Without a ghost gift to deliver, it was how Zeke had settled on a future outcome. After supplying Jude with a name, he considered boarding a flight, choosing a destination as far from his boss as possible. Two things had stopped him: concern for Nora and the clear suspicion that he was being watched. That part was confirmed when Jude’s handy helpers showed up before losing ticket stubs could be torn in two. Zeke had been sitting in a bar on the outskirts of Biddeford, Maine, where the Serinos’ latest development project was under way. A tall beer sat in front of him as he swallowed down the ESPN London feed of the fight. The bad choice and subsequent beating remained vivid as Jude entered the office.
“Zeke, have a seat.” He pointed to a chair.
From the mirror’s reflection, he watched Jude stride across the room. Before turning for a chair, Zeke made steadier eye contact with himself. We are done, you son of a bitch. You are going down . . . harder than Wilder, count on it . . . It should have never come to this. Zeke should have taken Jude out a decade ago, and this was karma’s payback—for being a coward, for always finding a reason to hesitate. He should have never strayed from the objective: avenging his parents’ deaths.
If he could have snuck his gun inside Jude’s house, here and now would have been a fine location for murder. Zeke no longer cared if killing Jude meant spending the rest of his life in prison. The little life he had, Jude had made a living hell. Slowly, Zeke eased into a chair. “Forgive me,” he said cynically. “My range of motion is still recovering.”
Jude waited until Zeke situated himself. “Honestly? A part of me feels the need to apologize for your, uh . . . unfortunate state.”
Zeke widened his eyes until the tender muscles surrounding them strained. “Not really what I thought you’d lead with, considering your response to the fight and the two muscle-bound minions who escorted me here.”
“And in what other way could I have ensured your arrival?” From behind his desk, Jude leaned back, his face oddly contemplative.
“I don’t know, Jude. Not beating the shit out of me might have made this a friendlier invitation. I told you months ago—”
Jude held up a hand. “That your resource for the predictions was gone.” He drew a measured breath. “But you have to understand, Zeke. You endured the wrath of one man’s loss. In turn, I was subject to the reaction of my many associates, who, cumulatively, were deprived of millions, not to mention their initial bets.” He glided a look over Zeke. “These weren’t blue-collar workers who placed twenty-dollar wagers in a break-room pool. To be quite frank, I’m somewhat surprised I didn’t end up like you.”
“Wouldn’t have hurt my feelings.”
“Fortunately, at this level of gaming, we respond like gentlemen. While my peers will require restitution, taking it out of my hide would not be the message they’d send. That’s reserved for . . .”
“Schmucks like me.”
Jude lightly shrugged his shoulders.
“So I’m here because you want . . . ?” Zeke brushed a hand through the air. “I told you months ago, back in Vegas at Nora and Ian’s, I’m tapped out. You think it’s total bullshit, a grifter’s scam.”
“I did back then.”
“And my story hasn’t changed. Or maybe today is the real payback. Should I expect a government raid at any moment for back taxes owed? I don’t know how many ways I can say it. Nothing will change the fact that there are no more—”
“Ghost gifts,” Jude supplied.
Zeke was taken aback. “What did you say?”
Jude retrieved a folder from a desk drawer. “After your misinformation on the Lopez-Wilder fight, after I calmed a bit, I did some research.” He reached past the cherry-crafted cigar box and picked up a pair of glasses. “Eyestrain,” he said. “Worse by the day. This year, my entire being may drown in my upcoming sabbatical.” He continued on as if the two had met for a friendly midmorning coffee. “Serengeti this year, big game hunting. I’m quite excited.”
“Uh-huh,” Zeke murmured as Jude slipped reading glasses to the tip of his nose.
“As I said, the Lopez-Wilder snafu forced me to reconsider the absurd—surely you realized an inaccurate prediction would only lead to . . .” He peered over the rim of his glasses. “Your current state. While you are a grifter, Zeke, and we established your proclivity for cheating ages ago, I had to ask myself why you would have deliberately misled me. I could only come up with one answer.”
