This is Your Afterlife (18 page)

She was right, of course. My grandmother was my greatest influence, confidante and mentor. I didn't want to lose her. I wanted her to fight the disease, stay with us just a little longer.

Every day, though, Grandie told us she wanted to go home.

“
But you
are
home,”
I'd say.

She'd pat my hand and tell me with absolute clarity,
“Fred's waiting for me.”

Our conversations went around and around the same way.

“I tried so hard to get her to fight,” I say dully. Grandie told me all along she was ready to leave us, but I didn't want to listen. It was all about what
I
wanted, how
I
felt, how
I
needed Grandie to stick around so she could teach me how to be psychic like her. “I held her back. Made her suffer longer.”

“No!” Mom says firmly. “That's not how Grandie saw it. She knew everything you said and did was out of love.”

Numb with pain, I collect Grandie's precious tarot cards and press them between my palms.

Mom squeezes me to her and kisses the top of my head. “Grandie was not going to make it. She knew it, and she wanted to go quickly. On her terms. Don't carry guilt over this, you hear me?”

We both get lost in our own thoughts for a while. Finally, I speak up. “What if I'm subconsciously holding her back and that's why she's stuck, like Jimmy? Is Grandie unable to talk to me now because she's being punished for taking her own life? Is that how things work on the other side?”

Mom dabs her eyes with a balled-up tissue. “Sweetie, I wish I had the answers for you. My mother wasn't perfect, but I don't believe for a second that she's being ‘punished' or in some kind of limbo now.”

I mull over Jimmy's experiences with her. Surely if she's able to communicate with Jimmy, then she's definitely not in hell?

“You know what my expert opinion is?” Mom smiles through her tears. “Grandie's here to help you with Jimmy. Honest to God.”

I smile back at Mom and nod, but inside I'm thinking Grandie's here to make sure I don't prevent another soul from moving on to heaven. Over my mother's shoulder, I catch sight of the paused music video. The frozen image of the raven-haired Angel of Death snarls onscreen. Maybe I had it all wrong. I'm not the pious loved one in the video. I played tug-of-war with Grandie's soul, and lost.

I'm the dark angel.

Compared to what I've seen on TV, Theo's Diner is not like any diner you might find in the Midwest or the South or even Manhattan. This diner has tall plate-glass windows with views over the deep valley. On a clear day you can catch a glimpse of the Pacific. Inside it's like a luxurious log cabin with rich redwood timber everything. Not one speck of Formica. The megamall's soulless food court can't compete with this.

It was Mara who suggested we come here Wednesday after school. We've been working on a special
Bugle
edition dedicated to Jimmy. For the most part, Mara kept her head down trying to choose the best shots of Jimmy in action on the field. Deliberately, she skirted around speculation as to
how
he died, whether murder, suicide, or misadventure, as the local news station reported it. No, this issue is about how he lived.

Mara decided we would frame his death as a “tragic fall.” Every now and then she'd reach for a tissue and delicately blow her nose. My heart lurched with every word I typed about Jimmy. I'm no closer to learning the truth behind his death. It feels like an eternity had passed since he disappeared at the waterhole just a few nights ago.

Mara orders the lasagna, which at fifteen bucks is way out of my budget for a casual meal. I get the cheapest thing on the menu, a no-frills Caesar salad.

I slurp on iced tea, watching the dining room fill up with the early dinner crowd. Senior citizens mostly. A boy sits with his back to us in the next booth. His hair's a little longer than Dan's, but a similar shade of dark blond. My skin buzzes as a memory of Dan's kisses surfaces. Even my heartbeat seems to speed up. Which is just so stupid. He's not even here. And he's
never
going to try to kiss me after rejecting him again. I wish I could find a way to talk to him without messing up. Something about Dan just makes my brain and mouth disconnect.

Mara finishes off her entree like someone who's just finished a month of fasting. A waitress swoops by and takes Mara's dessert order.

“I didn't realize how famished I was,” Mara says after the waitress leaves us. She hugs her leather purse close to her side. “Guess I haven't eaten much since Jimmy died.”

