Proposal (The Mediator, #6.5)(3)

The NCDP still seemed startled. He wasn’t exactly my idea of Prince Charming, but his girlfriend—-a pretty, popular, honor student—-had evidently found something in him to love.

“Y--you can see me?” he stammered, his eyes narrowing behind his black--framed glasses. He had the whole look down—-whatever look it was that he was going for, some kind of tortured artist/Steve Jobs thing, except that this kid was black. I dress in dark colors for night jobs so as not to be noticeable to security guards. He seemed to be wearing it to express the darkness of his soul. “No one—-no one has been able to see me since the accident.”

Accident. That was a nice touch.

“Obviously I can see you, genius,” I said. “And I’m not the only one.” I jerked a thumb over my shoulder at the towering oak tree just beyond J. Charles Peterson’s grave. Cementerio El Encinal meant Cemetery of Many Oaks (I’m taking Spanish so that when Jesse and I have kids, I’ll understand what he’s saying when he yells at them in his mother tongue). “Your girlfriend’s family got tired of finding all of their floral arrangements kicked to bits, so they installed a security camera three days ago. Your little antics have gone viral. They even made the nightly news.”

He stared in the direction of the video camera. “Really?” But instead of looking ashamed of his disrespectful behavior toward his beloved’s grave, his face broke out into a grin. “Cool.”

The contempt I’d been feeling for him kicked up a -couple of notches, which is never a good thing in a mediation. We’re supposed to feel nothing toward our “clients”—-nothing except compassion.

But it’s hard to feel compassion toward a cold--blooded murderer.

“Uh, no, not cool,” I snarled. “And don’t go waving to Mom just yet. For one thing, I disabled the camera for the night. And for another, you’re dead, in case it still hasn’t sunk in. You have no physical presence anymore—-at least to anyone but -people like myself. All that camera records when you show up is static. -People think it’s a—-”

“Ghost?” He smirked.

God, this kid was a pill.

“Some of the less reputable news outlets speculate it might be a ghost,” I admitted. “Others think it’s a pair of vandals working in tandem, one destroying the flowers while the other messes with the camera. Others think the family is trying to perpetrate a hoax on the media and law enforcement, who take grave desecration seriously. That’s not a very nice thing to do to -people who are going through a period of mourning over the death of a beloved daughter.”

That, at least, sunk in. He stopped smirking and scowled at the grave he’d just vandalized. It had a brand--new headstone over it, in pink marble, the kind with a photo etched beside the name.

Jasmin Ahmadi, the epitaph read. Beloved daughter, sister, friend. Too soon taken, forever to be missed.

The photo showed a dark--haired girl laughing into the camera, a twinkle in her eyes. Jasmin had been seventeen years old at her time of death.

His headstone was a few rows over, but it was much simpler, flat gray granite with an epitaph listing only his name—-Mark Rodgers—-and dates of birth and death. There was no photo. The year of his birth—-and date of his death—-was the same as Jasmin’s.

“Ultimately it doesn’t matter what -people think,” I said. “Ghost, vandals, whatever. Because it’s going to stop tonight, Mark.”

Instead of apologizing—-or offering an explanation—-for his behavior, Mark only looked more disgruntled. “If they don’t want me taking the flowers off her grave, they should stop leaving them. Especially him.”

This was not the response I was expecting. “Him? Him who?”

“Him. Zack.” Mark’s mouth twisted as if the name was distasteful.

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Look, Mark,” I said. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but -people are going to leave flowers on your girlfriend’s grave. She was very popular and died tragically at a young age.”

“I died at a young age,” Mark snapped, jabbing a thumb at his own chest. “And you’ll notice no one is leaving flowers on my grave!”

He pointed accusingly in the direction of his final resting place. I couldn’t see it, given the darkness and the fog, but I’d taken a look before assuming my post on J. Charles Peterson’s headstone, so I knew he was right. No one had left so much as a pebble on his grave to indicate that they’d visited there since he’d been buried.

“Yeah,” I said. “Well, maybe that’s something you should have thought about before you killed your girlfriend, and then yourself, because she said no when you proposed.”





Tres


MARK SHOOK OFF the hand I’d placed on his shoulder, his gaze wild.

“What?” he cried, appalled. “No! That’s what -people think, that I killed her? But that isn’t what happened at all. I would never hurt Jasmin!”

“Sure,” I said, in my most soothing tone.

As a psych major—-did I mention that I’m in school, too? Not medical school, like Jesse. I’m still only an undergrad.

But I’m majoring in psychology. And after graduation, I’m going for a master’s in counseling. I want to help kids like I was, kids who have secrets they feel like they can’t tell anyone. Since I was one of those kids, I’ll know how to recognize them, and hopefully be able to help them.