The Mortician's Daughter: Three Heartbeats Away, Page 2

  I look at her. “You believe it?”

  “Of course. That or he was smoking weed and just talking crap.”

  An unexpected chuckle spills out of me. “You’re crazy.”

  Kelsey grins. “It made you laugh, didn’t it?” She puts her hand over her heart. “How about this piece of wisdom.” Her expression turns all serious. “No matter what you learn in there, it won’t matter. You will still have the unsurpassed, paramount best friend in the entire world.” Her smile widens. “How lucky are you?”

  “Pretty damn lucky.” While I know she’s joking, I’m serious. “Thanks for coming with me.”

  She shrugs as if my gratitude is too weighty on her shoulders. “You’re there for me.”

  “I am,” I say.

  She reaches for the car door. “Come on. Let’s go interrogate an artist.”

  As we walk in, a bell jingles over the door. The sharp sound hangs in the room like an echo that refuses to go silent. The lingering scents of turpentine and paint fill the air. The artwork on the walls beckons me closer. But I hold my spot.

  They’re Sam’s work. I recognize his style from the six paintings I found in the attic. The need to study them becomes stronger. Before I do, I look at the unmanned counter where the cash register is. The place feels hollow, empty. Normally, I love being in a gallery—art has always felt like a friend—but not now. Secrets live here.

  “Hello?” Kelsey’s voice is swallowed up by the high ceilings.

  “Just a minute.” A voice floats in from the back room. A female voice.

  I stand there fighting the urge to turn and run like hell, all while feeling Sam’s paintings luring me closer.

  A girl, not much older than us, walks in. “Can I help you?”

  “Just…looking.” Then I force myself to ask, “Is Sam in?”

  “No. There was a family emergency.”

  “Oh.” I’m not sure if it’s disappointment or relief I feel riding my sternum.

  A phone on the counter rings. “Feel free to look around.”

  I step closer to Kelsey, who dips her head down and whispers, “Sorry.”

  “Yeah.”

  Kelsey looks around. “Say what you want, but if these are all his, he’s a good artist.”

  “I know.” I relent and move closer to the paintings. Some are modern, some have a bit of realism. The mix is similar to the ones at my house. But these are better. Sam’s work has improved. I walk along the wall—all of them are signed by Sam. Then I realize what I don’t see. Mom’s painting. The one I saw in the snapshot on the website. It’s not here.

  I remember the painting was in the image of Sam giving art lessons. The door that the girl walked through is ajar. I glance back to find she’s leaning against the counter, lost in the phone conversation. I ease through the door. Kelsey follows.

  “What are we doing?” Her tone implies we shouldn’t be in here. I feel it, too, but I don’t care.

  “The picture I saw of my mom’s painting wasn’t back there.”

  It’s a big room, set up with easels. Definitely where art classes are given. My gaze shifts from wall to wall. Then, from across the room, I see it.

  The painting is of a porch scene. It shows a white rocking chair with a cat curled up in the seat and a pot of flowers—red flowers with white centers. Beside the flowerpot are two pairs of flip-flops. One pair is a kid’s and the other an adult’s. Something about the way the flip-flops are touching hints at emotion. The painting portrays a lazy-Sunday-afternoon kind of affection. To me it says…love.

  Did you love me that much, Mom?

  I can feel that day. I think I lived it. I walk closer. Lured by the memory of Mom in front of an easel, looking so content as she carefully brushes paint on the canvas.

  Now, standing in front of the artwork, I stare at the brush strokes. Then my gaze lowers to the right-hand corner, where I’m expecting to see my mom’s name, Ashley Smith.

  “What the hell,” I snap.

  “What?” Kelsey moves closer.

  I look at her. “Sam signed it. My mom painted it. I remember seeing her paint it. I was there. I was young, but I remember. Why… Why would he put his name on my mom’s painting?”

  Kelsey leans in and looks at the name.

  “Maybe they both painted one? You said you found photographs of some of the paintings. Maybe she took his classes and the whole class painted the same thing.”