“You really miss him, huh?”
So do I.

“Yeah.” Even though her head is bowed over the table, it's not hard to see the sad smile on her lips. “We'd known each other since we were little kids.”

A pang hits my chest. I really miss
both
of the Hawkins boys. Dan hasn't been at school. No doubt spending time with his grieving parents. To be honest, I think—hope—I'm the last thing on his mind right now.

Mara glances at a father and his teenage daughter over by the counter. They're teasing each other and laughing. Her expression darkens.

Hesitantly, I ask, “Have you heard anything about your dad?”

“He doesn't even remember he
has
a family,” she scoffs. The rawness in her voice tells me she won't ever push him from her thoughts, no matter how hard she tries. It also warns me not to ask any more questions about him.

Mara puts her purse on the table and digs around inside. Metallic objects jangle together. The flap of the bag hits my fingers.

Burns
my fingers.

“Ah!” Electricity seems to spark right through my arm. My vision blurs. For a few seconds, there's two Maras sitting opposite me.

“What's the matter?” she asks, taking out a bottle of hand sanitizer and closing the bag. She massages the gel into her hands.

I frown at the uneven edges of my fingernails. At least my vision is back to normal. The heaviness and the tingles continue to roil within me. My arms and legs are leaden weights. “Static electricity...maybe?”

“Weird.” Mara opens the flap of the bag again. This time, white light blinds me for a few seconds. I wince and cover my eyes, but the light leaks through the narrow gaps between my fingers.

“Ow!”
What the hell…?

“Keira?” Mara prompts. She puts the sanitizer back in the bag.

I turn to the window. Weakening daylight penetrates the glass. It's nowhere near as intense as the weird-ass flash of light. If anything, shadows start to deepen both inside and outside the diner.

Breathe, Keira. Get a grip.

“It's nothing.” My eyes are drawn to her purse. Innocuous. Sensible. Beige. Why it's messing with me so much is a mystery. I gesture at it. “Do you have a mirror or something in there?”

Her hands close around the narrow leather straps. “Uh, no. Why?”

“Maybe it was your keys...”

Mara stares at me. “Keys? What about them?”

“They're shiny, right?”

“Yes, they are,” she says like she's talking to a pre-schooler.

“It's just that when you opened your bag, a light shone right into my eyes.”

“Strange,” she says. “Maybe it was a trick of light?”

“Or a lightsaber?” I laugh awkwardly at my
Star Wars
reference. She doesn't join in.

We sit in silence until the server returns bearing a tray of Mara's strawberry crepes complete with oodles of chocolate sauce. Mara murmurs a thank-you. We're sitting by a bright window, but the room seems to grow dimmer, shadowy.

She pushes her plate toward me. “Share this with me. You've worked so hard on the Jimmy tribute.”

“No, thanks. It's all yours.”

One look at the chocolate puddle and the room darkens even more. With a heavy head, I turn left, then right. Nobody else seems disturbed by the changes in the light. They're all digging into their food, talking, laughing like normal people.

Something
paranormal
is definitely going on. Is it a sign that Jimmy's trying to make contact again?

“Come on, have some dessert. I can't eat all of it.”

“Thanks, really. But I'm not a chocolate fan,” I say, rubbing my temples.

Her eyes bug out. It's the same reaction that comment always attracts. “How can you not like chocolate?”

I grimace and force myself to concentrate on Mara. “To put it another way, chocolate doesn't like me. I have a rare and unlucky allergy to cacao. You know, the stuff chocolate's made of.”

Mara hesitates, and slowly pulls the plate back. “That's rough. What happens when you eat it? ”

“Death by chocolate,” I say. “Really, it's not the end of the world. I can eat other kinds of junk food, no problem.”

“I see.” She thoughtfully scrapes the chocolate sauce to the edge of the plate, as far from me as possible. “So I've been thinking some more about Aimee.”

“What about her?”

Mara pauses and looks me in the eye. Her voice lowers dramatically. “She killed him.”

“What?!” I screech. Others turn and stare at us. “Are you sure?”