“And that is?”
“You had to be telling the truth.” Jude opened the folder.
The moment his eyes registered its contents, Zeke’s heart began to race. Even from his upside down view of the pages, he saw what Jude had researched.
“Fascinating story. Although it was her significant other that led me to the jackpot.” Beneath the papers were photos. One was a head shot of Levi St John. “I’ve caught his Ink on Air program. Mr. St John is adept at his trade. But her,” Jude said, tapping a manicured finger on a candid picture of Aubrey. “She’s the one with a singular gift.” He spun in his chair, reaching for a book on his credenza. “Incredible read.” He spoke while fingering the pages of The Unremarkable Life of Missy Flannigan. “Miss Ellis, the author, the woman you’ve been in love with since joining up with her carnival past, she’s the one with a remarkable life, isn’t she, Zeke?”
“You leave Aubrey the fuck out of this. She can’t help you. She has nothing to do with—”
“Zeke, let’s not waste time. She has everything to do with it. And from what I’ve unearthed, despite her low-key, below-the-radar life, when added to what you professed about her father . . . well, I can only imagine how much they have in common.” He removed the glasses, making clear eye contact. “If it weren’t for years of unfathomable predictions, I might have labeled her story pure fiction. But when you put it all together . . .”
“Aubrey’s gift, it’s not like her father’s. Yes. She can communicate with the dead, but she can’t predict the future. Her gift doesn’t work like that.”
“Or maybe it’s where you obtained some of your best predictions.” Jude wasn’t listening, surely thinking he’d found the Holy Grail of future wins. “I understand she also has a son. The information on him is unclear. But wouldn’t it be interesting to learn if the boy shares in his mother’s . . . and his grandfather’s unique traits?”
Ignoring the ache of sore ribs, Zeke sucked in a breath. “It’s not going to happen, Jude. You won’t get anywhere near Aubrey or her family.”
“And why’s that? You’re going to stop me? Or perhaps you’ll try and head me off at the pass, forewarn her yourself. Nonsense.” He glanced at a second folder. “My IRS plan, while on hold, is easily set in motion. A lot of good you’d do your Aubrey from jail. No, Zeke, that’s not what your future holds. Moreover, I don’t need any crystal ball to tell me as much.”
Zeke was a word away from going across the top of Jude’s desk. He calmed. The only way out of this was to be smarter than Jude—something Zeke had a history of falling short on. He willed himself back into the chair. “You’re right,” he said, his tone cooperative. “I can’t deny Aubrey’s gift. I also haven’t had much contact in recent years, no matter what you might think. Like your Tilda being gone, it’s just too painful. I lost the girl . . . the incredible woman she became. I suppose a piece of that mind-set was shame. I should have never touched Peter Ellis’s ghost gifts to begin with. If Aubrey found out . . .”
“Why should she?” He rocked in his chair, pressing his fingertips together. Zeke recognized the gesture—Jude was engaged in the art of snake-oil crafting. “I’d say this presents no more of a problem than you working your way back into Aubrey’s life. Clearly, you’ll have to get over the ‘difficult to be around her’ part. Aside from recommending a good therapist, I can’t help you with that.”
“Wouldn’t matter, I have no desire to get over Aubrey. Not unlike your Tilda, it’s something I’ve learned to live with.”
“True. There’s that
—the solace of separation by death, as opposed to simply not being worthy.” He pointed to the photo of Levi. “I suspect he’d agree with me on that.”
“From what I know about Levi, if he were here, the thought would have never made it out of your head, never mind your mouth.”
“Then lucky for me it’s you, not him, I’m left to deal with. So let’s share some details, an angle that puts you not only back in Aubrey’s life, but in her good graces as well.”
“If forced to help you . . .”
“And you are.”
“I want something in return.”
“Make this work, and I’ll see to it the IRS matter is completely and permanently erased.”
“No, it’s not that—and, hell, I see that as the upper hand. I might not be able to help Aubrey from a jail cell, but it wouldn’t do you much good either.”