  I don’t believe it. I want to believe this is Mom’s creation. That it’s personal. That those flip-flops are ours. That the painting means Mom loved me.

  My next gulp of angry air burns my lungs. I feel the dead cold. Turning, I see the bride standing by one of the easels. Her eyes are back to being snakelike, tight, angry, poisonous. Anger rolls off her as she swings her arms out. The clattering of an easel falling to the floor echoes through the empty classroom.

  “You see.” Her silver eyes stare at me with malice. “You got it all wrong about your mom.”

  Wrong about what?

  “Shit!” Kelsey hugs herself and stares at the easel on the floor.

  The gallery employee pops into the doorway. “Everything okay?”

  The ghost knocks over another easel, then she kicks the empty canvas, sending it skidding across the floor.

  “Crap. It’s happening again.” The girl jumps from one foot to the other.

  The cold sneaks through the yarn of my sweater and bites into my skin. I look from the gallery attendant back to the bride. She’s smiling as if she’s won.

  “What’s happening again?” Kelsey stares at me as if I know the answer.

  “The gallery’s haunted,” the girl screeches. “I told Sam I don’t do ghosts.” She runs off. Her hurried footsteps play like scary music in a movie.

  Kelsey grabs my elbow. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  I’m driving, gripping the wheel, and my mind’s racing so fast I can barely concentrate on the road. I feel Kelsey eyeballing me, but I can’t focus on her now. Nope. I’ve got bigger problems.

  It appears the dead bride did know my mom. But my mom’s been dead for thirteen years. What kind of grudge would last that long?

  Since the spirit is haunting the gallery, it means she also has ties to Sam. Did Sam kill her?

  “Well, at least now we know,” Kelsey says.

  “Know what?” Frustration unintentionally sharpens my voice.

  “That Sam’s your father.”

  “What? Are you crazy? We didn’t even see him!” I bang my hand on the wheel. “How can you even say that?”

  “Because he’s got…” She stops talking and slams back in the seat and stares straight ahead. Her sudden silence resounds in the car and adds another layer of tension.

  “He’s got what?” All my angst spills out, but I’m past caring. I’m not mad at her, but yeah, I’m mad. Furious at feeling so lost and clueless. Fuming at a dead bride who I believe is trying to use me to extract some kind of decade-old revenge on my dead mom. And while I’m being honest, I’m still pissed at Hayden.

  Kelsey cuts her green eyes at me. “You’ll just deny it.”

  “Deny what?”

  “The same cold feeling that was at the gallery is the one I feel around you so often. And the same kind of weird shit happens. Shit like knives scattered on your floor in the shape of a freaking heart.”

  Okay, so maybe I need to focus on Kelsey now. I push my dead-bride problems back to deal with my best-friend problems.

  Or maybe I should focus on driving! The car in front of me has stopped. And I haven’t.

  Slamming on my breaks, I hear the screech of my tires. I smell the burnt rubber. I manage not to hit the car, but barely. Needing rebound time, I pull into a grocery store parking lot.

  Kelsey, silently waiting, glares at me. “How you drew a picture of Carter, who was in a coma, and you didn’t even know who it was. The little girl who got part of her estranged uncle’s liver. The same uncle who’s the leader of a gang. The sam
e gang you happened to be hanging out with. Then there’s the big one.”

  I turn the car off. “Big one?”

  “That you knew about my grandmother’s life insurance policy after she died. Please don’t deny it again. I saw you put that envelope in my mailbox. And I searched your computer and found a copy of the letter you wrote pretending to be the agency. And before you get all prima-donna pissy that I snooped around on your computer, remember that I’m still your best friend even when I know you’ve been lying to me.”

  I grip the steering wheel. She knows. She knows. Oh, crap. She knows. “I wanted to tell you, but I…I was afraid you’d freak out.”

  “I did freak out. I’m still freaking out.”

  “I thought you…you’d either think I was crazy or you wouldn’t want to hang with me anymore.”

  She stares at me, and I wait for her to say it’s true. That I have now become her ex-best friend. I recall how lonely my life was before we teamed up. A lump of raw emotion forms in my throat.

