Proposal (The Mediator, #6.5)(5)

Now the wind was really picking up. Not only that, but the temperature had plunged another four or five degrees, seemingly in the past few seconds, which was, of course, impossible.

But so is what I do for a living. Which I’d really like to give up, because in addition to being dangerous, I don’t even get paid. At least as a guidance counselor, I’ll have a salary, 401K, and health benefits.

“Look, Mark,” I said, ducking as a memorial stake vase that had been uprooted by the strong wind sailed in my direction, then clanged against J. Charles Peterson’s headstone. “Road rage is incredibly common. Almost seven million car accidents occur a year because of it. I get that maybe you didn’t mean to do it. But if Jasmin didn’t throw that ring out, where did it go? Until you admit it, you’re going to be stuck here on this plane of existence, which isn’t going to do you any good—-”

“I’m telling you, I didn’t do it!” Mark roared. “And she didn’t throw away the ring! It was Zack. It has to be. He did it!”

Floral arrangements from other graves began to whiz by, traveling dangerously close to my head. I was being pelted with flowers, which sounds pleasant, but isn’t. Those things hurt when being whipped at high velocity by the wind.

“I thought I saw his pickup in the parking lot at the restaurant, but Jasmin said I was being paranoid,” Mark went on. “Then I saw the headlights behind us out on the coastal road.”

“Wait . . .” I said, from behind the arms I’d flung up to protect my face from the dead bouquets being hurled in my direction. “What?”

But it was too late. Far, far too late. Too late for Mark and Jasmin, too late for Zack, and maybe too late for me, too.

“Why won’t anyone listen to me?” Mark demanded. “He had his brights on, but I still recognized that stupid souped--up monster truck of his. He was going way over the speed limit, which was forcing me to go over the speed limit, too. And you know there’s that lane closure just past Rocky Creek Bridge—-”

I felt my stomach lurch. I had seen this on the news.

I had seen a lot on the news.

The problem was, I’d listened to it. I’d believed it. Me, the girl whose kind the media insist don’t exist. Why would I believe anything they said?

“Mark,” I said. Clouds scudded across what had earlier been a clear night sky, which was odd, because the weather app on my phone hadn’t said a word about rain. Thunder rumbled, and suddenly, in addition to flowers, I was being pelted with hard, stinging rain. “Are you sure—-?”

“What do you mean, am I sure?” he snapped. “Yeah, I’m sure. I’m telling you, it was him. I don’t remember what happened after that, but ever since I woke up, I’ve been watching him put flowers on my girl’s grave.”

This was not good. This was not good at all. “Mark—-”

“And now you’re telling me everyone thinks I killed her, and that he’s some kind of saint, and I need to move on?”

I swallowed, using my arms to shield my head from the pouring rain. “Okay, look,” I said. “I wasn’t aware of all of the facts in the case until recently, Mark. But now that I am, why don’t we take some time to re--evaluate the situation and—-”

“Take some time to re--evaluate the situation?” Mark echoed. He was in tears, and I didn’t blame him. I felt like crying myself. “No thanks. Now that you told me what’s really going on, I think I have a better proposal. And it sure as hell isn’t that I should move on, or take some time to re--evaluate the situation.”

“Mark,” I yelled. I had to yell in order to be heard over the thunder and rain. “Don’t. Seriously. Don’t do anything you might regret. If what you’re telling me is true, then you have a really good chance right now of joining Jasmin, wherever she is. But if you do what I think you’re about to do, you’re going to lose that chance forever. Come with me instead. I’ll help you cross over, and then I’ll take care of this Zack person. That’s my job, not yours. You really don’t want to—-”

But it was too late. In a swirl of tears and rain and rose petals, he was gone.

And I was screwed.





Cuatro


WHEN I GOT back to my dorm that night, it was bedlam, and not just because of the sudden “super cell” that had swept into the tri--county area, soaking me to the bone and causing flash flooding on roads throughout Monterey Bay.

It was also because there was a man in my room.

Did I mention that I live in an all--girl dorm? Probably not, because it’s too embarrassing. It wasn’t my idea, believe me. It was my stepdad’s.

I guess I lucked out in some ways despite my alleged “gift,” since even though my birth dad died when I was little, the guy my mom married back when I was in high school (and for whom she moved across the country, dragging me from Brooklyn, NY, to Carmel, CA, when I was sixteen), turned out to be pretty decent.

Upside: Andy adores my mom, has his own home improvement show (which recently went into syndication, so he and my mom are currently swimming in payola), and is an amazing cook.

Downside: He has three sons—-none of whom I have ever even remotely considered boning, sexy--erotic--novel style—-and, being almost as Catholic as my boyfriend, is way, way too overprotective.