment for her brain to process that the flash had been Samuel. Jules sat up and rotated, keeping him in her sights.
Samuel didn’t appear old and decrepit. In fact, he had the fiercest expression on his face she’d ever seen on a living person.
The mugger must not have seen it, because he smirked as Samuel came to a stop in front of him. “You don’t want to mess with me, old man,” he taunted.
“Bring it,” Samuel said in his gravelly voice.
Her attacker rai
sed the six-inch-long serrated knife into the air.
“Watch out!” she called to Samuel, who didn’t seem to hear her.
The mugger aimed for Samuel’s face, but Samuel threw both of his arms up in front of him in an X and blocked the attack. Then he swung out his right leg, catching the attacker behind the knees and knocking him backward.
Flat on his back, the attacker appeared to momentarily debate attacking Samuel again. Then he jumped to his feet and ran the other way up Atlantic Avenue.
Samuel gave chase until the mugger darted around the corner on 62nd Street, at which point, a police siren blared somewhere nearby and he turned back toward her.
His shaggy matted hair glinted in the sunshine and a much younger version of the man superimposed itself over his body. Short, closely cropped hair set off his strong, shaven jawline. His piercing blue eyes spoke of pride and honor, and his aura glowed a radiant shade of silver white.
“Jules?” said a deep-timbre voice just as a hand touched her shoulder and she jumped.
A quick glance over her shoulder showed Devon “Call Me Dev” Jones kneeling beside her. His sand-colored eyebrows were drawn together over eyes that held concern and something else. He cocked his head to the side and she swore she heard him mutter, “Even up close you could be twins.”
“What was that?” Jules had trouble focusing because of the biting pain at her elbow from where she must have smacked it on the pavement. She tried to twist to get a look at her elbow, but couldn’t.
“I said, ‘I didn’t think he had it in him.’” He nodded to Samuel.
“Oh.” Her head started swimming from the pain in her arm.
Dev produced a first aid kit and hastily dragged on disposable gloves. then bent closer to her. “Sit still, Jules. Did you get a good look at the mugger?”
His question seemed to include both Jules and Samuel.
“I did,” Jules answered without giving Samuel a chance to reply. Not that he appeared readily able to do so. He gasped and wheezed as he limped back toward them. His sudden burst of speed appeared to have cost him more than just the rush of adrenaline.
“Could you identify him if you saw him again?”
“Probably . . . I mean, yes.” Jules blinked at the shakiness in her voice.
“Really?” He sounded impressed. Ripping open a roll of white gauze, he started to wind it around her injured arm and said, “Tell me what you remember.”
“Well, he wore navy blue sweats with a hoodie.” Jules closed her eyes and tried to focus on the memory. “Light brown hair, military cut. White guy around my age, I think. He said, ‘Gimme the purse, bitch.’ Except he spoke with a heavy lisp.”
She shuddered, making her wince in pain as Dev’s fingers glanced over her wound.
“You’re safe now, Jules,” Dev said soothingly, continuing to wrap her arm.
“Wait, he was in the flower shop on Saturday.”
“Are you sure?” Dev arched an eyebrow at her.
“Yeah, I remember because he spoke with a lisp then too. But I guess saying that he’d been in the shop doesn’t really help you much, huh. Sorry.” She nibbled on her bottom lip as a slow radiating pain burned through her left arm with an increasing ferocity. Trying to do anything to blot out the pain she said, “I bet we’ve got a record of his purchase. When I get to the shop, I’ll ask Diana if she remembers his name.”
“Maybe I should talk to her?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, then blew out a frustrated breath. “You’re too old for her. She’s just a kid.”
Dev snorted. “Agreed.” He finished wrapping her arm and checked her fingers for feeling, warmth, and color. “I thought I could talk to Diana while you get checked out at the hospital and give your statement to the police.”
“No hospital. No police. It’s not that bad.” She met his disbelieving expression, then glanced down at her arm. The white bandage already had a spot of red blooming on it. Then her purse caught her eye. She held it up for Dev to see. “Look, it’s just a cheap Prada knockoff. What are the odds the police are going to catch the guy?”
Dev’s brows drew together. “Not good if you won’t file a report.”
“There’s nothing to report.” Shaking more from the fear of going to the police station than from the attack itself, she heard herself babble, “He wouldn’t have gotten away with much even if he had taken it. Gah! My life is more cursed than usual. I mean, there’s hardly any money in it. I can’t believe this. Why would anyone want to steal it?”
“It’s the city,” Samuel said. “People rob the homeless here.”
The thought sickened her. Or maybe that was due to the pavement swimming before her eyes. She dropped her clutch and reached for her head with her free hand.
