Page 50 of Trick Me
I look back at the clearing one last time. At the space where everything happened. Where nothing will ever happen again. Some ridiculous part of me stillexpects to see him crashing through the trees, panting, explaining. Telling me it meant something.
But the forest only offers ghosts and silence.
I turn away. And step through.
The Nordic Institute of Posthumous Communications is exactly as I left it, aggressively modern, intimidatingly expensive, and full of people who deal with death like it’s a particularly annoying customer service issue.
It’s afternoon now. I managed maybe two hours of broken sleep, haunted by dreams of wolves and water and amber eyes. My third cup of coffee sits cooling on my desk while I stare at my calendar.
Mrs. Lindqvist. 2:00 p.m.
I sigh.
“Erynn,” the receptionist’s voice crackles through the intercom on my desk. “Your two o’clock is here.”
“Thanks,” I say, pushing back my chair.
The open-plan office hums with the usual blend of keyboard clicks, hushed conversations, and the occasional rustle of snack wrappers. I pass clusters of cubicles and glass-walled rooms. One of the meeting rooms has no glass walls, and that’s the one I use.
Mrs. Lindqvist is waiting inside, seated on the low velvet couch like a queen on her throne.
She doesn’t rise when I enter.
Today’s outfit is different from the last time, less grieving widow, more victorious divorcée. Blood-red designer suit, diamonds around her neck and fingers, and a thin smile.
“Shall we begin?” she asks, crossing one leg over the other.
“Whenever you’re ready.” I close the door behind me and settle into the armchair across from her.
The air is warm, too warm, but the moment I reach for my gift, the temperature plummets. The veil parts easily, and the cold rushes in like a wave.
He appears instantly.
Mr. Lindqvist.
More solid than last time. More faded, too. Like someone crumpled him down and tried to smooth him back out.
Death has a way of stripping people bare. Turns out Erik Lindqvist was a very small man wearing a very expensive life.
“Tell her about Cyprus,” he snaps without preamble.
“She already knows about Cyprus,” I reply coolly.
Mrs. Lindqvist just smiles. “Oh, let’s keep this short.” She straightens on the couch. “I found everything, Erik. Cyprus, Cayman, Switzerland, even thatlittle account in Malta you thought was so clever.” She examines her manicure with satisfaction. “It’s all mine now. Every penny you tried to hide and give to your other girlfriends.”
Erik’s ghost pales, which I wouldn’t have thought was possible, considering how translucent he already is.
“That’s not—she can’t?—”
“I also found out about Natasha,” Mrs. Lindqvist says, casually brushing an invisible speck from her skirt.
“Who’s Natasha?” I ask, though I already have a sinking feeling I don’t want the answer.
“His other wife. In Monaco. Married her two years ago, apparently. Which makes our marriage technically invalid, but the lawyers say I still get everything, since he’s dead and she’s not legally recognized here.”
Erik has the audacity to look sheepish. His ghost flickers, the edges of him sparking with indignation.
“It didn’t mean I loved you any less,” he says, his voice softer now, and I relay the words to his wife.