Jude wagged a finger at him. “See, you are educable.” He sighed. “Is it something for Nora? Sorry, but I won’t put that money-bumbling husband of hers back at the helm of any Serino business greater than an ice cream stand.”
“No, Nora’s content. I’d like to think even you wouldn’t threaten the delicate happiness of her life, the lives of her children.”
“It wouldn’t be my first choice . . .” He swept a hand past Zeke. “So then, what? What is it you want, Zeke?”
“I want the truth.” He sat straighter, a position that sent a zing of pain through his shoulder.
“The truth about what?”
“My parents—Kieran and Ailish Dunne,” he said. “Their deaths.”
Jude showed no outward reaction as Zeke spoke his parents’ names. His nemesis merely stared, his eyes lifeless, shark-like. “What makes you think I know anything about the demise of—”
Zeke held up a hand. “After all this time, the years of blackmail, I’m asking for the truth—grifter to gentleman.”
“The truth about your parents’ deaths.”
“Yes. I want you to tell me it wasn’t a murder-suicide. That my father didn’t kill my mother in cold blood. I want you to admit that your father was responsible.”
“My father?” With a sliver of a smile, Jude tilted his head at him.
“End it, Jude. I’ve known the truth since the rumors that ran through my old neighborhood, since the day I first came to work for Serino Enterprises.”
“You surprise me, Zeke. I didn’t think you had it in you. It takes a lot of nerve to make that kind of direct accusation.”
“Not nearly as much as it does to gun down two people. Leave two innocent kids to fend for themselves. Do you have the same set of balls your old man did, enough to tell me the truth?” He gripped the leather chair, his fingertips digging into the arms. “Do it, and I’ll give you what you want.” Zeke played it tightly; Jude needed to believe what he was hearing—surrender. “Tell me, and I’ll give you Aubrey Ellis.”
Jude cleared his throat and leaned into the desk. “Fine. Just to prove that much to you . . . yes. My father wanted yours dead. Your mother’s even bloodier death was meant to send a message: crossing my father could only result in one thing.” There was a visual standoff. Jude conceded the contest by selecting a cigar from the humidor.
“You son of a bitch. You miserable, fucking, cock-sucking piece of—” Zeke managed to heave himself from the chair as forcefully as his beaten body would allow. But the yelling was enough to bring Max thundering into the room. Jude never even flinched as Max easily subdued a weakened Zeke. He rammed him back into the chair like a puppet.
Zeke struggled for a breath that didn’t incite searing pain. Jude waited, tapping the cigar on the desk. “You can go, Max. I’m sure Zeke realizes the foolishness of any physical recourse.” He swayed gently in his chair, his gaze contemplative. “Since we’re starting a new chapter here, one that apparently is predicated on honesty, let me enlighten you to a few more truths. I’ve been well aware of our connected pasts since your meager beginnings at Serino Enterprises.” The swaying ceased, and Jude ran the cigar beneath his nose like it was a drug. “Do you truly believe it was cupid’s fate Nora and Ian crossed paths? Although, I admit, I was stunned when it turned out the two dolts proved to be a match made in heaven.”
Zeke blinked at him, comprehending the depth of Jude’s strategy. How it was even more calculating than Zeke’s. “You’re out of your fucking mind.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a shrewd businessman who’s been doing precisely the same thing as you.”
“And that is?”
“Keeping my enemies close.”
Zeke forced a dry swallow through his throat, absorbing his miscalculation, praying he didn’t make another one.
“Back to the point. You wanted the truth. Fine. Be a man. There you have it.”
Zeke focused on his folded hands. He only wanted to hear a little more. Between a confession of the crime Jude’s father committed and Jude’s new target—Aubrey—Zeke no longer wavered at the precipice of revenge. He was there. “It’s, um . . . it’s good to know, better than the alternative in a lot of ways.”
