by Natasha Deen
“Megan, Katie.”
Nancy’s body stiffened. “Megan Naki and Katie Youngblood?”
“Yeah.”
“Weren’t they her best friends?”
“Amber’s not real good when it comes to picking friends or boyfriends.”
Nancy snorted. “Obviously.” She paused. “Maybe it was one of them, and they didn’t want anyone to know—”
“Everyone knew. ’Cept Amber.”
We were silent for a minute and watched the two cops pack up. The paramedics pulled out their body bag. Sorrow rose in me. As much as I hated Serge, there was something horrible about seeing somebody’s life end in a generic plastic body bag.
“You said his parents came to watch practice.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Was that usual?”
I frowned. “Mrs. Popov went from what I heard, but I don’t know how often—I don’t really go to practices. And the reverend…never, except tonight.”
“Oh…why were you there tonight?”
Heat saturated my cheeks.
Her “Ah” said everything. “Is that why you were driving around? Practice didn’t end the way you’d hoped?”
“I thought we were talking about your side of the investigation.”
“His tank was empty,” she said.
I blinked, then realized she’d steered the conversation back to Serge.
“He couldn’t have driven anywhere. Maybe that’s where the unknown girl went, to get some gas.”
I considered the theory. “It would make sense. Serge drinks himself into a stupor while the date does the hard work.”
A few minutes later, one of the paramedics came to tell Nancy they had Serge’s body stored.
I repressed a shudder. An entire life, “stored.”
She thanked him as she pushed herself off the truck. “Now comes the worst part. Telling the parents.” She looked at me, turned and waved Dad past the crime scene tape.
The officer holding him back let go and he rushed to me. His open coat flapped with the energy of his movements and his face was cemented into determined lines.
“Let’s get you home,” said Nancy and held up a warning hand as Dad closed in. “I had to talk to her alone. You couldn’t be here. You’re here, now, so don’t bitch at me.”
He pressed his lips together.
I squeezed her fingers. “Thanks.”
I climbed out of the trunk, and into Dad’s minivan. He stood by the driver’s door, talking to Nancy. Then he got in and we headed home. The ambulance was in front of us. My car was behind me, driven by one of the other cops. It was a weird, depressing kind of processional.
“She should tell Amber too,” I said.
“I’m not sure that’s appropriate,” said Dad. “They notify next of kin.”
“Nancy should bend procedure.”
He glanced at me and turned back to the road. “Why?”
“His parents couldn’t stand her. If they say anything to her, it’ll only be to blame her.” I fiddled with the heat gauge. “I think that’s really the only reason he dated her—not because he liked her but because it pissed off his dad.” I stopped. Anger at Serge was an arrow that pierced my stomach with its sharp toxicity. He was dead, I reminded myself.
Dad dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out his cell. “Tell her.”
I phoned Nancy and gave her my story.
“Do you think the Popovs would phone her tonight? Did they hate her that much?”
I shook my head. “No, but they’d do it first thing in the morning.”
Dad headed down Rydl Street. The shops were dark and the only light came from Rory’s gas station.
“Tell you what,” said Nancy. “I’ll tell them tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll head over to Amber’s.”
I nodded.
“She can’t see you,” Dad said with a chuckle. “You’re on the phone.”
Oh. Duh. “That sounds good.” I hung up.
“You have a soft spot for Amber, don’t you?” asked Dad.
“She’s fragile—one of the people that will twist themselves inside out just to be liked. He was horrible to her.”
“He’s gone now, and he can’t hurt her anymore.”
I sure hoped so.
Dad pulled into the driveway. I headed inside and dumped my stuff on my bed. The animals knew what had happened—they always knew when it was a bad case of the dead. Ebony curled around my feet and Buddha butted my hand with his head. I sat on the floor. The cat crawled on my lap as the dog flopped down beside me.
I buried my face in Buddha’s neck and inhaled the scent of cinnamon buns that he gave off and pretended Serge’s death didn’t hit me on a deep, disturbing level. Kitchenware rattled and I heard the sound of a plate being pulled from the dishwasher. Ebony jumped off my lap and Buddha shoved me in the shoulder.
“Okay, okay.” I stood. “I can take the hint.” I headed downstairs.
“The tea’s on the table.” Dad opened the oven door and pulled out thick white toast and butter. Then he turned. “Just what you need, right?” He gave me a lopsided grin. “Just about the only thing I don’t burn.”
I nodded, tears filling my eyes as I ran for his embrace.
“Was it fog?” he asked.
“Yeah.” I buried into his flannel shirt and inhaled the woodsy scent of his cologne. “It was purple.”
He hissed. “Did you see anything else?”
“Fire,” I sniffled against his shoulder.
“Anything else?”
“He’s not around.” I pulled away. “But I heard The Voice on the radio again.”
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know why—I’m so sorry.”
I didn’t know, either. No one on his side of the family saw the dead or heard the voices. Maybe it was on my mother’s side, but she’d abandoned me long before I’d had the ability to ask. The only thing I really knew was that she was East Indian.
“Come on,” he said, as he pushed me toward the table. “Eat.”
