Page 84 of Ghosted
Now there’s an image I’d gladly get lobotomized to remove.
Richard refuses to pull over. He inches the speedometer forward a touch more, white knuckling his steering wheel as sweat pours down the sides of his face. Really glad I can’t smell anymore; I’m sure the scent profile in this car is more barn animal than Armani right now.
“Pull over, now,” the cop says through the loudspeaker, voice betraying his agitation.
Richard presses on, suddenly veering across three lanes of traffic and haphazardly taking an exit. I grab for the handhold on instinct before I remember I’m dead. Death has few perks, but at least I can’t die again.
He swerves around the few other cars that are also taking the exit, laying on their horns as we shoot past.
I close my eyes against the rapidly approaching red light. Richard huffs a breath like he’s prepping a deadlift and then yanks the steering wheel hard to the right, skidding into oncoming traffic. I crack my eyes open again once I’m sure I won’t have to watch Richard get t-boned. We’re flying through town, buildings flashing by in a blur, and I grudgingly have to wonder at his luck. How is it possible that he hasn’t hit anyone yet?
He’s taking seemingly random turns, trying to lose the cops chasing us.
Listen, I don’t condone running from the cops. But I haveto say, as a passive bystander, it’s actually kind of fun. Obviously, I want him to get caught, but it’s always been a secret bucket list item of mine to take part in a police chase. Working behind a desk most of the day leaves a lot to be desired.
We’re on the outskirts of town, flying down a country road, when the loudestBANG! BANG!I’ve ever heard nearly explodes my eardrums. Richard swerves, losing control of the car and bumping over the rocky shoulder of the road. His car comes to an aggressive stop, and he breathes heavily in the sudden silence, staring out at the large pasture of cows. They all have their heads swiveled toward us, eyes aglow in the headlights of the car, chewing the cud in their mouths. It’s actually kind of creepy. Maybe the creepiest thing I’ve seen since I died. Something about their nearly identical expressionless faces turned our way makes me shiver.
Richard bangs his hand hard on the steering wheel. Almost instantly, the car is surrounded by state troopers and officers shouting at Richard to put his hands up.
He slowly lifts shaking hands in the air, chin trembling like a toddler. An officer approaches his door, gun drawn and trained on Richard. He throws the door open and says, “Unbuckle your seatbelt and get out of the car. I want to see both hands up.”
“Yes, sir,” Richard replies, nodding aggressively as if enthusiastic compliance can save him from the fact that he was leading the officers on a ten-minute car chase. I get out of the car to find that all of his tires have been popped, which explains the loud noise just before Richard lost control.
They handcuff him for evading the police, explaining that he was only going to get a littering ticket before he ran, but now the charges are likely to be much worse. Two officers were sort ofjoking around with him, but when a short female officer comes back with his I.D., they all take a cue from her serious expression. “Are you Richard Morganstern?” the officer asks.
Richard swallows thickly. “Yes, ma’am,” he says.
“Mr. Morganstern, did you know you were under orders not to leave the state of Massachusetts?” the officer asks, setting his I.D. on the hood of his car. I lean in closer to get her name. Officer Rickman. She might just be my new favorite person.
Richard feigns confusion. “I was?”
“Yes. It says right here that you are currently under investigation for the murder of Dean Crawford. As such, you were told not to leave the state without approval."
Richard readjusts his shoulders, clearly uncomfortable with the handcuffs. “I’d like to speak with my lawyer,” he states firmly.
“Sure. You can have him meet you down at the station. Although it might be a while since you’re about nine hours from home,” Officer Rickman says, thin lips pursed.
Richard nods as a different officer begins leading him by the arm to one of the police cars. Just before he gets shoved in the back of the cruiser, I watch his aggressively fake-tanned face blanche as a couple of officers begin going through his car. I smile slowly, knowing in my gut that they’re going to find something.
I feel suddenly lightheaded and rub my forehead. When I look up, light from every color imaginable shines around me. I inhale deeply, smelling homemade cookies. Over the din of the police searching Richard’s vehicle, I swear I hear a creek burbling over rocks. I’m overwhelmed with peace, feeling everything in me relax. I close my eyes against the beauty and rub a hand over my chest.
FORTY-FIVE
Wren grumbles under her breath,searching the dining table for the puzzle piece she needs. We’re putting together a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle featuring a spooky bookstore, and she’s working on the cash register with a black cat perched on top.
She insisted on doing this, saying my nervous energy was, and I quote, “the most aggressive shade of tangerine,” she’s ever seen. This is supposed to calm me down or distract me, or some other such nonsense. As if hearing Wren curse the family line of whoever invented puzzles is relaxing.
It’s almost eleven at night, and Dean still hasn’t checked in. Jack called me a couple of hours ago letting me know that Richard had been arrested in New Hampshire, but that he doesn’t have any more details yet.
I click another puzzle piece in place, making steady progress on my corner. Our strategy when we do puzzlestogether is to start at opposite ends and meet in the middle. We used to build a lot of puzzles growing up. It was our Saturday morning activity, and our parents suggested this strategy so we would stop arguing over who does what. It worked, for the most part.
After Wren and I press the final piece down together (another remnant from childhood), I sit back, popping my aching neck.
“He’s going to be back soon. You know that, right?” Wren asks, reaching her arms overhead in a stretch.
“I know. I’m not worried about Dean, really. Nothing can hurt him now. But what if he moved on?” I say with a sigh, thoughts racing.
She stands and shuffles into her kitchen to grab a glass of water. “Let’s be honest, do you really think Dean would leave you without at least saying goodbye? That guy is so into you, it’s almost sickening,” she says after downing her glass.
