A Ghost of a Chance by Cherie Claire (book series to read .txt) 📖

a paper in his hand. “I don’t know how you know these things and I still don’t believe in ghosts, but you should read this.”

I take the paper, and Maddox opens the front door and lets a blast of wet air inside. “You didn’t get it from me,” is the last thing he says as he disappears into the brutal weather.

It’s a police report from the day Lori died, a Xerox of something old and faded. Underneath it lies a copy of the coroner’s report. I fold both up and head back to my table because Miss Mary or whatever her name is has arrived with a platter of desserts and is making an announcement. I sit down and slip Lori’s reports into my purse while I half listen to what the proprietor is saying about chocolate mousse and apple tarts.

“I’m going to get the fruit cocktail,” Richard announces to my right. “It’s ridiculous to eat all these unhealthy sweets they serve us.”

I hadn’t realized Richard was sitting next to me, had been so preoccupied with my mysterious masseuse and TB hauling home in the storm. I’m so not in the mood to listen to his diatribes and for spite, I ask for two desserts, a pecan pie topped with vanilla ice cream and a strawberry shortcake. I gaze at Richard and his cup of peach slices and moan with every bite I take of my rich pie.

“Go ahead,” Richard says to me. “Kill yourself.”

“I will.” I slide the fork over my lips seductively so that every crumb of that pecan pie rests in my mouth while I close my eyes in pleasure. “And I will love every minute of it.”

Richard doesn’t let me have the last word, however. “Typical.”

I can’t help myself, even though my brain is screaming to leave it alone. “Typical what?”

“Take as much as you can get, sister. That’s what you guys in New Orleans love to do, isn’t it?”

It’s common science, the way a levee breaks. No matter how high you build the hill, no matter how many you spread throughout a city’s waterways, the pressure that builds from massive amounts of water will eventually cause the earthen masses to crumble and break.

All the hauntings and aggravation of the past few days — not to mention the pain of Katrina and the years living in abject grief — have built up to this moment and my levee bursts open. I grip my fork tightly like a weapon and stab it hard into the uneaten scone lying on Richard’s plate. I raise myself up enough so that I’m right in his face. “Don’t you dare talk about my city, you asshole. Just Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

Richard says nothing, his eyes wide in astonishment. I would have laughed had he not leaned back in his chair to get away from my insanity and it reminded me of James standing on the threshold of Gene Tanner’s office. Shit, what have I done?

I feel two strong hands on my shoulders and a soft voice telling me to drop the fork. I do as I’m told, now alarmed at my actions as if someone took over my body and did that crazy deed, while those hands guide me away from the table and the shocked expression on Miss Mary’s face. By the time I’m a few feet away, I realize it’s Henry at my side and he’s telling me we’re heading back to the hotel. Suddenly, Winnie’s there too, placing my purse on my shoulder and whispering that everything’s going to be okay. Before I can fully gauge what’s happening, Henry and I are heading out the door of Miss Mary’s, into the rain and the nearby van. Henry says nothing as we climb into our seats and we drive away, the windshield wipers beating out an exhaustive rhythm and his silence shames me more than any words would ever do.

“I’m sorry Henry.”

“It’s okay, Vi.”

I’m not convinced. He must be furious with me and now I’ll never be asked back on a press trip. “I didn’t mean to. Richard’s such an asshole and he won’t shut up about New Orleans.”

“I know, Vi. It’s okay.”

I look over and Henry’s not smiling. He’s pissed, I know it, and I just ruined my new career, stabbed it with a fork, no less. I pull my knees to my chest and bury my face there.

“Have you thought about counseling?”

He says it so softly I’m not sure I heard right. “What?”

“I don’t think you’ve realized what you’ve been through. Post-traumatic stress comes in a variety of forms. It can sneak up on you when you least expect it.”

Henry sounds like he’s speaking from experience, but I doubt that. He’s such an easy-going guy, always smiling, always peacefully amiable. Although right now he’s probably ready to strangle me silly. “It was a hurricane, Henry, not like I went to Afghanistan.”