Whenever I dealt with anyone who died a violent death, the only thing my body would ingest for the next few hours would be white bread and tea. Dad brought the items to the table and I ate in quiet. He didn’t ask for information because he knew there was nothing I could tell him.
I wasn’t called to every death. And not every death or dead person I’d seen had been offed in criminal circumstances. The voice on the radio, though, only showed up when things went really wrong. I choked down another piece of toast and swallowed my drink. Then I pulled myself up.
“I’ll be here if you need me,” said Dad. “Don’t worry about the time or if I fall asleep. You wake me, okay?”
I nodded and trudged up the stairs to my room. My fingers curled around the knob. As the door swung open, I stepped inside.
Serge was sitting on my bed.
Chapter Seven
“What happened?” He blinked quickly. His bloodshot gaze catalogued the room and lingered on the panties I’d left on the floor. He frowned, staring at the red lace as though unwilling to believe I wore sexy undies. Pulling his eyes to me he slurred, “How’d you get me here?”
Serge shook his head. His blond hair swung left then right. He crawled off the bed and stood. Well, tried to. He swayed and fell back on the mattress. “What did you give me?” He licked his lips. “Geez. Is that tequila? I hate that crap. Tastes funny, too. How did you get me to drink tequila?” He rubbed his chest, pulled the red jersey material from his body. “I feel itchy.”
Nice. I get a ghost with eczema.
“And sick.”
Wow, this night was just getting better all the time.
“You knock me out, kidnap me, and now you’re ignoring me?”
Great. Of all the luck. I not only get the ghost from hell but the one who c
an’t remember his death.
The vein in his neck pulsed a quick, angry rhythm. A red flush swept across his face. “Answer me, you freak! What are you doing?” He glanced around. “Is this your bedroom? Why am I here—you think I’d be your sex slave?” He snorted. “Forget it.”
Yeah, right. The nightmare images of me and him intertwined were going to haunt me for years.
Serge groaned and put his fingers to his temple. “Seriously, how did you get me to swallow tequila?”
I didn’t answer him. He didn’t know he was dead and that put me in the power position. Serge hadn’t figured out all the crazy stunts ghosts could pull—that needed time and effort. If I ignored him, maybe he’d get bored and disappear. I went to the desk and booted up my computer.
“Fine. Ignore me—not that it’ll help. I’m going to sue you—bring criminal charges. Freakin’ Deadhead.” He rolled out of the bed, strode for the door and touched the handle. Electric blue lightning flashed from the metal and blasted him across the room.
Holy! I’d never seen anything like that before. I caught myself staring at him and whipped my gaze back to the laptop.
He groaned, struggled to get to his feet and failed. “What was that?”
Good question. An acrid, burning odour filled the room, though I knew I was the only living person who could smell it. Something was keeping Serge trapped in my bedroom. Something that obviously hated both of us.
“I hate you. What is with the trap? You think you’re going to keep me prisoner?” His limbs shaking, he pulled himself to his knees, then stood.
But he didn’t come near me and that said that on a very basic level, he knew he was dead. I kept ignoring him and headed for the bathroom to change.
When I came out he was sitting on the bed, his legs doing a weird, fast twitchy thing. “You’re going to pay for emotional and physical damage—your stupid electrical trap did something screwy to my muscles.”
In the kitchen, pots clattered. Serge’s head tilted to the side. “Is that your dad?” A calculating grin spread across his face. He fumbled for his shirt and pulled it off.
Oh, for cryin’ out loud.
His fingers clumsy, he fought with his jeans and finally ripped them off to reveal grey polka-dot boxers.
Huh. Never figured he actually wore underwear.
“What will the old man say when he hears his little girl screwing her brains out with me?”
He’d probably say, “Who knew you could have sex with a ghost? Gee, Maggie, at least we know you’ll never get pregnant.”
Serge hopped on the bed but whatever had zapped him remained in his system. He fell. His head bounced against the wooden post. Cursing, he struggled to his feet and started jumping on the mattress. He slammed the headboard against the wall and started screaming, “Just like that! Ride it! Ride it hard!”
Wow. Those were his sweet nothing lines he used during sex? Why did Amber stay with this guy?
After a few minutes, he was out of breath and hope. No one was coming up the stairs. Poor schmuck, I actually felt a little sorry for him. He was only solid and real to me.
“Fine.” He hopped off the bed and yanked his clothes back on, wincing when his fly got caught. “Look, Maggie, whatever. I’m—let’s just forget about what happened tonight. Let me go.”
I heard the trace of fear in his voice. He wasn’t the only one that was worried.
“Shut off whatever bizarre electric trap you have rigged to the door, and let me go.”
I should have said something. Should have acknowledged him, but I suddenly realized, he was trapped in my bedroom. Serge of the Constant Insult and Bullying was prisoner to an invisible force. He was contained in the room of the one person he hated most in the whole world, and it struck me as funny. Hilarious. Karma was a bitch, but she had a dark sense of humour and I was laughing at the punchline. Let the bastard rot in my room. What did I care, there were three or four other rooms I could use. I went to the door.
