by Sean Platt
The fire is raging.
I can barely see an aperture of darkness among the flames. I rush through, praying not to trip.
I make it out of the bedroom and into the living room where Deputy Edmund is standing, gun drawn on me.
He stares at me.
Maybe I misjudged my hand, or maybe Sheriff Dixon didn’t care what got out, as it wasn’t as bad as the wrath of Mr. Bruno and Peter Bova.
Dixon told Edmund to kill me, to clean every loose end.
Edmund lowers his gun, and I realize I was wrong. He must’ve thought I was Bova, trying to escape.
“Come on,” he says.
I follow him out into the cold night air.
* * * *
DAY 363
I’m sitting in the hospital room, struggling to stay awake, to stay in this body.
I’ve never been able to stay up much longer than twenty-six hours before passing out and jumping bodies.
We’re on hour twenty-nine now.
I need to stay awake long enough to see Yvonne come out of this.
I’ve been passing time reading to her, and telling her what happened, hoping there’s some part of her in there that can hear me.
I have a feeling there is.
**
Her eyes open at noon.
I feel tears as she speaks. “Detective Ramirez?”
I want to tell her no, it’s me, the person who’d been inside Lara, Tommy, Allie, and her. It’s me, your friend without a name, without his or her own body.
And in that moment, I’m torn between great joy that she’s alive and tremendous sorrow that I, the real me, can’t share this happiness with her.
A doctor comes in and asks me to step out for a bit so he can check Yvonne’s stats.
After nearly a half hour, a nurse says I can go back.
This time, I’ve brought a visitor.
**
Yvonne bursts into tears as she sees who I’m pushing in the wheelchair.
“Allie! You’re alive!”
“Yeah, more or less,” Allie says.
“She lost a lot of blood, but her injuries weren’t too bad,” I explain.
“I’m so happy to see you,” Yvonne says, overwhelmed with joy. She reaches her hand out, and the two girls lock fingers.
I want to hug them both, let them know I’m here with them, that we got through this together, but I’m more or less a stranger.
Allie looks back at me and says, “Detective Ramirez saved me and killed that fucker who murdered Lara.”
Yvonne looks at me, her eyes wet. “Thank you.”
I nod. “You’re both very welcome.”
Another nurse comes in and says, “Allie, your mother is here to see you.”
I allow the nurse to wheel Allie out. As they reach the door, Allie looks up at us and says, “Bye.”
We wave goodbye.
Now that we’re alone, I go to Yvonne’s bedside and explain everything that happened at the Chronicle, how Tommy died, and that someone burned the place down.
She breaks down again, and I feel bad delivering this news to her now, after she’s just woken up. But I don’t know how much longer I have before I fall asleep.
“I also want you to know that you’re going to be safe now.”
She looks up at me. “How do you know that?”
“Because of this.” I hold up the flash drive.
“What’s that?”
“Maybe a Pulitzer for you,” I say. “Justice for Tommy? The end of a corrupt era here? Everything you need to bring this damned circus down.”
“How am I gonna do that? I don’t have an office.”
“You won’t need an office. I’ve found an investigative reporter who will help you bring these fuckers down.”
She stares at me like she’s not sure if I can be trusted.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”
“Thank you.” She reaches out to hold my hand.
“No, thank you,” I say. “It’s people like you who make this all worth fighting for.”
**
I tell her goodbye and head to the bus station with my bag of cash. Also in the bag, a note telling Hector to watch the video I recorded on a burner phone. A video that will explain everything and tell him how to protect his family from the shitstorm that will hit when Yvonne’s article goes national.
As I lean against the window of the bus, watching fields of greenery pass in a gentle flow, I see a smile creep across Hector’s face.
For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’ve actually made a difference.
* * * *
EPILOGUE
DAY 368
Los Orillas, California
Today I’m in the body of fitness instructor, Steph Wimberly. She’s twenty-six and beautiful, the daughter of an entertainment mogul, living like most people can only dream of.
Life inside her body feels like a vacation.
But the best part is that she lives in Los Orillas, California, and I have a chance to go back and see the psychic, maybe get some answers.
My memories of Lara, Allie, and the others are surprisingly still with me, which is good because I’ve been able to track what’s happening in Bay Cove on the news.
After I left, the Associated Press printed a story with Yvonne and the other reporter detailing the city’s deeply entrenched system of corruption.
The story went national, with the feds stepping in to arrest and replace the sheriff, along with three of the five council members. Bova Holdings was in a tailspin and Peter Bova has fled the country following allegations of his involvement, and revelations of what his son had been up to.
Vinnie Fortunato was found dead in his house, in bed with two women — his girlfriend and an exotic dancer. Foul play is suspected.
