Thirty-One

THIRTY-ONE

When Anton died, I spent the next twelve hours in denial. I completely refused to accept what had happened.

After Heather's death, I started dreaming about the deaths of people I loved. My mother. My father. My brother. For ten years, anyone who came into my life died in my dreams. That faded until my parents did die, and the dreams returned. Keith died over and over. Libby died. Their kids died. When Anton entered my life, it was his turn.

I would wake from those dreams sweating and shaking and gasping for breath, certain that the one who was really dying was me, that my lungs had finally stopped working. Then my heart would slow, and I could breathe, and whoever had died in my dreams was alive, and the relief of that brought me to tears.

Everyone in my life—from my family to my friends to Anton—got used to those days when the Nicola who routinely forgot birthdays suddenly showered them with gifts and attention and random acts of kindness. To them, it was just a personality quirk. I only ever told Anton the truth, because as the guy sharing my bed, he couldn't help but notice that my overly attentive days came right after sweating and shaking nightmares.

So when my husband really did go from planning a trip to Iceland to taking a trip to the morgue, I declared it another nightmare. It had to be. Oh, I went through the motions, acting as if he'd died because that was part of the routine. But it was all an act as I waited to wake up.

So now I am in a situation where I should be telling myself it can't be real. Bound and gagged by Shania? In a basement where a young man has been murdered? While a parapsychologist prepares for a séance to contact the dead man's ghost and ask what happened?

That's clearly a nightmare, and part of me should be shaking my head in disbelief while the other part waits to wake up.

But I know I'm awake.

However unreal this is, it's happening.

Something is wrong with Shania, and Cirillo doesn't see it because he's barely seen her. I realize that now. Over the last few days, his focus has been mostly on me. I'm both his client and the nexus of the haunting. I'm also a pain in his ass, a woman who could be his salvation or his downfall, depending on my whim.

He's noticed Jin, too. Jin is a man, and he's about the same age and a fellow professional. Jin has been worthy of notice.

But Shania? Quiet and docile Shania hasn't really crossed his radar. She's like one of his students, hovering on the periphery. I don't think they've even had a one-on-one conversation.

Cirillo hasn't noticed her normal behavior, so he doesn't realize how out of character this is. All he cares about is that she's on his side. Better yet, she's suggesting very convenient things he wouldn't dare, like binding and gagging the person most likely to fuck this up for him.

Can't accuse a guy of hitting a woman when it was another woman's idea. That's how the law works, right?

I don't bother with Cirillo. It's Shania I appeal to. Either somewhere inside, she'll hear me, or Cirillo will realize this isn't her normal behavior and snap out of it himself.

I don't just lie there and talk either. I fight, but Cirillo has my arm in a hold, and I can tell my wrist is going to snap if I keep struggling. I'm still dazed from the blow to the head, and I keep eyeing that spade, knowing Shania will be quick to use it again. I also eye the steak knife five feet away on the concrete floor. They're both ignoring that… for now. But it exists, and the knife I brought to defend myself could be used against me.

Maybe I shouldn't care. Maybe I should fight like hell and take any risk to escape. But even as I see the look on Shania's face, part of me whispers that I could be mistaken. Maybe she's just scared, thinking I really did murder Brodie. Or angry, fearing I'll escape justice.

What matters is that they are about to conjure a dangerous spirit. And yet somehow, while I'm aware of that, I cannot help worrying about Shania. I don't want to hurt her, and in the end, while I do fight, I don't fight enough, a fact I don't fully comprehend until I'm bound and gagged and helpless… and they start trying to contact Brodie's spirit.

Cirillo has brought his equipment downstairs. He's set it all up and then arranged a séance setting using everything in this room that belongs to Brodie, including the young man's mutilated corpse.

Cirillo doesn't move the body. It's still half outside the furnace, intestines dangling, and Cirillo has set up his séance materials around it. There's an obscenity to the tableau that makes it look like a ritual sacrifice, and when I realize Cirillo's just going to leave Brodie like that, I stare in horror.

They have a mutilated corpse hanging out of a furnace, and Cirillo has carefully arranged his séance shit around it, as if Brodie's body is mere stage dressing.

Cirillo has left Anton's belongings upstairs. But when Shania runs upstairs, she returns with the cremains box.

"You forgot this," she says.

Cirillo frowns. "Why would we need that?"

Shania pauses, staring down at the box. "Oh, uh, right. Sorry."

"Just put it aside," Cirillo says with some impatience.

She nods and tucks the box just outside the furnace-room door. Then Cirillo beckons her over. They each kneel on one side of Brodie's splayed legs, and I shout at them against my gag, unable to believe they can't see what this looks like.

