Proposal (The Mediator, #6.5)(22)

“No,” I said. “I won’t be pressing any charges against your son, Mrs. Farhat.”

She looked relieved . . . but only until I added, “But Mrs. Farhat, I think you do need to prepare for something else. Have you paid for any repairs on your son’s truck recently? Has he had the paint touched up, or the bumper replaced? Things like that?”

“His truck . . .” A dark cloud—-darker than any that had loomed outside during the storm—-passed across her face, and I knew that she knew the truth now, beyond a shadow of a doubt. The ring was one thing—-no one would ever be able to prove her son had coldly pulled that ring from Jasmin’s finger as she lay dying in the wreckage of Mark’s burning vehicle, though I hadn’t the slightest doubt that’s what had happened. Zack could claim he’d visited the site of the accident later, in his grief over his cousin’s death, and found the ring lying on the side of the road.

But the repairs to his truck—-which I’m sure the Farhats had unquestioningly paid for, as they did all their son’s bills—-were something else. They would never be able to dispute what those were for. Credit card charges for auto repairs, like diamonds, were forever.

And because of them, Mrs. Farhat would do her duty—-not to her son, but to Jasmin—-and make certain that Zack got what he deserved.

“God help us,” she said. “Yes. Yes, I see. Thank you. I’ve got to be going now. You can show yourselves out. Have a good evening.”

Then she was gone, leaving Jesse and me behind in her son’s broken bedroom . . . with the ghost of the boy he’d killed, and who’d been trying all night to kill him in return.





Doce


“YOU DID IT,” Mark said. “I didn’t believe you when you said justice would be served. But you did it.”

He was growing fainter by the second, the paranormal glow around him less and less bright. Part of that was because of the tremendous amount of psychic energy he’d exerted, summoning that storm.

But another, greater part was because he felt ready now. He felt ready to go wherever it was his soul was meant to be.

“I didn’t do it,” I said, wrapping an arm around Jesse’s waist. “You did, Mark. Zack would never have admitted to any of it if it hadn’t been for you scaring the living daylights out of him with that storm. The thing with the French doors? That was very excellently done for a BDP.”

Mark looked confused. “What’s BDP?”

“Beginner Deceased Person.” I felt he’d earned the upgrade in title from Non--Compliant Deceased Person.

“Trust me, Mark,” Jesse said. “You don’t want to move past the beginner stage.”

“He’s right,” I said. “Although you didn’t do so badly yourself tonight, big guy.” I gave Jesse a little squeeze. “You burst in at the perfect time.”

“Timing has always been my forte,” he admitted modestly.

“Everyone did pretty well tonight,” I said. “Even our friends in law enforcement. Heck, even the media.”

“I never thought I’d hear you utter those words,” Jesse said, returning my squeeze with the supportive arm he’d slid around me.

“Well, they did hold back a description of the ring,” I admitted. “Otherwise, Zack could have made a copy and been wearing that, and we’d never have been able to convince anyone what a psycho he is. I mean psycho in a thoroughly diagnostic way, of course, not pejoratively.”

“Of course,” Jesse said.

The ring. The ring. What was it about the ring that was bothering me—-had been bothering me—-so much?

“So I guess . . .” Mark had drifted toward the balcony. The temperature had already begun to rise, warming the night air. “I can just move on now, like you said.”

“Well,” I said, following him, gratified that Jesse hadn’t released me. I was lucky, he never would. “If there’s nothing holding you back. I’m pretty sure Zack’s not going to be putting any more flowers on Jasmin’s grave, that’s for sure. That prosecutor seemed to hate his guts, so I’m guessing he’s probably going to charge him with everything in the book. What will probably happen is—-”

“Mark?”

The voice, sweet as nectar, seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once.

And then I saw her—-just an amorphous glow, at first, like mist rising from the sea. Then she became more solid, the mist shifting into the shape of a beautiful slender girl—-a girl I recognized, because I’d been looking at pictures of her all night.

Jasmin.

“Mark?” she said again, and smiled when she saw him. “Oh, Mark, there you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

It didn’t matter that she was floating twenty feet in the air, just off Zakaria Farhat’s balcony. It didn’t matter to Mark, anyway.

When she lifted her slender hand toward him, he raced to take it, floating as lightly as she was. You’d never think he was the same guy who, a few hours before, had very nearly killed me, first by unleashing a meteorological nightmare on me, then by swearing to kill his murderer, and causing that murderer to turn on me.

Well, I’d caused Zack to turn on me, I guess. But it had been for a good cause.