Fourteen Days(47)

As he approached his house, he tried to forget about Nicky. His focus would be on finding out the truth about Christina Long. He parked the car, unloaded the shopping from the trunk, and raced across the road, struggling to hold all six bags as the plastic handles dug into his fingers. He entered the kitchen, threw the food into freezer and fridge, and then marched into the living room. He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece as he paced the room, unable to sit. Forty minutes.

Come on, Karen, I’m bursting.

As he walked, he pulled the poster from his pocket and stared at the photo. Still in a state of shock, he took a seat on the single couch, eyes still fixed on Christina Long’s image. “I can’t believe I found you.” And then suddenly a wash of sadness flooded his head. In the picture, she looked happy and fun-loving—in fact, he was sure that it was a holiday snapshot. But the woman he had seen in his house was far from happy. Her eyes told a story of depression and loss. A million questions filled his head. What could have happened to make her that way? Was it simply losing her life—or something more? Why hadn’t she crossed over yet? And where was her big shining light? But it hadn’t even been a year since she died; perhaps it takes some time, especially if you die young. Maybe it’s harder to accept, to let go. He shook his head, disheartened by the whole concept of the afterlife. He had always believed that when you pass away things became simpler, not harder; that misery was a thing you left behind. But was his belief from his heart, or was it merely from Hollywood? Was there a difference? After all, Richard wasn’t sure of anything. What he read in books and saw in movies all stemmed from someone’s research, or someone’s imagination. No one could be certain of anything. But at least now, after everything, after centuries of speculation, he was closer to finding out the truth. Christina Long would soon open the floodgates to another world, and he would have front seats. He was confident.

No, Richard Gardener was positive.



Karen Leigh sat next to Richard on the couch, holding the poster, staring intently at the photo. “And you’re sure it’s her?”

Richard nodded. “It’s her. I’m certain of it. That face is unmistakable. And it’s the same name: Christina Long.”

She shook her head in astonishment, and then a grin slowly formed. “This is amazing. This is absolutely amazing. Do you understand how incredible all this is? This is…”

“I know. I can’t believe it either. I actually, one hundred percent, have a real ghost in my house. I mean, I always knew it was true, but a part of me still thought that there must be a logical explanation. Hell, I even thought I could be losing it at one stage. But this, well, this is unreal.”

“Have you told Nicky about this?”

“What—about the poster?” He shook his head. “No chance. It’s not worth it. I’ve been tearing my hair out trying to convince her, but she just won’t have it. You know how stubborn she is.”

“Well, I think she’s going to struggle trying to rationalize this.”

He was unconvinced. “I don’t know—we’ve had so many arguments about this, I don’t think I can take anymore.”

“It’s up to you, but let me tell you, as much as I believe that spirits exist, this is probably the most blatant case I have ever come across. Seriously. People come to me with stories about ghosts and all sorts, and most, like Nicky says, have logical explanations—but yours…”

He took the poster from her and looked at the image again. “So what do we do now?”

“You have to get in touch with this person.” She leaned over and glanced at the writing on the poster. “Carl Jones. I’m guessing he’s the boyfriend or brother.”

“Or husband.”

“Doubtful—different surname. You have to tell him what you know.”

Richard shook his head in protest. “No bloody way. He’ll think I’m nuts. And I’m not the right guy to go and tell someone that their girlfriend, or wife, or whatever, is dead. I don’t have it in me.”

“So what do you want to do, then?” she asked, firmly.

He shrugged. “I don’t know—send him a text message, or maybe an e-mail. I don’t know. I really don’t. How the hell do I explain to a grieving guy that the woman who he believes is just missing is now a ghost that haunts my house? He’ll probably call the police—probably get me sent to the nuthouse.”