Page 42 of A Step You Shouldn't Take

Thank goodness—Tyrone was acting the way we’d hoped. I took a step closer and stooped to peer inside the car.

“You came back?” Georgette asked. “You came to find me?”

I ignored her for now. “I’m not sure about the headrests. Remember how the ones on the BMW used to push me forward and give me a neck ache? These look the same.”

“They’re adjustable,” Tyrone said. “So are the seats. They’ve even got those lumbar rests you can inflate. Why don’t you try sitting inside?”

“Your clients won’t mind?” Reed asked.

“They won’t even know. When the two of them go to the club together, I’m lucky if they come back before closing. Last month, I had to hang around for an extra hour and my girlfriend got so pissed.” He glanced sideways at me. “Upset. She got upset.”

“Can’t you just close up anyway?” Reed asked.

“Tried that. They complained to the boss.”

“Sound like a pair of dicks. Okay, honey, you sit in the car, but don’t touch anything. Here, I’ll hold your purse.” He turned back to Tyrone. “Reckon Iwilltry that steam clean, buddy. Twenty bucks extra, you said?”

Reed led Tyrone away, leaving me to investigate the peculiar phenomenon of associative memory. Or so I claimed. At that moment, I wished I’d studied ventriloquism instead of flower arranging.

I slid into the driver’s side, feeling sick as I realised that Tim had sat right here the night he tried to kidnap me. What thoughts went through his mind? Any guilt? Or just sick vignettes of what he planned to do to me?

Stop it, Kimberly. Concentrate on the job.

“Georgette?”

She nodded. At least this time, I could twist around to look at her on the pretence of admiring the leather seats. She appeared older than in the photos I’d seen, perhaps because of the make-up she wore. Dark lipstick, eyeliner, layers of mascara, all running down her face. There were no obvious marks on her, though.

She hovered an inch above the leather in a seated position, although that was only a pretence. Ghosts couldn’t really sit, you see. Or lie down, or lean on things. Their souls may have been tethered to physical objects, but they could pass right through them. I’d never quite worked out the mechanics of it, but I guess it was so spirits who died in the middle of a road, for example, didn’t get splattered by a hundred cars every freaking day. If I’d had to watch that, I’d have moved to a desert island. As it was, they just floated in their assigned spots while the world went on around them, waiting for one of the Electi to turn up and do our thing. Or not, because whoever created us had seriously miscalculated. Four Electi for the whole of the earth? Even if Ihaddone my job, that was a woefully inadequate number. Either the world had been a nicer place back then, or, more likely, our creator had been a pathological optimist.

Anyhow, back to Georgette’s hovering. I’d noticed that some spirits liked to pretend they were still human by arranging themselves in an appropriate position, and she was obviously one of them. Better than having her head sticking out through the sunroof, though.

“How did you die?”

“What, no small talk? I haven’t had a proper conversation in two years.”

“There’s no time for that. I risked a lot to come here today…” Reed’s wrath, my sanity, my reputation. “And I need to catch the man who did this to you. To us. Please, just answer my questions. How did you die?”

“Would you believe an asthma attack? The guy…the driver… Whatever he gave me, I think I had an allergic reaction because I woke up and I couldn’t breathe properly. I asked him, no, begged him to take me to the hospital, but he just put me in the back seat and held me down until I died.” She turned to show me the dark bruises marring the skin under one thin strap of her sparkly dress. “See?”

Was it better or worse to have died in that way rather than facing what would have come next? I didn’t want to think about it.

“The guy with me today—Reed—he’s a private detective. The police aren’t taking what happened to me seriously, and obviously I can’t tell them about you, so I hired him to help me find the man who hurt us. But it’s not easy. Do you know anything that can help? His real name? His address?”

She shook her head. “Not his name or address. I only saw him, like, three times. Once when I met him, once when he took another girl, and then with you. He doesn’t speak much, just—”

“Wait. Wait! He tookanothergirl?”

“Jacqueline. At least, that’s what he called her. About three months before he tried to take you. Maybe four. I lose track of time.”

“Jacqueline what? Do you know her surname?”

“Sorry. She was totally unconscious by the time they pulled out of the parking lot.”

“What parking lot?”

“Uh, a club. Studio Nine. Do you know it?”

I only went to clubs for bachelorette parties, and that was solely to ensure the bride didn’t get arrested. Even then, I usually sent Kayla.

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