Remembrance (The Mediator #7)(15)

Slowly, I lowered my leg, steadying the computer monitor with my hand. The only reason it had stayed in place was because of the cord, still plugged into the wall—and the fact that I was holding it. I shoved it back to its proper position on my desk, straightening my in-box and penholder as well. Not that it did much good. They’d disgorged their contents all over the floor.

The pavers beneath us were back in place, though, not a crack in them. The glass in the windowpanes was fine, too.

The office itself, however, was a mess, which was truly upsetting since I’d only just gotten it organized after the chaos Ms. Yoga Pants Carper had left in her wake. It was going to take me hours—no, days—to get all those folders back into alphabetical order, and then refile all the papers that now blanketed every surface like snow.

When I got my hands on Lucia, however tragically she might have passed, I was going to kill her all over again.

“Oh, dear,” Sister Ernestine said as the phone began to ring—not just the one in her office, but the one in Ms. Diaz’s, the one half hanging off my desk, and the cell phone in my back pocket, as well.

“Someone Saved My Life Tonight.” Jesse.

I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and pressed Ignore. Jesse was going to have to wait a little while longer to find out what was going on. I knew he’d understand. That’s the nice thing about soul mates.

Well, for as long as he continued to have a soul, anyway.

“Oh, dear. This is a disaster. I can only imagine what’s going on in the classrooms,” the nun was murmuring. “I hope there aren’t any injuries—”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure we got the worst of it right here.” I leaned down to retrieve the first-aid kit, which had also spilled all over the floor. “I’m guessing this was the epicenter, in fact.”

Sister Ernestine threw me a curious glance as she hurried back into her office to answer the phone. She knew my BA was in psychology, not seismology. “Becca, I spoke to your stepmother. She said she’s on her way, but now with this quake, who knows how long it will take her to—yes, hello, this is Sister Ernestine.”

I peeled the back from a large stick-on bandage and held it toward Becca. “Arm out, please.”

She looked up at me, still dazed from the “earthquake.” “What?”

“We should probably cover that up before your stepmom gets here.” I pointed to her arm. “Don’t you think? Unless your near brush with death just now caused you to change your mind, and you’ve decided to take my advice about fessing up to the ’rents about what you’ve been doing to yourself. Parents can surprise you, you know.”

She glanced down at her arm. “Oh. No. Thanks.”

She held the wounded limb toward me, and I applied the large bandage as gently as I could . . . not because I was afraid of her little banshee friend coming back, but because I really did feel sorry for the kid. I knew what it was like to be sent to the principal’s office, and also to be picked up by a stepparent—though with Andy, I’d lucked out in that department.

I also knew what it was like to be haunted. The only difference between Becca and me, really, was that I’d been able to see my personal specter, and he’d turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me.

Becca didn’t notice that I was trying to be nice to her—or if she did, she gave no sign. She gave no sign of noticing that her otherworldly albatross was gone, either. She slumped in the chair, looking as defeated as ever, except for one thing: she pulled a silver chain from inside the collar of her too-big white blouse and began to finger the pendant hanging from the end of it in much the same way Sister Ernestine had fingered her cross for comfort a moment earlier.

Only Becca’s pendant wasn’t a religious icon. It was shaped like a small rearing stallion.

Hmmm. Lucia had been holding a stuffed horse and was dressed in riding clothes. Becca wore a silver pendant of a rearing horse that she twisted when she was nervous. The two girls didn’t look too much alike. The dead one had blond hair and a Spanish first name.

But that didn’t mean they weren’t related somehow. Stepsisters, maybe? Or cousins? It would explain the strong bond.

This mediation was going to be a snap—well, except for the part where the kid had tried to kill me. Too bad that wouldn’t count toward my practicum.

Sister Ernestine came bursting from her office.

“Susannah, what are you doing? You’re supposed to be answering the phone.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Sister.” Gritting my teeth, I lifted the receiver. “Oh, gee, it’s dead. The quake must have knocked out my line.” I’m certain when I die, if there actually is some kind of higher power sitting in final judgment of all our souls, mine’s going to take a really long time to read off all my sins, considering all the lying I’ve done, especially to people of the cloth.

But I like to think most of those lies were for a higher purpose. I’m sure whoever (or whatever) is in charge will understand.

“I’d better go check on the kindergarten,” Sister Ernestine said, not sounding too happy about it.

“Oh, no. I hope the children are all right.”

The nun glared at me. “The children are fine. It’s Sister Monica who is in hysterics, as usual. And I’m certain you can guess why: the girls are acting up again.” There was an accusing note in her voice.