by Natasha Deen
Serge shook his head. “I’d never do that to my mom. Not that it matters, now. All that stuff was on the flash drive. When you were at the cop shop, did you give it to Nancy?”
“No…” I took a breath.
His head tilted to the side, his eyebrows drew together.
“The school had already given your family your stuff.”
He closed his eyes. “That was my one shot at getting him.”
I turned as a knock sounded behind me.
“I don’t want to interrupt—” Dad’s head swivelled, left to right.
“He’s by the stove.”
“Oh, okay.” Dad reached into his pocket. “Nancy gave me a copy of the email—I don’t know if you and Serge talked about this—” His gaze scanned the area around the stove. “But there’s some pretty spicy stuff in here…I’m guessing”—he directed his comment to where he thought Serge stood—“this was you.”
“Yeah, sorry. Oh—” He closed his eyes.
Dad’s phone beeped. He took it out and read the screen.
“I didn’t know it would send to him,” Serge said. “I was just thinking how great it would be to tell him off.”
Dad sighed. “Unfortunately, it looks like Maggie or I sent it.”
“I know. I’m really sorry.” He turned to me. “Add the soy sauce and stir the rice.”
I did. “I can’t believe she had to bring me in.”
“They’re not going to let this go,” said Dad. “Popov came in after you left, screaming about charges and slander.”
“He can’t charge me with slander,” I said.
“I know.” Dad sat down and put the phone face up on the counter. “Slander is saying defamatory things. It would have to be libel because the accusations were written.”
“I wasn’t looking for a clarification on legal charges.” Turning off the stove, I moved the pot to a cold element. “I meant I wasn’t home. I couldn’t have sent it.”
“I don’t think that will stop Popov.” His fingers flicked at the page, bending and creasing the corners. “Serge, what you said in this letter—”
“It’s all true.”
Dad looked at the phone and swore.
I took out two bowls and dished the rice into them.
“Maggie, do you know everything Serge said?”
“No.” I handed him a bowl and reached for the letter. “Does it get worse?”
Dad winced. “Depends on your definition.”
I scanned the email. “Details of abuse, Amber, and you say he was stealing from the church.” I looked at Serge. “Can any of this be proved?”
“I wish.” Both Dad and Serge spoke.
“Amber loves him,” said Serge. “She’ll never tell.”
“Toss me a fork and a pop, would you?” said Dad.
I grabbed the utensil. “Catch.”
Dad flinched and crossed his arms in front of his face. “Don’t even joke about that.”
“Wuss.”
I gave him the fork, then headed to the fridge. “Well, that explains the water polo game. I saw Mr. Popov with two straws but Mrs. Popov never had a drink. Plus, Amber and the reverend were together. I saw them coming out of the hallway.” Cold air blasted me as I opened the door. I scanned the shelves of milk, orange juice, and leftovers, looking for pop. It was on the bottom shelf.
“Wow, Maggie, this is good. I’ll even bet I won’t get food poisoning this time.”
I rolled my eyes. “I thought we’d agreed we wouldn’t talk about that incident.”
“You’re cooking,” said Dad. “Can I help it if poisoning’s at the front of my mind?”
As I reached for a can of Coke, the puzzle piece fell into place, and I froze. I slowly closed the door and faced the two men. The memory of the night of the game came rushing back. Amber. Popov with two straws.
Serge caught my gaze. His arms, crossed at his chest, slowly dropped.
Dad looked up and stopped mid-chew. “What?”
“I think we can prove it.”
They both frowned. “How?”
I moved to Serge, touched his arm. “I’m sorry”—my gaze moved to my dad—“but I think Amber’s pregnant.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Serge’s face went ashen. “Pregnant? Are you sure?”
Dad followed the ghost’s side of the conversation on his cell.
“Amber said she was sick—maybe it’s morning sickness. She said she was taking vitamins to feel better, but what if they were for the baby?”
Dad’s face wrinkled. “That’s pretty fluffy.”
I took a breath and met Serge’s gaze. “She was drinking orange juice.”
“Now, I’m even more confused.” Dad’s cell beeped and he looked down. “Oh.” He looked up. “She never drank OJ. And this is important because…”
“Folic acid’s important for the fetus.”
Dad’s eyes narrowed.
“I saw it on an ad.”
“So…no personal exploration on the topic.”
“Geez, give me some credit.”
The cell beeped.
Serge’s jaw dropped and he spun around. “Sorry, Mr. Johnson. I was just thinking it.”
The doorbell rang.
Dad stood, his body stiff. “Don’t think that about her. Ever.” He moved with deliberate care and went down the stairs.
“What did you think?”
Serge groaned.
“Seriously.”
“I just wondered how you’d be in bed.”
I laughed. “Yeah, my dad wants me to be the second coming of Mary: give him grandchildren but do it through immaculate conception.”
He walked to the counter and stood, rubbing his chin with the back of his hand.
“What?”
He did a half-turn to me, then spun back to his sentry position. “It’s just—”
“What?”