“Jules, you’ve got a pretty nasty cut. Why don’t we talk about this in a minute? Lie back and let me help you.” Dev cupped one hand behind her head and helped her recline. The cement sidewalk felt cool against her head. “Do you hurt anywhere else?”
“No,” she replied, then looked at Samuel. “Thank you. I think you just saved my life.”
His dirty cheeks mottled darker but he didn’t reply.
Dev’s concerned face hovered above hers while he ran his hands over her head, neck, shoulders, and arms, checking her for other injuries. His gentle touch was light and impersonal. Through the examination she watched his face.
He appeared to be lip-synching an old En Vogue song, popular in the early nineties. He mouthed, “Before you can read me, you’ve got to learn how to see me.”
Or maybe she was dreaming, because the next thing she knew, she opened her eyes to see a paramedic shining a light into them.
CHAPTER 13
“WHAT DO YOU mean Jules was mugged?” Seth stomped on his brake and glanced up at the green traffic light, ignoring the angry sound of horns blaring behind him. He made a U-turn and headed back up Atlantic Avenue.
He’d called Jones to give him the update about Aimee-Lynn’s pregnancy when Jones blindsided him with the news that Jules was injured in a botched mugging.
“Like I said,” Jones explained, “I was headed to the country club when I saw her. Someone taught the girl to fight. She threw a cup of coffee in his face and nailed him in the knee with a deliberate kick. When he kept coming, she threw her purse like a hatchet. I think she broke the bastard’s nose. It was beautiful.”
The admiration in Jones’s voice surprised him. Seth asked, “Where were you when you saw this?”
“Driving down your street. I blew through a red light to get to her.” Jones paused, then added, “I flipped on my siren to scare him off, but he didn’t care.”
“Jules was home when this happened?”
“Not quite, about a half-block down. She’d just come out of an alley.”
“Sonofabitch! I just passed that part of Atlantic Avenue. How did I not see her?”
“You were here?” Jones repeated as if confused, then continued before Seth had a chance to answer. “Sam, the homeless guy, gave chase but her mugger got away. Right now the EMTs are here trying to convince her to go to the hospital, but she’s refusing. She keeps asking if they can just stitch her up here. Says she’s gotta go to work.”
“Of course she does.” Seth cursed under his breath as he found himself behind two cars driving under the speed limit. “I’m on my way to you right now. Hang on a minute.”
Even with his cell on hands-free mode, Seth needed to focus on the road. The drivers of the two cars in front of him were leaning out their windows yelling to one another, paying more attention to each other than to the street.
Normally Seth hated driving police vehicles, but today he would have killed to have a siren and blue lights going. He pressed his palm to the horn again and held it there until the drivers made room for him.
One car dropped back. Seth snaked his Honda between the two cars before he zoomed through a yellow light. Once through the intersection, he let his foot off the gas marginally and con
tinued his conversation with Jones. “How badly is she injured?”
“It’s not life-threatening but . . .” Jones’s voice trailed away. Probably because he saw Seth at the same moment Seth saw him.
Spotting a space, Seth slid his car into it and threw it into park, barely remembering to yank his keys from the ignition before he jumped out. He clicked off the phone and hurried across the street to where Jules sat in the back of an open ambulance.
Jules’s red ponytail hung askew, wisps of hair blew into her eyes, and she kept rubbing her skinned knee through the tear in her jeans. One sleeve of her sweater dangled limply, split from elbow to shoulder, revealing her bloody, bandaged arm.
Seth broke out in an icy sweat.
“No, I’m fine, really,” Jules said to the EMT. Although trembling uncontrollably, her voice didn’t waver as she spoke and she seemed determined to have her way. “I can’t go to the hospital right now. The shop opens in two and a half hours. Can’t you just stitch me up? I promise I’ll get a tetanus shot tomorrow when I go to the doctor.”
“Miss, you need to go to the hospital. Now.” Seth’s blood chilled at the EMT’s words. The man’s blue jumpsuit uniform bore the name Jeffers. His jaw tight, he said through clenched teeth, “I cannot stitch you up out here, and until you get those stitches, you’re going to continue to bleed. I realize you have a job to do but so do I. It would make my job much easier if you would stop fighting me and get into the ambulance. The police can get your statement at the hospital.”
The moment the EMT said the word police, Jules blanched. Panic widened her eyes. Seth knew her ex—a cop—had done a number on her, but until that moment, he’d had no idea how much. She wasn’t just leery of police; she was downright terrified of them.
It made Seth want to know exactly what good ol’ Billy had done to elicit that kind of reaction. And beat the crap out of him for it.
Seth wasn’t surprised when Jules repeated, “I’m fine, really.”
She wasn’t, but she would be. Seth would make certain of it.
