Pen Pal(75)

Claire repeats, “Detective friend?”

“The man from the police department who interviewed me after Michael’s accident.”

The overhead lights flicker. We all look up at the ceiling. A low electrical buzzing sound fills the room, then the lights go out. They come back on within seconds.

Claire murmurs, “Yes. You’re definitely headed in the right direction there.”

I lean in and whisper, “Is he just floating around eavesdropping on us? That is so creepy!”

“Kayla, focus.”

“Seriously, though, why did we even need a séance if this ghost can hear every word we speak?”

Gazing at me, Fiona muses, “He does seem rather omnipresent, doesn’t he?”

“That’s what I’m saying!”

Claire stares with narrowed eyes at the ceiling. I can almost see the gears turning in her head. Before I can ask her what’s she’s thinking, she says loudly, “Spirit, are you still with us?”

Down the hallway, a door slams shut with such force, it sets the open kitchen cabinets gently swinging.

I jump and gasp.

Fiona murmurs, “Oh, my.”

Claire grabs Fiona’s hand and says urgently, “I think we’re close.”

“Close to what?” I ask, confused and alarmed.

Claire orders, “Kayla, call that detective.”

“What, now? It’s after eight o’clock!”

“Maybe he works late. If not, leave him a message. Do you have a laptop I can borrow?”

“Well, yes, it’s in my office. But—”

Without waiting for me to complete the thought, Claire leaps up and hurries from the kitchen.

Staring after her, I say, “Fiona, what’s going on?”

She replies calmly, “I believe Claire thinks we’re on the cusp of a breakthrough.”

“Breakthrough?”

“In helping the spirit.”

I glance warily at the ceiling and the overhead lights, which are now flickering continuously. In a moment, Claire returns, carrying my laptop. She sets it on the table in front of me.

“Oh,” she says, pulling something from the pocket of her cardigan. “This was sitting on top of the computer lid. I thought it might be significant.”

She sets the object down on the table.

It’s Michael’s 1937 D-type buffalo nickel. The one I found under the tree where the man in the gray trench coat stood staring at me. The one I then found on the dashboard of my car outside Aidan’s.

The one I left tucked safely inside a drawer.

I lose my breath. My heart starts to pound. A savage gust of wind rattles the kitchen windows. Then through the ceiling drops a small metal object that lands with a clatter on the table beside the coin. It spins for a moment before settling into stillness, light glinting off its rounded edge.

It’s my wedding ring.





36





I stare wide-eyed at the coin and the ring with my pulse throbbing and a scream trapped inside my chest, knowing that there’s something extremely significant here that I’m missing.

When I glance up at Claire, she says calmly, “Call the detective.”

I whisper, “How did my ring fall through the ceiling?”

“Call the detective, Kayla. We don’t have much time.”

“What do you mean? What’s happening?”

Outside, the storm is gathering power. Rain lashes the windows and roof. Thunder booms and lightning crackles. It seems as if the house itself sits in the center of a tornado and is about to be ripped right off the ground and launched into space.

From her other pocket, Claire removes my cell phone. She must’ve picked it up from my desk. She thrusts it at me, insisting, “Make the call!”

Panicked, I grab the phone from her hand. Crossing the kitchen, I rummage through the open drawer next to the stove where I keep all the junk. I find the detective’s business card and dial his number with shaking fingers.

A woman answers, her tone clipped. “Seattle PD, how can I assist you?”

“Detective Roman Peters, please.”

There’s a pause, then she says, “Are you a friend of his, ma’am?”

What a strange question. “What? No. No, he helped me a while back. My husband was in an accident, and he interviewed me and gave me his card. I’d like to speak with him, please. It’s urgent.”

I glance up to see Claire and Fiona standing beside the kitchen table, encouraging me with smiles and nods.

The woman on the other end of the line says, “I’m sorry, but that’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“Detective Peters passed on.”

I’m in such a state of agitation, I don’t understand her meaning. “Passed on? You mean he was promoted to another department?”

“No, ma’am. He died. Sudden cardiac arrest. I’ll transfer you to the extension of his replacement, Detective Brown. Please hold.”

I hear a click, then brief silence. Then a recording of a man’s voice plays, instructing me to leave my number.

I disconnect, feeling strangely numb.

Fiona prompts, “Well, what did they say?”

“He’s dead. Detective Peters is dead. He died of a heart attack.”