  “I don’t think you’re crazy, and I’m still here, aren’t I?”

  I nod.

  She sits silently, as if mulling everything over. “You…you can see ghosts?”

  “I help them fix their last problems.”

  She inhales sharply. “My grandmother. You saw her?”

  “Yeah. She was worried about you and your mom. She told me about the insurance policy. I didn’t know how to pass the information along. I’m sorry I lied.”

  “Was she okay?” Kelsey’s green eyes go damp.

  “Yes.” Then I remember that Bessie came back saying there were some family issues. I don’t like the idea of upsetting my best friend, but I don’t want to lie about anything anymore. I tell her about her grandmother’s recent visit, which I learned about from a fellow spirit.

  Her brows tighten. “What family issues?”

  “She didn’t say. Remember the day I went to your house and your mom’s boyfriend opened the door? I thought he could have been the problem, but then he left, and when your mom got pregnant, I thought that might be it.”

  Her expression is unreadable. “Is she still here?” Her voice is a whisper, like she thinks someone else is listening.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her, but…” I force myself to say it. “You mentioned that your home’s air conditioner is acting up.”

  Her eyes go round. “Are you saying the cold at my house is the same as the cold… That the cold is my grandmother?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but because you feel them when they are around me, I don’t see why you wouldn’t feel them on your own.”

  “But…but you say that, like, not everyone feels them.”

  “They don’t.”

  Her front teeth sink into her bottom lip. “Did you feel them before you started seeing them?”

  I try to think back. “I don’t remember.”

  “How long have you been seeing them?”

  “A little over a year and a half.”

  “How does that not scare the crap out of you?”

  “It did.” I remember the bride. “Still does sometimes.”

  “Did you see…a ghost back at the gallery?”

  I nod.

  She nips at her lip again. “Was it your mom?”

  “No.”

  “Who was it?” Curiosity fills her eyes.

  I draw in a big gulp of air. “I… Are you sure you really want to know this stuff? I could… We could just pretend it doesn’t happen.”

  She purses her mouth in her unique, disapproving way. “I suck at pretending.”

  So I tell her. About the bride and how she’s acting like she has something against my mom. About the ten-inch blade plunged into her heart.

  I probably shouldn’t have told her about the knife. She sits there not blinking, not breathing. Then she exhales. “The knives on your floor…did she…?” Her voice creeps down to a spooky low whisper.

  I nod.

  Her olive skin goes ivory. “How have you kept from shitting your pants?”

  I consider my answer. “I guess it’s cause I… None of them have actually hurt me yet.”

  “I don’t like the emphasis you put on ‘yet.’”

  Me either. But I offer her a better answer, one I almost believe. “I really don’t think they are out to hurt me. They’re desperate. And that makes them scary.”

  She exhales in a loud I-don’t-like-this kind of way.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “You didn’t do anything to be sorry about. It’s just a lot to wrap my head around.”

  I start the car and head back to Catwalk. When the silence seems loud, I turn on the radio. That doesn’t help, so I start talking about school, her job, and my dad issues. His drinking. His refusal to talk about my mom.

  “Have you brought up the empty liquor bottles you found in his office at the funeral home?”

  “Not yet. I’m afraid if I push too hard it might hurt instead of help. I don’t think he’s had a drink since he’s been back from his trip. If I bring it up, he might.”

  Thirty minutes later, Kelsey’s phone dings with a text. She reads it. “Shit!”

  “What?”

  “It’s my mom’s friend, Sue. My mom’s in the hospital. Charles came back. She went ahead and told him she was pregnant, and that she didn’t know for sure it was his. He went crazy and beat her up!” She looks up from her phone to me. “You think this is the reason my grandmother came back?” Fear fills my friend’s eyes.

  Because I know what it feels like to lose a mother, and because I care for Kelsey, I push my foot on the gas to make the upcoming light.

  “I don’t know.”

  Kelsey calls Sue back. “I’m on my way, but I’m about an hour out. How…bad is she?” Emotion rattles her voice and does the same to my chest.

