Her words prompted an image in Pete’s head: Oscar Bodette wearing his raccoon coat. He shook it off, the photos he found obviously creating a moment of déjà vu. “As far as I know, I acted alone.” Then he said in a flip tone, “Wouldn’t that be the MO for any good sociopath?”
She squinted back at her microfilm machine. “I can’t speak for PTSD, but you don’t fit the sociopath mold. Most are deceivingly charming.”
“Thanks. I think.”
She leaned back again. “You’ve explained the scenario, but I’m wondering if you’re missing something. Have you ever considered—”
“If your next words are ‘past life regression’ . . .” He also leaned back into his machine.
“Nah. Not with you. I doubt anything so common to this life would be capable of tapping into something that complex in your past one.”
“Is that your NYU psych degree talking?”
“Partially. Apply what you do know in a way you haven’t before. I think that’s logical.”
“Logic. I’ll introduce you to my father some . . .” The thought petered out as Pete was reminded of his choice to sever family ties.
“Well, there’s a lot here that invites speculation, so let’s put some basic challenge questions to what you do and don’t know.”
“For example?”
Em bit down on a thumbnail. The thinking gesture morphed into her finger wagging at him. “You insist it’s a bedroom. You see it clearly. But you also say your point of view is limited. What’s there besides the things you’ve mentioned? You must know it well enough to pick out specifics.”
Pete wanted to insist that like his actions, his line of vision was predetermined. But instead of defending his finite perspective, he went along with Em’s suggestion. He started to note less obvious details, but a different thought interrupted. Pete drew his hands into a prayerful fold. “This is going to sound strange.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Compared to . . . ?”
“My father runs on pure logic. He’s married to a woman whose gifts defy any semblance of logic. He, uh . . . he’s the person who brought . . .” Pete thought for a moment. “A healing component of logic into her life.” He unknotted his fingers. “I’ve given you plenty of reason to be cautious, but when I held your hand, walking through the concert crowd—before that, when you touched me at the bungalow. Then, in your bedroom, when you put your hand over mine, I sensed . . .”
“That sort of feeling, something healing?”
“Something different.” It was as far as he was willing to go.
Em glanced around the safety of the public setting and slowly she offered him her hand. On contact, the sensations from before reprised. Pete closed his eyes lightly and attempted to step away from the viewfinder in his head. He began with the repetitive visuals: “The bed. A clothesline, single window—with curtains.” He furrowed his brow. “They’re kind of lacy, see-through. But it doesn’t matter. They’re pushed to the sides. I don’t think I ever mentioned that.”
“Go on,” she said.
He kept his eyes closed and gripped tighter to her hand. “There’s the cat, an English hunting scene over the mantel, a fire . . . and the doll.” Pete said this with new confidence. It was validating to have someone who could relate to the doll’s existence. His mind veered onto the fire. “Since this trip home, those visitant episodes . . . the fire is different. Like someone added fuel to it. It’s burning brighter.”
“So the basic scene, there’s been a recent change to it?”
He opened his eyes for a moment. “Yes. But it doesn’t alter what happens. It doesn’t strike me as important—more of an inconsequential addendum.”
“Okay, can you stop focusing on the events or your strongest repetitive impressions of what’s there?”
Pete closed his eyes again.
“Go past the cat, the clothesline . . . the doll. Keep going. What else has been in the room all this time? Things you don’t normally talk about.”
“A bathroom,” he said abruptly. “I know there’s a door that opens to a bathroom. It’s always been more about background than part of what’s happening.”
“Good. And the other door. The one you always exit through, where your experience ends. What does the door lead to, Pete? Another room, a hallway?”
“Darkness. Whatever it is, it’s even more dim than the room. But you have a point, it’s more of a hallway than an adjoining room or an exit.”
“All right. So to my fresh set of ears, two things jump out at me, based on the time period and your recollections. Unless it’s a grand home—”
“No. It’s not. It can’t be.” Her touch and voice were so leading he spoke without thinking—a fact he knew, but he’d never paid attention to it. “The windows across the way, they’re way too close.”
