“Nah. But I guess she was the lucky one, right? She was the girl who jumped out the window.”
Yes. Linda was the lucky one.
• • •
“You want to tell me what the hell that was all about?” demanded Annette as we settled into a booth at a nearby café that served wine and beer—I had wine, she had beer.
Annette had taken Raven home and talked to her parents while I waited outside. I could only imagine the rousing “come to Jesus” speech Annette delivered with the intent to intimidate and ensure cooperation.
“I don’t think they meant any real harm. Kids today—well, I think they’re dealing with a level of alienation and—”
“Yes, thank you, Oprah. I wasn’t looking for a bleeding-heart liberal explanation of why teenagers are little creeps.”
“Okaaaay,” I said, thinking that Inspector Crawford might need a vacation. Even considering her normally high-handed disposition, she seemed a little lacking in patience lately. “Then what were you asking?”
“I’m sorry. I apologize. Believe it or not, I actually like kids. But . . . I’m feeling a little on edge.” She leaned closer to me, her elbows on the table. “The truth is, I’m feeling a lot of pressure to close this case. The medical examiner is saying overdose, that there’s no sign of homicide. So it really should be open-and-shut. But my gut . . .” She shook her head and sipped her beer.
“There’s something about this scenario,” I said with a nod. “It’s all so wrenching. That Linda should have saved herself and her brother, but then die like this . . .”
Annette nodded. “Exactly. So okay, that’s exactly what I’m thinking: I can’t get past the thought that this death has to do with the double murder suicide, even though that crime was forever ago. So that’s what I want to know: What did you see in that house tonight?”
“It’s a little hard to explain. It’s not like I’m seeing something coherent and clear, at least not usually.” I thought back on a little girl ghost I had met who had seemed just as real as Annette sitting across the table. But in my limited experience, that little girl ghost was an anomaly. “I get images, flickers of things happening, a lot of time in reflective surfaces like mirrors or windows.”
“And at the Lawrence house? Did you see anything?”
I nodded. “I thought I saw the mother at the bottom of the stairs. Reaching up, as though begging for her life. Saying, ‘Please, Sidney.’”
“Anything else?”
I shook my head. “That was about the extent of it. I felt the presence of spirits but didn’t see or hear anything concrete.”
We sat in silence for a moment, both of us nursing our drinks and lost in our thoughts.
“But there was the banging,” I said. “I don’t think it was the kids. There’s something about the knocker on the front door, something that really bothers me.”
“The knocker?”
I shrugged. “Maybe it’s just symbolic of something. But . . . there’s something I should tell you. The day after we found Linda, I snooped a little.”
“Well, I’m flabbergasted. You? Snooping?”
“Funny. As I was saying, I felt compelled to look around a little in the shed where we found her.”
“And did you see something there?”
“Not really. I thought I felt something, though, and I heard whistling. And then I was shoved from behind and locked in, and the banging started, just like when you and I were in the house. Bam, bam, bam . . . bam. Always the same pattern.”
“Did you see who shoved you?”
I shook my head.
“Can ghosts shove?” asked Annette.
“I don’t think so. I was assuming someone real pushed me in and locked the door, but maybe the ghosts were trying to tell me something.”
“But we have no idea what.”
I shook my head. We sat for a long moment in silence, nursing our drinks and pondering the situation.
“I like you, Mel. But as far as this ghost whisperer thing goes? You’re a little lacking.”
“Tell me about it.”
• • •
On Wednesday, I was supposed to pick up Graham from the San Francisco airport at eleven a.m.
I woke up early, as usual, but under the watchful, curious eyes of Dog, I donned and then abandoned one outfit after another. One of the things I liked about my style was that usually I didn’t have to think much. I just pulled on the next dress in the closet.
Usually. But usual did not apply today, because of a boy. As was often the case when it came to romance, I immediately regressed to about age fourteen.