Page 70 of Ghosted
I knockon the door of Dean’s parents’ gargantuan colonial-style home. Dog barking heralds the arrival of Jack as he swings the door open, putting a leg in front of the golden beast.
“That’s Toast,” Dean says, affection clear in his voice.
“Toast! Chill out,” Jack grits, trying in vain to hold back the furry wiggle-butt.
“It’s okay, I like dogs,” I say, crouching down to be lovinglymauled by Toast’s giant pink tongue. Once he’s satisfied with his greeting, Toast fixes his attention behind me, and his whole body wiggles so violently, it looks like his tail will wag clean off his body. I stand to get out of his way before I get bulldozed.
“I think he’s excited to see Dean,” I say with a grin, watching as Toast trots around Dean, whining happily.
“Huh,” Jack says, watching Toast. “He’s been doing that little happy dance for the past few weeks, and we couldn’t figure out why. Guess now we know.” He smiles, brushing quickly at his eyes. “Anyway, please come in. Marielle will be thrilled to meet you.”
“Uh, about that,” I start in a low voice, “Does she know about me? About Dean and his current… Condition?” I ask.
Jack nods. “Yeah, she does. I broke down last night and told her everything. I don’t know how much she believes me, but she knows.” It’s only then that I see the tired bags under his eyes. Must have been a long night of talking.
I swallow down my nerves, holding my hand over my stomach as if I can contain them there. Dean trails behind, and I try to take comfort in his presence. Meeting his mom would have been nerve-wracking under normal circumstances. The added weirdness of her son being deadandbringing his ghost with me in the middle of his murder investigation feel impossible. I’m fighting every instinct to bolt as we walk through their tastefully decorated home towards the kitchen.
“Mari, this is Rae Alderwood,” Jack says as we enter a gigantic, modern kitchen with colonial-style touches.
Dean’s mother is gorgeous. Her thick, dark hair falls to her shoulders, streaked through with strands of silvery gray. Her mouth has the same pouty quality as Dean, and I can see where he gets his amazing eyelashes from. If “aging gracefully” had aposter child, it would be Marielle Crawford. She wipes her hands down the front of her lemon-printed apron and extends a manicured hand my way.
“Rae, it’s nice to meet you,” she says in a way that I know means it’snotnice to meet me.
I paste on what I hope is a warm smile and say, “You as well. It smells amazing in here, Mrs. Crawford.” It’s true. The smell of roasting chicken and root vegetables fills the room.
Her expression lightens a bit at my obvious flattery, but all she does is nod before going back to tend the stove.
“Sorry, she’s overprotective of all of us. You’d think my dad is the scary one, but she definitely takes the cake,” Dean says into my ear. If I weren’t so nervous, I’d think it was cute that he feels the need to whisper into my ear even though I’m the only one who can hear him.
“So helpful,” I mutter to him under my breath.
Dean’s parents and I spend a while making awkward, stilted conversation. The tension between Jack and his wife is obvious, and her distaste for me almost poisons the mouthwatering smell of dinner cooking.
“Let’s eat,” Marielle says shortly, gesturing to the dining table. She’s been nothing but polite, but she’s doing it with old-money manners: razor sharp with an undercurrent of disdain.
We get seated, and I ask after Dean’s siblings. When Jack mentioned a “family dinner,” I assumed that meant the rest of the Crawford brood. Jack and Marielle exchange a telepathic, angry spat. Marielle finally turns to me, fork clutched so tight in her hand, her delicate knuckles look bloodless. “I–wedecided that it would be better to have this meeting just between the three of us for now,” she says, eyes squinting in an approximation of a smile.
I set down my fork and feel Dean squeeze my shoulders supportively behind me. “Look, Mrs. Crawford. I’m just going to address the Dean-shaped elephant in the room. I can’t even begin to imagine how hard these last couple of months have been for you and your family. I know it might be hard to believe, but I truly care for your son?—”
“Stop right there,” she interrupts, palm upheld to ward off the rest of what I was going to say. “You don’tknowmy son. This whole thing you have going with Jack is sick. You’re preying on a grieving father. Maybe you went on a single date with Dean, but that doesn’t give you the right to come into my home and speak about my son.” Her face has gone completely white with rage.
“Now, Mari,” Jack starts tiredly.
“No. Enough out of you, Jack. I thought I could do this, but I can’t. I can’t host this—this grifter.” She pushes her chair back and stands ramrod straight.
This is the second time in two days that I’ve been called a liar, and I’m pretty much over it. I pat my mouth with the cloth napkin on my lap and stand too. “Okay, Dean. Time to put on a show,” I say to him. He looks at me in question.
I lace our fingers together and step toward Marielle. “What are you doing?” she asks, shrinking back. I can’t fight my eye roll.
What, does she think I’m going to maim her?
“Listen to me, Mrs. Crawford. Dean is here with us right now. He’s going to touch your shoulder,” I say, nodding to Dean.
He inhales and concentrates, brows furrowing together. I stay a good distance from her so she can’t accuse me of faking it. He places his large hand on her entire shoulder, and her eyes gowide with surprise. She scans me, tracking where both of my hands are. Then, once she’s satisfied that I’m not the one doing the touching, she looks across the table at Jack, who watches her with tears tracking down his cheeks.
“Dean?” she asks in a whisper, disbelief coloring her voice. He slowly raises his hand and presses it to her face in answer, his thumb gently swiping at the tear dripping from her jaw. She closes her eyes, chin trembling as she leans into his hand. His grip on my hand tightens as if he’s trying to hold himself together through me.
She breathes out, and I watch her shoulders relax for what must be the first time since he’s passed. Marielle finally opens her eyes and looks at me. “How?” she asks, voice breaking like a wave on the shores of her grief.