“Across the way. An alley? So it’s more of a city setting?”
A small smile crept onto his face. “Yes. An alley in a city. This city, I assume.”
“Okay, come back to the bedroom with its own bath. I think that’s a big clue. You say you don’t exit into another room, but more interesting, you don’t exit to the outside either.”
He blinked at her. “It’s a hotel room.”
“It might be.”
And for a moment, Pete felt as if he’d discovered the Holy Grail. He let go of Em’s hand and rolled forward on the wheeled chair. He could have kissed her. Well, kissed her for clarifying—bringing a layer of logic—to what he’d perceived as a finite point of view. Then Pete looked at the microfilm machine, the drawers and drawers of recorded deaths, the hundred years between his memory and a city the size of Manhattan. He looked at Em’s freckled hands. “It’s good information, but how does it get us to a physical location? A hotel, somewhere in New York City, from a century ago.” He raised his arms in defeat, dropping them onto his lap.
“Don’t be so quick to give up on the research. We still have Royal Photography. Maybe we should have started there.” Em looked at her watch. “Gosh, I didn’t realize how long we’ve been here.”
“Do you have to be somewhere? I should have asked earlier.”
“Just a voice lesson. I can reschedule. It’s fine.”
“Voice lesson, huh?” Pete gnawed on his lip. “I’m guessing those don’t come cheap.”
“Believe me, one voice lesson won’t make or break me.”
“Tough business, show business.” Pete kept the conversation moving away from their pursuit. It felt safer. “But it sounds like something you’ve always wanted to do.”
“Definitely. But I’m not even sure why. There’s no theater in my blood. My dad graduated from the London School of Economics, and Mum . . . well, she does best functioning inside our small family circle. I couldn’t imagine her up on a stage.”
“I can relate. Obviously, I get my desire to chase a story from my parents. But the photographic eye is all mine.” He thought for a moment. “Painting would be my talent that seems to come from nowhere.”
“So based on your larger psychic gift, do you see yourself as more like your mom than your dad?”
“Actually, it’s more like possessing my mother’s inexplicable gift trapped in my father’s logical mind.” Pete crinkled his brow at the observation. His circumstances had always been about his mother, never relating anything inherent from his father to his experiences.
“Interesting interpretation,” she said.
Pete also had to admit that for someone who should be running from him, Em was decidedly drilled into Pete St John. He shifted in his seat. The intimacy felt off-putting. In a casual motion, Pete stretched his arms over his head. “Back to your voice lesson. If you can’t reschedule, at least let me pay for it.”
“No. That’s ridiculous. You’re not paying for my voice lesson.”
“Then dinner. Let me buy you dinner.” Pete splayed his hands out in front of him. “Public setting. Worst-case scenario, I take you to your favorite restaurant. You order one of everything
on the menu. I watch in sideshow amazement.”
Em folded her arms, her gaze examining. “My favorite restaurant makes at least fifteen desserts. I never can decide.”
Pete stood, an arm gesturing smoothly toward the exit. “Then I suggest you save room.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
Her favorite restaurant turned out to be, almost literally, a hole-in-the-wall fondue place just outside the theater district. Pete couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten fondue, or if he’d ever eaten it. The restaurant was a perfect Em fit—as was her name. If the finicky world of theater felt “Ailish” made her more attractive, fine. “Em” suited him.
He glanced between her and the menu, in which she was naturally engrossed. He saw the method to her madness: the menu was composed of forty-seven different fondues, applicable to nearly as many dipping items. After Em’s à la carte selections were made, the waiter had to bring a tiny side table to accommodate her choices. Pete anticipated the assault on his senses, how unappealing he’d find the plethora of food. Surprisingly, that didn’t happen. Having experienced her eating habits, he was more amused than shocked. Pete was even intrigued when Em pointed to the fried squid and said, “Everybody thinks the mint fondue is for the lamb. It’s unbelievably good with the squid.”