“Maggie! C’mon, fun’s fun but this is stupid.”
My fingers made contact with the handle but it didn’t do anything to me. I opened the door and stepped out. Then I went back in.
“I knew you couldn’t do it,” he said, relief flooding his words. He stood and shoved his feet into his sneakers.
Oh, I was doing it, all right. I grabbed the blanket by the door and left.
Dad followed me into the living room, a dishtowel in hand. He frowned. “Sleeping down here?”
“Figure it’ll be more peaceful.”
He didn’t question me, except to ask, “You sure everything’s okay?”
I thought of Serge trapped in my room and grinned. “Peachy-keen.”
“Okay.” He turned and went back to the kitchen.
That’s when I noticed Serge standing behind him, looking as confused as I felt.
“What was that?” He looked down at his hands. His gaze went back up the stairs. “What the—”
And then it hit me. Serge wasn’t bonded to the room.
He was bonded to me.
Wherever I went, he’d go.
Man. Karma really was a bitch.
Chapter Eight
A bad night turned into a worse morning, but around 3:00 AM Serge had screamed himself hoarse and fallen asleep on the couch. His constant snoring and occasional farting kept me awake for another three hours. It felt like just as I’d fallen asleep, there was someone at the door, ringing the bell.
I stumbled off the couch and shuffled to the door. Dad came up behind me, saying, “Nine o’clock? Early for visitors.”
“Nine? Can’t be—I barely fell asleep—”
But he was opening the door and letting Nancy inside.
She ran a worried gaze over me. “You look horrible.”
“I feel horrible.”
From his position on the couch, Serge roused himself. “Hey! Sheriff! They’re holding me prisoner! They’ve kidnapped me and”—he stopped, blinking at the fact no one was looking at him—“they’re ignoring me. No food, no water. Help me!”
No one turned.
“What is this? Some twisted—” He stomped to the adults and waved his hand in front of Nancy’s face.
“You didn’t sleep?”
“Not really.”
“I can make you some oatmeal—”
“I’d rather have some coffee and come with you.”
She frowned. “Come where?”
“When you talk to Amber.”
Sympathy softened her face. “Oh, sweetie. You can’t.”
“She’ll need someone.”
“She’s got her—” Nancy glanced at Dad and sighed. “You still can’t come. It’s a police matter.”
“But—”
“I didn’t let your dad in when I talked to you last night, honey. I’m not bending the rules, now.”
“But we have a bond.”
“Oh boy. I’m going to need coffee for this.”
“Enough! Someone pay attention!” It was enough for Serge. He pushed Nancy’s shoulder. His hand went through her. He jerked back like he’d been electrocuted.
Nancy turned and went to the coffeemaker.
“Hold up,” said my dad. “I’ll pour.”
Serge followed them.
I followed Serge.
He reached out and tried to touch Nancy again. Once more, his hand went right through her. “No way.” Disbelief mixed with mounting terror.
“I could use some tea,” I said, as a way to negotiate myself past Serge but still stay in the room. From the corner of my eye I saw him look at me. Then he turned and faced the wall. He took a deep breath and went straight for it.
And, of course, he bounced off like a rubber ball.
I started laughing.
He whipped around to me, but I said,
“You know how some mornings you’re so tired, everything seems funny?” I held up a mug that had “I’m with Stupid” written on it. “Somehow, this just seems hilarious.”
Serge looked at me and rubbed his nose.
Moron. If you think you’re dead, but you’re not exactly sure if you’re corporeal, why would you run into a wall? Shouldn’t you touch it first, gently, and see what happens? That was Serge’s second plan because he pressed a finger to the wall. It didn’t give. Frowning, he went to Nancy and tried to grab her boob.
I rolled my eyes. Even dead, some things never change with this guy.
His hand went through her. He stared at his hand, then at the wall, a confused expression on his face.
For this I had sympathy. Next, he’d be wondering why he didn’t fall through the floor or float in the air. Sure enough, he turned his stare to his feet. I made my tea and headed toward the stairs. One day he’d figure out that he was being a ghost according to Hollywood standards.
“How are you feeling?” Nancy asked as she took the cup from Dad. “Really feeling?”
I shrugged. “Okay. How did Serge’s parents take the news?” I twisted, adjusting myself so I could watch her and Serge.
“Mikhail didn’t say anything, but Lydia—”
To my left, Serge flickered like a television that momentarily lost its signal.
“—seemed devastated. Started crying and praying—” Nancy’s expression darkened. “She shut up, though, when Mikhail started talking.”
“What did he say?”
She pressed her lips together.
“That bad?”
“I know they had problems, but their kid’s dead. Probably murdered. How does he not give a f—” She glanced at me “—how can they be so callous? He said that it was just a matter of time and they’d been waiting.” The muscles in her face tightened. “He said, ‘at least it was sooner rather than later.’”
Serge lost his features, his body went black and turned him into a shadow. A second later, he looked like himself again.
If my dad had reacted like his, I’d have turned into shadow too. “Are you serious? His son dies and that’s all he says?”
“No, he said more.” Her voice turned hard. “He wanted to know when we’d release the car.”