While several stories have also surfaced regarding Mr. Bruno, none have identified the man, or found a photo. He has since vanished, with the prevailing wisdom that he was living under a false identity and is now doing the same somewhere else. Perhaps starting a new criminal organization.
**
I pull up in Madam Monique’s parking lot.
I leave the car and head inside.
Staci greets me with a smile, the kind reserved for people like Steph Wimberly.
“Hi, and welcome to Madam Monique’s, do you have an appointment?”
“No,” I say, “I’m very sorry, but this is a last-minute emergency.”
I pull out my purse, fumble through wads of cash and credit cards, including her black AmEx, which will turn any merchant into her best friend. I raise my nose, just a bit, to adopt the I’m-better-than-you vibe that always gets Steph what she wants.
“Listen, I’ll pay whatever it takes. I just need a few minutes.”
“Hold on a second.”
Staci heads through the door into Madam’s back room, then returns a moment later.
“Madam will see you now.”
I hand her my AmEx then pass through the door.
When I enter the room, the old woman has her eyes closed, just like last time when I was here as Charles. The names might change; the show stays the same.
Madam invites me to sit across from her.
I do.
I wait for her to open her eyes.
She asks for my hands.
I reach across the table to take her hands, expecting some sort of spark.
Nothing.
Hmm …
She mumbles her prayer or whatever it is, then opens her eyes.
I meet her gaze, hoping she’ll see me inside this blonde heiress. But then something occurs to me.
There’s something different in her eyes.
I decide to speak. “I just want to thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“You’re welcome, dear,” she says.
“You come so highly recommended. Two of my friends come to you and couldn’t speak higher praises of you.”
/> “Oh, really? Who?”
“Danny Shar and Charles Tompkins.”
I wait for a reaction.
But her expression never changes, nor is there any recognition of the me inside this blonde shell.
Madam Monique is smiling. “Oh, they’re such sweet gentlemen. How do you know them?”
“We go to the same gym,” I lie.
“Oh. So, what would you like today? Your fortune told? A palm reading? Perhaps a seance with a dearly departed?”
“My palm read,” I say, and offer my hand.
“Certainly.”
She does her little routine whispering prayers or whatever it is she does before she gets on with the show. I listen, trying to pick up on any recognizable words, or language. I don’t think she’s speaking in tongues, but it sounds like gibberish to me.
She finally takes my hand.
She is feeling my skin, talking nonsense about refinement, energy, and the flexibility of my mind. Then she starts on some nonsense about archetypes, and a sudden realization washes over me.
I’m not sure how I know it, but I feel an unshakeable certainty.
This isn’t the same woman who read my palm!
“You aren’t her, are you?” I ask, surprised as the words leave my mouth.
“Aren’t who?”
A part of me wants to recant, explain it away as something else. But I feel so close to discovery — of what I don’t yet know — that I push forward instead.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
She looks up at me with a vague, confused smile, as if I’m asking a trick question to ferret out the truth, to expose her ruse. She says, “I’m sorry, what?” likely not wanting to give a yes or no response which would back her into a corner.
“I came in here before, except I wasn’t me. I was in someone else’s body.” I feel a tremendous relief, finally speaking the truth, and danger, knowing I could harm my host if things get out of hand. What if Madam calls the police, says this crazy woman came in talking about being in another body? I need to be cautious, but it’s hard when I feel so close to something.
Madam takes her hand from mine, eyeing me nervously, as if she’s considering calling for Staci.
“It’s okay,” I say as calmly as I can. “I’m not crazy. But please, hear me out, will you? You might be the only person who can help me.”
I don’t believe in psychics or fortune tellers, but I can’t believe they’re all corrupt scammers looking to separate you from your money. Some must truly think they have powers. Maybe those people are tapping into something we can’t understand, even if it’s not what they believe it to be. And if that’s the case, maybe I can appeal to the part of her that wants to help. Maybe she’ll remember someone else being in her body, or meeting me when I came in as Charles.
Maybe.
Her eyes are wary, but she seems receptive to hearing me out.
“Madam Monique, do you remember anything weird happening last Wednesday? Like maybe you weren’t quite yourself?”
I don’t want to say too much or lead the witness.
Her eyes suddenly lock onto mine. Confusion has turned to something between fear and recognition.
She does remember — something.
“H-How do you know?”
“What is it?”
“How do you know?” she repeats. Her chair scrapes back against the floor, but she’s not yet standing or bolting from the room.
I lean back in my chair to give her some space.
“I’ll tell you, but first you have to tell me what you remember, just to make sure I’m on the right path.”