He shuddered internally but stabbed at the squid, swiping it through a green-gray fondue. It wasn’t half bad. He washed it down with a mouthful of beer and retrieved an iPad from his camera bag.
“Ah, I almost forgot this was a working dinner.” Em reached with her fondue fork, spearing a morsel of beef. She scooped it through a white fondue and popped it in her mouth, eyes watering. “Oh my God, that’s so good!”
“Enough to make you cry?”
“No. It’s the double horseradish fondue.” She blotted watery eyes with her napkin and pointed to a bowl of shiitake mushrooms. “Everybody thinks—”
“I got it.” He held up a hand. “Goes perfect with the mushrooms too.” He laughed.
“Oh my gosh.”
“Oh my gosh, what?”
“That’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh.”
The feeling of being exposed returned, and Pete looked down at the iPad, delving into a Google search for Royal Photography. In his peripheral vision, the tip of her fondue fork tapped against the side of her plate. He felt her stare.
“It’s incredibly hard for you, isn’t it?” she said.
“What’s that? Being social?”
“No. To live your life.”
And exposed turned into butt naked. Em’s meal zeal slowed, her expression going from jovial to intense. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be on the introspective end of her thoughts. The sloppier, open-book Em—brash, unapologetic, a whirl of energy—that, he could handle. No problem. This emotion made Pete feel off balance, particularly when he considered the opposite end of the spectrum. The potential for disaster. He went back to poking at the iPad.
“Okay, so the archives turned out to be a bust,” she said. “Any luck with Royal Photography?” Em returned to slow but steady consumption of food, and the action put him at ease.
“Actually . . .” His eyes traveled a trail of Google misses and he looked back at her. “No. There’s not one entry pertaining to Royal Photography.”
“Oh, that’s disappointing. I thought for sure we’d find our Nancy Drew clue.”
Pete leaned back in his chair. “Seems the Case of the Mysterious Mystery Photos continues on. Or maybe it’s hit a dead end.”
Before he put back the iPad, Em asked to see it. She tapped the screen and turned the device on him, snapping his photo.
“What’d you do that for?”
“I was thinking, for all the photos you take, I bet there are hardly any of you.” She looked at the image, blinking. “Oh my.”
“How many floating lights?”
“How did you know . . .” The tone of her voice turned serious. “How many are there usually?”
“Two, four . . . sometimes more. Depends.” Pete looked around the restaurant, the building obviously old. Floating around his photo were three orbs. Capturing his image opened a portal, and the hum of the dead began. “Mind if I . . . ?”
Em held out the device, and he took it, deleting the photo. To help silence the dead, Pete aimed for further distraction by taking Em’s picture.
“Ugh. Why did you do that? I look a mess.”
“Not my first impressions.” He admired the result. Bright . . . analytical . . . attractive. Those words jumped to mind. Impressions . . . On that front, Pete had to admit he’d done a drastic one-eighty. He smiled at her, guessing the same could not be said about her impressions of him. Pete’s focus still felt off, bothered by a drumbeat of otherworldly noises.
A waiter came by to clear their dishes as a second one rolled in with a cart. It brimmed with dessert fondues and foods, everything from sugar-dipped orange sections to marshmallows that came with mini chafing dishes for toasting. Em looked them over, and he laid the iPad on the table, excusing himself to the restroom. He needed a minute—to adjust to the oddly good time he was having and to banish the lingering dead. After the restroom, he stepped outside. Manhattan noise and traffic instantly quieted his mind. Pete inhaled sticky city air, then returned to the table, surprised—maybe a little disappointed—dessert fondues weren’t piled six deep.
She shrugged at him. “My voracious appetite failed me. I can’t eat another bite.”
“You’re sure?”
Em tapped fingers on the white tablecloth, her other arm tucked tight around her middle.
