Page 28 of Ghosted
I take a slow breath, trying to reabsorb my unshed tears and say, “He’s gone. Sorry, he has a hard time sticking around for long periods. I know it meant a lot to him to see you.”
“Will he ever come back?” Dean’s dad asks, vulnerability lightening his dark eyes and slumping his previously squared shoulders. He snags the deep-blue pocket square from his suit jacket and mops at his face as if he’s trying to wipe away the crack in his hardened exterior.
“Yes, he will. It’s very tiring to remain here. He just needs some rest, and then he’ll be back. Maybe not tonight, though. It’s hard to gauge how long it takes for them to recharge.” Ishuffle on my feet a little. “Look, I’m sorry to have scared you. Dean is determined to figure out what happened. That’s what we were doing here. I’m not his girlfriend, but I did go on a date with him the weekend before he died. I just want to help him find peace. I may not have known him long, but I do know that he was a truly special person who had no business dying for at least the next forty to fifty years.”
His lips straighten into a line, bowing his head, heavy with grief. He slides the gun into a concealed-carry holster at his hip and meets my gaze, his eyes slightly watery. “Thank you for helping him. Sorry about the, uh—” he clears his throat and gestures to his weapon.
“Well, to be fair, you did think I was an intruder,” I offer with a tentative smile. He was probably also worried that I had some connection to Dean’s death. My brows draw together and I say, “How did you know I was here? Dean said he didn’t have a security system, and we didn’t hear an alarm or anything.”
“Ah. I had a new system installed shortly after the funeral. We couldn’t bear to sell the house just yet, but it was also tough to be here. So we installed a state-of-the-art system that alerted my phone the second the front door code was entered. Silently,” he adds with a raised brow and a small smile.
I nod my head. “That makes sense.” We stand in awkward silence, the only sound the muted wind blowing through the trees outside.
“So. Dean brought you here to try to figure out what happened. Can you tell me what you know?” Jack asks, leading me back inside to the cloud couch. I sink into its heavenly cushions and wish this monstrosity could fit in my apartment. And that I had the extra thousands of dollars to purchase one just like it.
I pull a merlot-colored throw pillow over my lap and hug it, inhaling the subtle notes of Dean. “Sure, but honestly it’s not much. So, the weekend before Dean died, he and I went on a date. It went pretty well, so I was surprised when I didn’t hear from him for weeks afterward. Eventually, he found his way to me. Spirits have a way of doing that,” I say, refusing to let him know that I was thinking about his son so hard, I yanked him out of the ether.
“Anyway, once Dean realized he was dead, we saw the article you were interviewed for. Dean is certain he didn’t kill himself. He says all he remembers is getting into the office on Sunday morning. After that, it’s a blank spot until he found me. We came here in the hopes that it would bring back more memories.”
“And did it? Bring back his memory?” He shifts on the couch to face me, his posture so rigid I have a hard time envisioning him doing anything remotely relaxing. If he told me he slept standing straight up, I’d believe him.
I sigh. “No. Or at least, we didn’t really get the chance to try.”
He frowns, deepening the fine lines that bracket his mouth. “My fault,” he says gruffly.
“You couldn’t have known. And anyway, it’s not a one-time thing. Eventually, Dean will be able to come back, and we can do our best to jog his memory again. We will figure out what happened to him, Jack,” I vow.
He nods once, the gesture mechanical. I feel my face pull into something like both a grimace and a smile.
“So, a medium, huh? My son dated amedium?” he asks in disbelief.
“He didn’t know until well… After.” I look down at my lap.
“So you lied to him?” he asks icily.
“No! I just didn’t tell him. It’s not exactly first-date material. I’m not obligated to bare my soul to every person I go on a date with,” I say defensively.
“I suppose I shouldn’t criticize since your gift is giving us a chance at finding answers.” He sighs and suddenly looks much older, having pulled back the curtain of grief once more. I can see it written plainly in the downturn of his full mouth and the drawn line of his eyebrows. “I would have never believed you if I hadn’t seen him move that shovel myself.”
“I figured as much. I gathered that you’re one of those ‘seeing is believing’ folks.” I shift on the couch and ask, “Can you tell me about the last time you saw Dean alive? I’m doing my best to piece it all together.”
He nods, yanking the curtain closed over his vulnerable state once more, and says, “The last time I saw him was Sunday night. He had come in for a full workday that day. We had a large client, and it was all-hands-on-deck that week. He left the office a little after six at night, like he usually does if he’s got a busy schedule. And then, I didn’t see him again until—” He clears his throat, and I can see him adding extra bricks to the wall he’s constructing around the hurt. “Until it was too late the next day.”
“Did he do anything out of the ordinary? Talk to anyone new?” I ask, trying to keep him focused on the present and the purpose of this conversation.
Jack rubs the stubble on his chin and peers out the large window across from us. “No,” he says finally. “He seemed completely normal. His usual self. He talked to the others in the office, but otherwise, I didn’t see him talking to anyone else. We didn’t have any clients in that day since it was aSunday, so it was just the six of us and our secretary, Courtney.”
I hum in thought and shake my head. “I mean, Dean is adamant he didn’t commit suicide, so someone other than him had to tape up all the ventilation. I’m sorry to ask this, but was an autopsy done?”
Jack nods slowly. “Yes, but they didn’t find anything beyond that he died from chemical asphyxiation. My wife is angry with me for even looking at it. She wishes I would just throw it away and move on. She thinks that this… obsession is unhealthy. And that it’s preventing me from moving on and healing.” He grimaces as if he regrets how much he just shared with me. He doesn’t strike me as the type to open up to many people, so I’m sure this whole conversation feels like a thousand tiny papercuts.
“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine the toll of losing a child,” I say, inclining my head.
“Thank you. This helps,” he admits, gesturing between us. “If I can figure out what happened to him, I’ll be able to move forward. Actually start healing and living again. I know it won’t bring him back, but I need to know who murdered my son,” he nearly growls.
My stomach drops at the word “murder.” It’s something I’ve been dancing around in my head because the thought of someone killing Dean was outrageous. But the more I learn about this whole situation, the more it seems like the only possibility. You don’t accidentally tape up all the ventilation in your garage and then stomp on the gas until you die.
“The thing that I can’t figure out is how someone would have been able to force him to cooperate. There were no signs of struggle, his car wasn’t tampered with, just the ventilation inthe garage, and there were no signs on his body indicating defensive wounds,” Dean’s dad says, as if he read my thoughts.