“Your dad.” He sighed and his shoulders dropped. “He was actually being nice to me. I screw up even when I’m dead.”
“Whoa, slow the horses down before you fall off the cliff. He’s fine.”
“I said something grossly inappropriate to his kid.”
“Wow. Really? You’re feeling remorse?”
“You know—” He sank onto the stool. “Ever since I exploded, I’ve been feeling…calmer. I don’t understand half the crap going on, but I don’t feel as angry.” His blue eyes fixed on mine. “I thought, maybe, this was my chance to sort of redeem myself…maybe get early parole from hell or something.”
“I think you’re putting a lot of pressure on a simple statement. Trust me, Dad’s not going to hold it against you. And you’re not going to hell.”
“It’s not your dad I’m worried about—well, it is, a little.” He took a breath that shuddered his chest. “You’re good people, Maggie. And when you were being nice, I thought…maybe, maybe I could be nice. Be good. But now—” He ran a hand through his hair. “If I can’t even keep it together for you guys, what’s going to happen on the other side?”
“I still think you’re over-thinking.”
“You don’t know,” he said. “No one’s ever come back.”
“Probably because if I got the answers, it would take the point out of life.”
“I’m dead. I don’t need a point to my—”
“Hey Maggie.” Dad’s voice sounded down the hallway. “Nancy’s here.”
“We’ll finish this later,” I said.
A couple of seconds later, they came into the kitchen.
“How are you doing, sweetie?” Nancy wrapped me in her embrace.
“Good. I didn’t write that email.”
“I know.” She smiled, but it left her face as quickly as it came. Tiredness lined her eyes, made her skin sallow.
“Hard day?”
“Mikhail Popov’s an idiot.”
Dad’s phone beeped. “Sorry, should charge that sucker.” He grabbed the cell and, after shutting if off, plugged it into the outlet.
Serge gave me a sheepish shrug.
“We need to talk.” She took off her leather jacket and draped it on a chair by the table. Fluffing the cowl of her mint-green mohair sweater, she said, “What do you think happened?”
“Uh—I think someone else did it—” I wracked my brain, trying to remember any buzzwords from the cop shows I watched. “Maybe someone bounced it off another router or…stuff and used my IP address to hide behind.”
Her clear blue eyes seemed to bore into me.
“Maybe.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
I adopted a relaxed pose by leaning against the counter by the stove and sticking my hands in my jeans. “What else could it be?”
She said nothing.
Seriously, it felt like her eyes were drilling into my skull and rooting for information. No wonder she’d had one of the highest conviction rates when she’d worked in Vancouver. Nancy was the perfect mix of Buddhist patience and drill-sergeant resolve. The urge to confess my misdeeds pushed against my voice box.
She turned to dad and smiled. “How about some tea?”
“Sure.” His relief in the change of subject—however brief—showed in his too-quick response.
Nancy’s infrared gaze zeroed in on him.
“Are you hungry?” asked Dad. “Maggie cooked some rice.”
“Maggie cooked?”
That was the proverbial smoking gun, proof positive I must be up to something bad.
Her eyebrows were low over her eyes, and I could barely see her pupils.
“I’m trying to be more helpful.”
“Uh huh.” She said it like she was debating if she should put me in cuffs or Taser me and then cuff me.
Dad’s phone beeped.
“Shoot. I really gotta stop doing that,” muttered Serge.
“Wasn’t that off?” Nancy asked.
“Must need a new battery,” said Dad.
“Why? Because it works too well?” she shot back.
“Why don’t we sit?” I moved from the stove and went to the table.
The chair scrapped against the floor. I brushed the cushion and sat. “I can’t tell you what happened.”
Serge dropped into the seat next to me.
So did Nancy.
“Well,” he said, spreading his arms wide, “this is awkward and a little too familiar.” He gave me a goofy grin. “You think she’s psychically attracted to me?”
I coughed to cover up my laugh.
“You know what Pete told me when he retired as the head of the department?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“He told me to watch you because you had a knack for catching trouble.”
“Trouble was the name of Mrs. Potterly’s cat, and she was always getting lost—the cat, not Mrs. Potterly. Although at the end—”
“Maggie—”
Nancy’s voice went dead quiet—the kind of soft tone I was sure preceded her shutting off video surveillance in the interrogation room.
“—do I strike you as an idiot?”
“No, ma’am.” I glanced at Dad.
He stood behind her, a pensive look on his face.
“I’ve got a murdered kid and a man getting messages from his dead son—messages that implicate him in serious offences.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Does this seem like something I’d take lightly?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Does this moment strike you as a moment for levity?”
“No, ma’am, but Trouble really was—no, ma’am.”
Serge flinched. “Whoa. That’s a jump in her energy—like getting zapped by static.” He shifted and rose from the table. “She’s ticked and afraid. Not a good combo.” Serge walked to where Dad stood.
Nancy leaned in. “What is going on?”
My breath turned to ice. Then, I opted for truth-as-misdirection. “I think Amber’s pregnant and Mr. Popov’s the dad.”