“It was a different time, Zeke. Comeuppance was doled out in a way that not only compensated for the misstep but sent a reminder to the many onlookers. Your father had been providing information to the authorities. It was a leak that cost my father money and assets. If not strongly curtailed, it was information that might have brought down Serino Enterprises, put my father in jail. How would that have looked?”
He shifted his sore shoulders. “Like maybe justice was served.”
“Well, regardless, we have little hope of changing any of it now, don’t we? My father was obligated to not only repay your father’s disloyalty but to send a message. I believe that came to pass. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“Part of it.” Zeke reached for his glass, the tea-colored liquid sloshing as he downed a mouthful. “That day, in my parents’ apartment building. You were there, weren’t you? Afterward, part of what I overheard was that the hit was a demonstration, a grooming lesson for Giorgio’s son. You stood there and watched, didn’t you? You did nothing while your father killed mine, while he murdered my mother.”
Jude laid the cigar on the desk and folded his hands, his expression introspective, solemn. “Because I promised you the truth. Because gentleman to grifter, I want to keep my word . . . so you’ll grasp how serious I am about your need to facilitate Aubrey Ellis’s cooperation, I wasn’t present that day, Zeke.” He picked up the cigar and cutter, sharply clipping the tip. “I pulled the trigger.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Surrey, Massachusetts
Present Day
It was like the box had eyes. The next morning, Aubrey moved around her living room, in and out of her kitchen, all too aware of the letter box that sat on her dining room table. She finally took a seat, poking a butter knife at it. “What?” she said to whomever might be listening. The rising hum she’d heard when Levi first opened the box penetrated. “Could I please eat my breakfast in peace?” She spread strawberry jam across a piece of whole wheat toast. Aubrey flicked her gaze between the jam jar and box until she missed with the knife, and a gooey glob landed in her lap. “Great. Thanks so much.” Aubrey scraped red jam off the casual white linen nightshirt she’d worn to bed. “Like that’ll ever come out.”
She proceeded to dunk a tea bag, nearly drowning the thing, when a tapping sound rose. Having bit into the toast, she stopped chewing. She forced the toast down, all the while squashing a visual: a gathering of spirits en masse. She blinked at the letter box and sat taller, stiffer. Her heart thumped an extra few beats, then slowed as the tapping turned to knocking. The door. Brushing crumbs from her hands, she sighed and rose, wondering if it might be Zeke. One thing she did want was more information about Zeke’s relationship with Jude. On the other hand, if it was him, she needed to be more direct while not inviting Zeke beyond her living room.
Peering through the slightly raised window, she didn’t see Zeke or his rental car b
ut spied Levi’s Volvo. Loudly, she said, “It’s your house. You don’t have to knock.” The knob turned as he inserted a key. A moment later, Levi stood in the living room, looking much like he had for years: dressed in khakis, although it was a Saturday, his only real weekend giveaway a casual cloth jacket. Still, less a suit, it was the Levi that belonged to her, in this house, at home. Aubrey wasn’t sure if it was memories or longing that heightened the sense of loss. “Pete?” Concern eclipsed her own desires.
“He’s fine. He had early Saturday basketball practice. He’s skateboarding afterward.”
“Good . . . that’s good.” She leaned back in the chair, though the tense feeling didn’t ease. She looked at the letter box, then at Levi. “So you’re here because . . . ?”
“Because we’re not done talking about last night. Pete got back earlier than expected, and—”
“Yes. I’m well aware of the part where he didn’t want to come inside, calling you from the driveway.”
“So you know, I tried talking to him about it on the way back to the condo.”
At least he didn’t say “home.” “Do you want to sit? I can make some coffee.” Coffee was on the list of things Aubrey missed. While she didn’t drink coffee, she loved the aroma, the cup after cup Levi might have on a Saturday morning.
“Thanks, I already had plenty.” He took his usual seat at the end of the table. The action was comforting but short-lived, his expression somber.
“Levi, what’s going on? You’re starting to freak me out more than that box.” She pushed it a few inches away. “Tell me. Did Pete have a particularly bad night?”
Foretold (A Ghost Gifts Novel Book 2) Page 26