Mara sits back and stares out the window, jaw clicking. “I've known her almost all my life. I know what that girl's capable of.”

“The police aren't even certain he was murdered.” Though…to Jimmy, it's clear enough. But could his girlfriend be his killer? “And there is the possibility of suicide. You know, because of his injury. You remember what that anonymous article said.”

She radiates confidence. “I'm telling you, she did it.”

“Aimee's so tiny, though. How could someone her size overpower a guy like Jimmy?”

“But that's the perfect cover,” she spits out. “No one
would
suspect sweet little ninety-pound Aimee. Maybe she drugged him or…or stunned him with a rock.”

“A rock?” Specific, but it makes sense. There are lots of loose rocks in the area where Jimmy was found. One easily could have been used to crack his head open.

Mara points her finger at me. She continues talking between mouthfuls of crepe and chocolate sauce. “You have to admit she's been jumpy lately.”

Jumpy. Distraught. Melodramatic.

That didn't mean Aimee killed Jimmy. “What would Aimee's motive be, then?”

Mara stabs her dessert. “That we can only speculate on. So let's dig up some more facts.”

“Let's?” I say hesitantly. The chocolate scent is kind of dizzying. Cloying. I press against the window, but then remember it's fixed glass and can't open. Miserably, I look down at the garden beds outside. They're thick with lavender bushes I'd never noticed before.

“Sure. We'll work on Jimmy's case together. For the
Bugle.
We'll do an investigative piece. Then we'll hand our evidence to the police and get Aimee locked up in a nice cold cell.”

Cold. Funny she chose that word. Her green gaze is so frigid goose bumps multiply on my skin. Seems to me she's already tried and convicted Aimee. I'm starting to feel sorry for Aimee. What if Mara's wrong about her?

“Actually, that would help me. I, uh, told Deputy Charlie I'm working on an article already.”

She tilts her head. “Why did you tell him that?”

“I was trying to make myself not look like a suspect.”

“
You're
a suspect?”

“Isn't everybody? You could be one, for all I know!”

She stares at me at me with a mixture of shock and indignation.

“Don't worry. I don't think you're capable of murder. This is good. Now I can stop lying to Charlie about a mythical article.” Watching her scribble on a pad, I ask, “Who are you going to interview first?”

“Aimee,” she says without a second's hesitation even as she writes. “I think I could get her to confess. But for the sake of balance, I need you to talk to his teammates.”

“Okay.” I fall silent and poke the ice cubes in my glass, mulling over an idea. Those lavender bushes
have to
be a sign from Grandie. Is she telling me it's okay to confide in Mara?

Mara glances at me when I clear my throat.

“You know,” I begin. “I'm working on a new investigation technique.”

Her pen freezes above the notepad. “What new technique?”

I give a half-smile at her skeptical tone of voice. Mara is such a know-it-all that the adviser, Mr. Macklin, pretty much leaves her run the paper without his help. He just sits in his office, alternating between grading papers and playing online poker.

“All right, it's not exactly a new thing. More unconventional. Did you ever see that show
Medium
?”

“About the psychic detective?”

“She was medium, but she
worked
for the district attorney's office. She'd have these dreams about murder victims. Like, she'd have actual conversations with them and eventually figure out how they died.”

Mara's hand closes around her ice-water glass. Her grip slides a little as she takes a long sip. Carefully, she puts down the glass. “What exactly are you telling me, Keira?”

I purse my lips. Grandie was always very cautious about revealing her gift. She had to fully trust a person first. As a result, few people knew. In her experience, most folks thought psychics were shysters who preyed on the vulnerable.

But I've worked alongside Mara for a while now. She was open to the séance. Would it be so bad if she knew I could see ghosts? Talk to them? Well,
one
ghost.

The sharp lavender scent stings my nostrils. It overpowers the chocolate, overpowers me. If that's not Grandie giving her blessing, I don't know what is.

“You know I read tarot cards, right? I'm kind of branching out. Learning how to, um, communicate with…” I lower my voice. “With spirits.”