“Do you feel all right? No judgment, but with everything you ate . . . well, the water in Mexico might hold less potential for hazardous consumption.”
She laughed. “It’s not that. In fact, I was thinking I rarely pass on dessert. It’s like I didn’t get enough to eat in . . . never mind.”
Pete saw something different in her mood. While his parents, even Grace and Dr. Kapoor, always showed concern, her troubled look appeared more personal. He wanted to ask again if she was all right, but it felt like overkill. Pete proceeded to pack the iPad back into the camera bag’s interior sleeve.
“Could I see that for a sec again? I promise, no more pictures.”
He shrugged, handing her the entire camera bag.
“I’m sure your search was thorough. I just wouldn’t mind . . .”
“I don’t blame you. Don’t let my past prevent your future,” he said more quietly.
She flipped open the bag. He battled a sense of invasion but said nothing. Em had gone as far as to withdraw the iPad, but she wasn’t looking at it. She continued to stare inside the bag. Absently, she went to place the device on the table. Pete had to reach across, grabbing it, before the iPad missed and hit the floor. “What?” he said.
“I don’t see how—” Em dipped her hand into the bag again and came up with the postcard. “You said your mother was adamant about this card never bearing anything but a postmark.”
“That’s right. New York City, 1918. Until a few days ago. Until the message showed up at the bottom.”
“When I spent two weeks on this beach, I didn’t dream of you then.”
“We talked about that, Em. How my mother swears the message wasn’t there the entire time the ghost gift’s been in her possession.”
“I know. I remember.” She held the card up with the postmarked side facing him. “What . . . what do you suppose she’d think now?”
Pete reached across the small span. He might have been distracted by the vibration elicited by her fingers on one corner of the postcard and his on the other. But random sensations were secondary as the homeless postcard, the one that’d been blank forever, now showed a return address: “Hupp’s Supper Club & Hotel, 61st Street and Lexington Avenue, New York City.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
It was after eleven by the time Pete saw Em to the door of her apartment building. “Do you want to come u
p, coffee, maybe?” she asked. “Caroline, she’s probably home by now.”
He assumed this was meant to inform him they wouldn’t be alone. “I, um . . . I’m pretty tired.” It was a lie. Pete was wired like he’d drunk a six-pack of Red Bull. But she was right to be cautious. There were too many unknowns—about himself and a girl whose future felt as if it rested gingerly in his hands. “Tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll see you first thing tomorrow. We’ll go from there.”
They lingered under the entry awning. “So you’re all set with your hotel reservation?”
“Yeah. Sure. Hyatt, park side or something. A few blocks from here.” He felt wildly conflicted. For someone who posed a threat—according to one telling prognostication—Pete felt protective, like he didn’t want to stray too far. He scrubbed a hand around the back of his neck and forced a smile in her direction. “Just . . . just don’t give up on me, not yet.”
“I won’t.” She turned for the entrance.
“And make sure you lock your door.”
She spun from the top step, her whipping hair, the motion, reminiscent. “Of course.”
“Right.” It sounded desperate. And it was, especially since she had to use a key to get into the Upper East Side building. “Good. That’s good.”
“Well, good night then.”
“Em.”
She stopped.
“When we were out on the sidewalk today, you said something to me. You said, ‘Forever the hero.’”
“I didn’t . . . I don’t remember saying that.”
“Yes you do. What does it mean?” Maybe Pete was only fishing for a compliment, a counterpoint to his grim past. “What do you know about me, other than a cryptic note you’ve been carrying around in a doll all these years?”
Her lips settled into a tight line. “I’m not like you, Pete. I don’t see ghosts. I don’t have a past life that I keep reliving.”
“So you keep reminding me. Why do I get the feeling you’re mostly trying to convince yourself of that?”
“Because you’re the one with an incredible gift. I’m just a girl from Vegas. That’s nothing special.”
Echo Moon (A Ghost Gifts Novel Book 3) Page 29