“I … I’ve always had a strong memory. I may be old, but I can remember what I had for breakfast every day back to 1951. You name a date, I can tell you the weekday it fell upon. I can remember the weather, too. A very strong memory. But Wednesday is a blur. I don’t remember much. I remember meeting a few of my clients, but the oddest thing is, I can’t remember what I was thinking when I met them. And I can’t remember other details, like what I had for breakfast, or what show I watched before bed.”
My heart races as she confirms my suspicion. Someone else was in her. There is at least one other person like me, one other Jumper.
I ask if she remembers being upset during any of her readings.
“Yes, though I can’t remember why. It’s the weirdest thing. And I’ve since called the client to apologize, and ya wanna hear something even weirder?”
I nod.
“He doesn’t remember, either. He remembers some of it, just like me, but not the finer details.”
I confess: “It’s because I was in him.”
She looks at me like I admitted to being the devil.
“Well, not me, in this body you see here.”
I explain, as best and succinctly as I can, what is happening to me.
Suddenly, she stands.
I’m afraid she’s going to run out of the room, and the conversation is over.
But she doesn’t leave.
Instead, she goes to a shelf behind her, removes a small black wooden box painted with ornate vines and flowers and eyes. She opens the box and pulls out an envelope.
“I think this is for you.” Her hand shakes with the offer. “I woke up, and this was on my bedside table. It’s in my writing, but again, I don’t remember writing it. I didn’t know what it meant, and thought I might be losing my mind.”
I take the envelope, which is tucked closed, rather than sealed.
I pull out a letter with tiny handwriting:
Ella,
Stop searching.
You won’t like what you find.
Better to forget and let go.
Only then can you live again.
— Another Traveller.
I stare at the letter, a million emotions tearing through me at once.
Tears roll down my cheeks.
I’m not alone.
Yet this other traveller is telling me to forget. To stop searching.
Why?
What does this man or woman know?
What are they warning me away from?
I don’t know. It’s all so overwhelming.
But now I have somewhere to start.
If the letter was meant to scare me, it’s done the opposite.
For the first time in a year, I feel validation. That this isn’t some thing I’m stuck in forever. There are answers out there, and surely I can find them.
I may be lost and adrift, but now I have an anchor to moor into the randomness of my wanderer’s life. I have an identity to hold close.
And a name: Ella.
Suddenly, the number of days doesn’t matter as much as this: I am not alone.
THE END
THE SERIES CONTINUES IN KARMA POLICE: BOOK TWO OF THE KARMA POLICE SERIES
Get it on Amazon.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01CRD20DM
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Hello, Dear Reader,
It’s not often that I (Dave) read a book that hits me so hard that I want to write my own take on it.
But that’s exactly what happened a couple of years ago when I read the brilliant young adult book, Every Day by David Levithan.
I remember when Levithan’s book was being promoted, and I thought, Wow, there’s a great idea — a person who wakes up in a different body every day!
But Every Day wasn’t just a great concept. It had a heartbreakingly beautiful love story at its root — and a different sort of love story than you commonly read.
I don’t get a chance to read a lot of fiction, as my writing schedule keeps me busy, and in my downtime, I tend to read nonfiction to feed my many curiosities, which in turn, helps our fiction. But I devoured Every Day in a couple of days (quick for me!). I laughed, I cried, and when it was over, I wanted more.
More importantly, I wanted to know more.
I won’t spoil anything, as I think you should definitely go read Every Day if you haven’t already, but on
e thing I loved about the book (and which I imagine some people hated) is how the central mystery — why the main character was waking up in a different body every day — was never resolved. But there were hints of a rich world surrounding our character, and an ominous threat which isn’t fully explored in the book.
And I immediately wanted to write my own version of Every Day. A different story, of course, with darker themes, and one where the mystery would be explained — over the course of the series.
I pitched Sean on an idea, just the vaguest wisps of an idea, really.
Sean, ever the supportive writing partner, was ready to help make the idea work.
But I was reluctant.
I don’t want to rip off Every Day.
Hell, we got slammed by some readers (mostly ones who didn’t already know us for our other novels) for “ripping off” The Hunger Games in our Z2134 series, even though the argument was nullified by the fact I’d only read part of the first book (and stole only the concept of a game, not original to The Hunger Games, by the way, and the opening rush to the weapons stash). Additionally, we were very up front about wanting to write a mash-up of The Hunger Games meets The Walking Dead meets 1984. The resulting story was heavily inspired by all of those, but not like any of them. It was its own thing.
Yes, that series has some issues I’d fix if I had a time machine, but “ripping off The Hunger Games” isn’t among them.
I wanted to be even more careful with Every Day. Partly because it was such an original concept, and partly because I love the book so much that I don’t want to write a pale imitation of it.
So we waited. And while we worked on our other books, we began developing Karma Police behind the scenes.