  I touch her arm, just to let her know I’m here for her.

  If her expression is any indication, the answer she got isn’t good. “What kind of surgery?” She draws in a sharp breath that sounds painful. “He broke her arm!” She’s so angry she lurches forward in the seat, and her seatbelt locks and yanks her back. “And the baby?” She closes her eyes. “Thank God.”

  Her lips tremble. “Are the police there yet?” Kelsey’s posture stiffens, straightens. Her shoulders snap back, adding a couple inches to her height. “I don’t give a shit if he goes to jail!” Anger, hurt, and fear give credence to her words. “You call them. If you don’t, I will.”

  When we pull into the hospital parking lot, I glance at Kelsey, who’s already unbuckling her seatbelt, preparing to bolt. Half my heart is right there with her, worried over her mom and unborn sibling, but the other half is with the boy who stole my heart. The boy who doesn’t remember me.

  Or does he now? Did he really say he wanted me to be the one giving him rides to his therapy sessions? Could his mom have just said that out of desperation?

  “You don’t have to stay,” Kelsey says as I park my Mustang. “Sue can take me home after the surgery.”

  “I’m not just leaving you here,” I say. “I thought I’d go with you to check in on your mom, then I’ll pop over to see Hayden for a little. But I’ll come back to hang with you while your mom’s in surgery.”

  She blinks. “Thank you.”

  Walking through the ER doors with Kelsey, I’m assaulted by a familiar chill. Please not the bride. Not now. I turn of my head to check. Not the bride.

  I force myself not to let my gaze linger. Yup, I ignore the dead man holding an orange traffic cone over his private parts. And while I’m ignoring, I disregard what appears to be a bullet hole centered in the man’s chest. I pull my arms closer, fighting the chill, and hope Kelsey doesn’t feel it. She’s got enough gnawing on her sanity.

  “Hey? Can you see me?” naked cone guy yells.

  I try not to flinch. There has to be a hell of a story there, but, like Kelsey, my own sanity is frayed.

  “Room twenty-nine.” The desk cle
rk’s voice brings me out of my own thoughts. The door beside the counter clicks open. I follow Kelsey down one hall, then another. She sees a woman and rushes forward.

  “Is she okay?” Kelsey puts a hand over her trembling lips.

  “Yes,” the person I assume is Sue answers.

  “Did you call the police?” Kelsey asks.

  Sue looks apologetic. “I told her she needed to, but she got pissed.”

  “I don’t care how pissed she is! Charles did this, and he’s freaking going to jail for it! I’ve been through this with one of her previous boyfriends, and I refuse to let it happen again.”

  Kelsey starts for the door. Sue catches her arm. “They’re prepping her for surgery and asked me to wait out here.”

  Kelsey glances at me as if she forgot I was there. “It might be a good time to go see Hayden. This could get ugly.” Tears brighten her green eyes.

  I search for the right thing to say, but I’m clueless. I don’t know what it’s like to have a mom who would allow a man to abuse her, but then I realize I know more than I think. Dad’s drinking is just another form of self-abuse. And he keeps letting it happen.

  Still unsure of the right words, I hug her—tight. Hanging on, I start counting, because yesterday I read an online article that said for a hug to really be beneficial it needs to last twenty seconds. Which is why Dad’s short embraces don’t cut it anymore.

  Twenty-one. Twenty-two. At twenty-three, I still don’t want to let go.

  But I’m not sure if it’s all for her or for me. Probably both. I drop my arms. “I’ll be in the hospital, so call me if you need me. I’ll come right away.”

  Hayden’s no longer in ICU, and I have to go ask the front desk for his room number. Number memorized, I start across the lobby. Riding the elevator up to the fourth floor, I can’t seem to get enough air.

  The doors open, and I chase room numbers down the hall. Hospital noises, a heart monitor, low voices, and rolling carts echo around me. All background noise to the panic stirring inside me and the dead chill stirring around me.

  My heart dances to scary music. My hands and the back of my neck are slick with sweat. I come to room 416 and stand in front of his door for a good two minutes. What am I going to say? What’s he going to say?