Her eyes widened. “How do you know this?”
“I saw her today, drinking orange juice and taking vitamins. She hates orange juice.”
“And the email?”
Dad’s gaze and mine met.
Nancy swivelled from me to him. “Who’s protecting who?”
“We protect each other,” said Dad.
“She’s spiking again,” said Serge.
How are you doing that? I projected the question to him.
“Not a clue,” he said. “I just sense it in her.”
What kind of fear?
He frowned. “There are types?”
Can you tell what she’s afraid of?
“How do I do that?”
Concentrate.
He closed his eyes.
Hurry.
“Not helping.”
Nancy stood, slow.
“I sense pain in the fear,” said Serge, his eyes scrunched together.
What does that mean?
“How am I supposed to know?” he asked irritably. “You’re the resident Deadhead.”
The shrill ring of her cell jarred us.
She yanked it out. “Nancy.” She listened; her face went white. “I gotta go.”
“Nancy?”
She pushed back, sped for the stairs. Then she skidded to a stop. “This isn’t over.” She pointed her index finger at me, then Dad. “And you two better decide what your story is.”
The next day, the reason for her sudden departure was scrawled on the wall posts of the social networking sites. The words “Amber tried to kill herself” glowed from the screen of my cell, black words encased in a blue bubble. I made eye contact with Dad from my spot at the kitchen table. “We need to go to the hospital.”
Dad folded his arms and shook his head. “No.”
“Dad—”
“No, Maggie. Firstly, they wouldn’t let us in. We’re not family and she’ll be under psychiatric watch. Secondly, you weren’t her friend. You have no reason to go.”
“But I have information!”
He stared at me. “What’s your source?”
“I get it—”
“No! You obviously don’t get it.”
I flinched at his tone.
Dad pointed out the window. “Kids are dying, Maggie. Popov murdered his son. What do you think you’re going to do?”
“I don’t know! But you’re the one who told me this ability was a gift, not a curse—that I was supposed to embrace it.”
“That was before, when you were dealing with long-dead ghosts or spirits from halfway across the world. Now, you’re in the middle of a murder investigation.” Dad put his hands on my shoulders.
His fingers, cold on my shirt, tightened and bit into my skin.
“Honey, I can’t risk it. I can’t risk you.”
“What am I supposed to do with the information I have?” My voice pitched hysterically.
He yanked me into a hug, his arms strong, his body shaking. “I don’t know, my darling girl, but it ends now. It has to.”
Serge sat on the table but said nothing.
“When you were born,” Dad said, “You needed a lot of attention and care and your mom—” He stopped and swallowed. “She wasn’t ready for a child.”
I took his hand. “I know.”
“It was just me and you needed me, all the time. As you grew older, you needed me even more to help you figure out this talent, to guide you to your path and support your gift.” He looked up and gave me a bittersweet smile. “You’re so grown up now, but you’re still so young to me. I—the past few ye
ars, it’s gotten better. You go out, you have friends.” He squeezed my fingers. “You have a boyfriend. I don’t want to take that away from you.”
“Are you sure we can’t trust Nancy—”
“If Nancy can’t accept your gift, she’ll fear you and people notice that. You have one more year,” he said. “Then you can leave this town and go to university.”
“There won’t be a ‘then’ if you don’t tell her. She’ll leave. Nancy’s straightforward and upright. She’s not into greys or shadows. If you don’t tell her, she’ll walk out the door.” I gripped his hand. “Dad, you love her. You can’t let her go.”
“I can,” he said quietly. “You’re my daughter.”
“Don’t.” Visions of my dad, alone and lonely, made my throat clog and brought tears to my eyes. “You can’t keep sacrificing—”
“I’m a dad. It’s what we do.” He gently pushed me away. “Go to your room. The decision’s been made.”
“But—”
Serge came up behind me. His heat warmed my back. The scent of rain surrounded him. “He’s right, Maggie. This ends here.”
“What about you?” I turned and made eye contact. “You planning on living in limbo for eternity?”
He shrugged. “The world is full of mediums. I’ll find someone else.”
My voice box bobbed. “This isn’t fair—”
“There’s a difference between fair and right, and this is it.”
I looked at Dad, then Serge.
The ghost put his hand on my shoulder. “Relax. You did all you could.”
Logic said they were right. Common sense said to go with what they advised, and protect myself.
“This isn’t a failure,” said Dad. “Maybe you weren’t supposed to save Serge, maybe the point was to try.”
I sighed. “Fine. You’re right. I won’t do it anymore. Let someone else find proof of Mikhail’s guilt.” I glanced at Serge. “You can hang around as long as you like. You don’t have to go looking for another medium righ—”
The radio by the toaster clicked on.
I froze. “Serge, was that—”
“Maggie.” The whisper rose from the speakers, a trembling melody of fear and warning, and plucked at my terror with the exquisite skill of a violin master.
Serge’s gaze slid to the radio. “What the—?”
“Maggie.”
The ghost took a step back.
