Page 71 of Ghosted
I smile a little and say, “I don’t have an answer. I’ve always been able to see and communicate with the dead, but Dean has helped me develop my gift into something more.”
Dean tries to give me a cocky smile, but the tears in his eyes ruin the effect.
“Can I see him?” Marielle asks thickly.
My heart sinks at the request because I wish I could make it happen for her. “No, I’m sorry. I’ve yet to find a way to do that. But hey, you never know. I had no clue I could do this until him, so maybe one day.”
She nods, swiping at her eyes. Dean lets his hand drop, and Marielle fires off question after question for both of us while we get seated around the table again, digging into dinner. I answer in kind, and things only get a little awkward when she starts asking about the nature of our relationship.
“Well, we went on a date once when he was alive,” I hedge. When she nods and gestures for me to go on, I say, “And wesort of, um, reconnected when he found me like this.” Dean chortles, and I level a glare at him, cheeks flaming. “We’ve been getting to know each other while we work on his case.”
Marielle is back to squinting at me distrustfully. “Do you care for my son?” she asks bluntly.
Kill me now.
“Yes,” I say, resolve strengthening my voice, “Very much so. I will grieve the loss of his life for the rest of mine. But I have the chance to help him now. To figure out what happened to him so he can find peace.” Dean places his hand on my knee under the table, the electric tingles sending goosebumps racing down my leg.
“And even with your special interest in him, you will help him move on? That’s what Jack told me you do: help spirits move on,” Marielle says, pushing a carrot through the sauce on her plate.
I swallow around the lump in my throat and nod. “Yes.”
After that, we settle into more easy-going conversation. I talk about The Veil and what I do there, and Marielle tells me all about being a homemaker and how much she enjoyed raising her five kids. Jack interjects here and there to tell his own anecdotes, and I’m surprised at how easy it feels. A flash of a different life hits me; one where Dean is alive and well, and where he brings me to meet his family for normal, less murdery reasons.
The nostalgia for something that will never be is intense, and I find myself zoning out while Marielle tells me about the time Dean quit baseball in seventh grade and didn’t bother to tell anyone. They all showed up to his game to find him munching on chips in the stands instead of pitching like he was supposed to. I laugh in the right places, but I just want to gohome. This is quickly becoming too painful—this approximation of what should have been, and knowing this will probably come to an end.
I politely decline dessert, using an early morning at the shop tomorrow as an excuse to beg off quickly. Jack offers to walk me out and I let him, not wanting to discuss the more gruesome details of Dean’s murder in front of his mom. Jack has told me before that Marielle is doing a little better, but any discussion of Dean’s death sends her spiraling for days at a time. I’d rather not be responsible for that.
When we get to my car, I ask, “Can I see Dean’s autopsy report?”
Jack stumbles and says, “Huh?”
“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head at myself for not being a little more delicate. “I just want to look at the drug findings. It’s hard to believe that he wouldn’t have tested positive for GHB,” I explain.
“Oh, sure,” Jack says, pulling his phone out of his back pocket. He taps around a bit, then hands me his phone with a PDF of the toxicology report pulled up.
I wade through the medical report, looking for anything that references the drug. I suck in a breath when I see it mentioned, but deflate a little when the test result says, “negative.” I squint at it and say, “Wait a minute… They tested for GHB using Dean’s saliva. That’s the least accurate way to test. It should have been a urine sample.”
Dean and Jack both raise their eyebrows at me, so I feel the need to defend myself, “I did my research! Sue me.” I hand Jack his phone so I can cross my arms.
“Not the best thing to say to a lawyer,” Dean says with a chuckle.
Jack frowns down at his phone. “I’ll talk to my P.I. about it. He’s a retired detective, so I’m sure he would know more. It’s definitely suspicious that they didn’t use the more sensitive test.”
“I’m scared this whole thing is bigger than just Richard’s dad getting some favors thrown at him,” I say, looking at Dean.
Jack sighs a bone-weary sigh. “Me too.”
Dean nudges me and says, “Don’t forget to ask about Richard.”
I turn to Jack, leaning against the hood of my car. Twilight cloaks the sky in growing darkness, but with the bright floodlights posted around Jack’s house, it may as well be noon. “Dean has a question. So, obviously Richard is suspect number one, but didn’t he go out with everyone the night Dean was murdered?”
Jack rubs his jaw and nods. “Yeah, he did. Everyone but Dean went out that night. I don’t doubt that he’s the one who drugged him, but it would have been nearly impossible to pull off the murder himself with the timeline we have.”
I sigh and nod. “But listen, Richard had motive,” I say, vaguely feeling like I’ve been handed the role of detective on daytime television.
“What do you mean?” Jack asks, focus sharpening on me.
“Dean mentioned that Richard made snide comments about nepotism. Apparently, a lot over the years. He said he always brushed it off, but that night you were talking about a promotion for Dean, so it’s not too far off to assume that Richard might have wanted to…”
