Page 2 of Malice

Farnsworth adopts a pitying expression, his head tilted and lips twisted. “You don’t know. Makes sense, I suppose. Your journey here was hastily made. Often we have the benefit of a transition period, but your arrival was sudden.”

Frustration builds in my chest, tightening and twisting until I’m close to snapping. “Farnsworth, please tell me where I’m at, and better yet, how to get home.”

“This is home now.”

“What? No. What is this place?”

“Tell him,” a feminine voice says, though I don’t know whose.

“Tell him,” another voice repeats. This one sounds young and male, but I’m still unclear on who’s speaking.

“Tell him,” a choir of voices say together, the sound vibrating through the floor beneath my feet.

Farnsworth holds up his hand, nodding as he glances at a clipboard I didn’t notice he was holding. “Aster Charboneau of 220 Essex Street, Salem Massachusetts, born the fourteenth of May in the year 1990.”

My stomach twists with nerves. How does he know all this about me? “Who are you?”

“Your guide, as I stated.” Farnsworth raises his hand again and several figures in black tunics file out of unseen doors behind the man, coming to a stop on either side of him. “I’m afraid I have bad news, Mr. Charboneau. This morning, as you crossed the intersection of Lafayette and Washington on your way to your favorite coffee shop, there was an accident.”

“An accident?”

“Two cars collided, and as they did, one spun out of control, hitting an oncoming car, which then overcorrected, passed through the red stoplight, and…” He pauses, scrunching his nose up. “You were hit by the car.”

I pull my head back before patting my chest. “I feel fine. Is this a hospital?”

“Oh dear,” one of the figures beside Farnsworth says.

“No, Aster,” Farnsworth continues. “You’re dead. This is the Afterlife.”

Chapter 2

Hudson

“He’s back.”

I struggle to sit upright and gasp, clawing at whatever is touching my nose, face, and chest.

“Relax, Hudson. You’re safe now.”

Blinking into the bright light overhead, I turn my head until a woman’s kind face fills my vision. She’s wearing what looks like scrubs and pulling my hands down.

“Where am I?”

“The hospital,” she says. “I’m Dr. Lewis. You’re in the emergency room.”

“Why?”

“You were injured, but we can talk more later. Right now, we’re making sure you’re stable.”

Nodding, I look past her to see two men standing at the foot of my bed. One is wearing a police uniform while the other has a dark suit on with a badge hanging around his neck. Why are the police here? Why am I in the hospital, and why the fuck can’t I remember anything?

“X-rays are back. Mild concussion,” someone says.

I turn my head to the left to see a nurse adding a bag of clear liquid to an IV stand. Then I notice my blood-soaked shirt on the floor behind her.

“He’s stable enough to talk to for now,” Dr. Lewis says to the police officers, “but try not to get him too excited.”

Seconds later, all the activity dies down and the medical staff exit, leaving me alone with the police.

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