That is a young man's body. His mutilated body that they're treating like a fucking centerpiece.

"Brodie Kilmer," Cirillo says. "If you are still nearby, I invite you to join us."

Cirillo pauses, and Shania glances over, but he ignores her and keeps his focus empty.

"Brodie," he says. "I know what happened to you was…" Cirillo trails off, as if searching for words, and I clamp my jaw to keep from laughing hysterically into the gag.

I know what happened to you was bad.

Er, really bad?

Er, horribly bad?

"Terrible," he says finally. "And also terrifying. I cannot begin to imagine the pain you endured. The pain and the shock. I am sorry for that, but—"

"But"? Really? How the hell can anyone with an ounce of compassion end that sentence with a "but"? This kid was ripped open. He lived long enough to see his insides, and I know that because—

Heather's face flashes, and I start to shake.

Cirillo is still talking. "But I fear we need to speak to you. You want to find who did this, and so do we. Tell us who did this to you, Brodie. We are listening, and we will see justice done."

Shania's gaze flickers my way, the hate in her gaze chilling my blood.

Something must be wrong with her. That was the obvious answer to what seems like a complete transformation of character, but I realize this could just be her reaction to a betrayal. She trusted me, and I've turned out to be a vicious killer.

Is that what she believes?

I thought my dead husband might have killed Heather, didn't I?

Did I? Or was I just protecting my heart and my pride by refusing to blind myself to a possibility?

Is that what Shania is doing?

"Brodie Kilmer," Cirillo says. "If you are there—"

The candle flames waver.

Two beats of silence pass.

"Is that you, Brodie?"

The flames flicker more, one sputtering out.

When Cirillo relights it, his fingers are trembling, and he has to try twice. Then he looks overhead. Checking for a heating duct or anything else that could affect the flame. He lifts the candelabra to move it… and all the flames sputter out.

"Thank you, Brodie," Cirillo says in a reverent tone. "I understand that you seem to be with us. I am going to ask you a question, and I hope you do not take it as a sign of disrespect. I must be sure who I am speaking to. I am going to relight these candles."

Cirillo does that. "Now, I will ask a series of questions, with two possible answers. If it is the first, snuff out this candle." He points. "If it is the second, snuff out the other. I know you attended a local high school. Was it—?"

Both flames go out.

When Cirillo speaks, it's with such exaggerated and patronizing patience that I truly feel sorry for his students. "Let's try that again, Brodie," he says as he relights the candles. "I will ask a question—" The flames go out.

"I understand you may be offended by me quizzing you, but I must be sure who I am speaking to." Cirillo lights them again. "One question should be enough. Let's—"

The candelabra flies straight into Cirillo, who scrambles back, smacking at his clothing as if he'd been hit by a fireball.

Cirillo takes a deep breath, centering himself and very deliberately uprighting the candelabra, only to have it fly at him again.

"Maybe it's not Brodie?" Shania's voice is hesitant, more like herself now.

When Cirillo turns on her, she shrinks back under his glare.

"Could it be Anton?" she says. "Maybe he really is here? Maybe…" Her gaze moves to the door, where she left the cremains box. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. Should I take that back upstairs?"

"Anton Novak?" Cirillo's voice is harsh now. "If that is you, then you can see your wife. If you are upset about our treatment of her, then perhaps you should step forward and speak to us."

Dear God, does this asshole really think that's the way to talk to ghosts? Like they're misbehaving children?

What do you have to say for yourself, young man?

Cirillo continues, "I thought that because you made the candles flicker, that was how you wished to communicate. If there is another way, please use that, whether you are Brodie Kilmer or Anton Novak. We wish to speak—"

Brodie's legs begin to shake, jerking up and down. Shania scrambles up with a shriek. Cirillo is on his feet, backing away before stopping himself.

"Is he…?" Shania says as the legs continue to twitch.

Cirillo doesn't answer. It's not Brodie's body moving. It's someone moving his body, plucking at his jeans legs and jerking them up and down. Then his intestines start wriggling like there's something inside him.

Or like someone is reaching inside him.

Brodie's body goes still and so do Cirillo and Shania.

One footstep sounds, clear and deliberate. Shania yelps, and I struggle against my bonds.

Oh, you just realized now that you need to get out of here?

My gaze flies to the knife. It's only a few feet away from me. I inch backward in that direction. No one notices.

Just keep inch-worming backward until—

I stop as I see what they're staring at. The furnace, where letters have appeared in his blood.

TRIGE

My goddamn puzzle-solving brain stops short like a dog seeing a squirrel. "Trige"? What word starts with…

No, those aren't the starting letters. The unseen force is writing backward, from end to start. An A appears, and then a P, and I realize that what I thought was a G is a C.

PATRICE