“The worst hurricane in U.S. history.”

Being the journalist I am I want to say that Galveston suffered the worst hurricane in 1900, although that’s probably registered from the massive death toll. I start to compare Katrina’s damage costs to the Texas island, and maybe add the deaths of New Orleanians who died after Katrina, when my brain screams for me to shut up. “Maybe I am losing my mind,” I whisper out loud.

“You’re not going crazy, Vi. You had a horrible thing happen to you and it’s best that you get some help, to work through it all.”

Tears pool in my eyes. It’s one thing for me to worry about my sanity but not the man who is part of a new life that’s supposed to heal me, rescue me from boredom, grief and non-fulfillment.

As we climb the mountainside to the Crescent Hotel, I feel a hand touch my forearm, which makes the tears pour over. “Promise me you’ll get some counseling,” Henry asks.

I nod, even though I know he can’t see me, since he’s so intent on driving through the rain, and that warm hand moves away. We pull up to the overhang that leads to the hotel lobby and I wipe the tears away.

“Get some rest,” Henry instructs me. “I’ll go back and get the rest of the group and we’ll meet in the lobby in about forty-five minutes for the trip back to Bentonville. We’re not going to fly out today because of the weather so I have a hotel reservation for us near the airport. Flights should resume in the morning.”

Having to face another night with Richard makes my heart sink. As if Henry reads my mind, he adds, “I’ll talk to Richard and make him behave. I promise.”

“Thanks” is all I can manage and I grab the door handle to leave.

I don’t know why I confess my secret but something out of this world encourages me to do so and for the first time since I started seeing dead folks, I really listen and take their advice, whoever they are. I turn back to Henry. “I see ghosts,” I tell him, not caring what his reaction will be. I know my career is sunk so what difference does it make? “I saw those dead girls as clearly as day and I don’t know why except that maybe they wanted to be found. The cop today, he found their killer and solved an old mystery. I know how crazy this sounds but I swear Henry, it’s true.”

Henry doesn’t answer, nods his head.

I hear something else, an ethereal message that comes through now that I have left the front door open. Again, I embrace it, spilling my guts without even thinking. “And your brother wants you to know that it wasn’t your fault. He decided to take the car out that night and now wishes he hadn’t but he takes full responsibility for his death. He says you should not feel guilty about it. He’s in a very good place and is very happy and at peace.”

Henry looks shocked and pained at the same time, turns away from me and stares out the front windshield. I don’t know where that information came from and what I just told him but I sense Henry needs his privacy now that I have passed on the message. I quietly exit the van and head into the hotel holding my collars high to ward off the rain. When I look back to the van, Henry is still waiting there, his gaze staring vacantly out into the rain.

I pull a Richard and run up the three flights of stairs to my room, anything to help relieve the anxiety that’s gripping my heart. As I gasp my way down the fourth-floor hallway, past the crowds enjoying lunch and beer in the Baker Bar, I can’t help thinking how I’ve royally screwed up this time. When I finally get inside my room, I’m greeted by the remnants of TB and the tossed sheets from our rabid lovemaking the night before. I lean back against the door and slid to the floor. There’s nothing for me here — my new career is shot — and there’s literally nothing for me back home, so I close my eyes and wish with all my soul that I could crawl into a cave and disappear — one without a spoiled debutante who’s dead, of course.

But I’m never alone anymore. I sigh and gaze up at Lori, dripping on my carpet outside the bathroom door.

“I can’t help you,” I plead. “Please leave me alone.”

She looks inside the bathroom, then back at me with those sad, pleading eyes.

“I don’t know what you want from me.” I sound like a two-year-old whining. “My life is over as I know it so can’t you leave me alone?”

Lori appears as if I stabbed her and begins to fade. I’ve hurt her feelings and the idea that I can do that to a ghost startles me.

Then I remember the police report. “Wait,” I tell Lori, and her image remains steady. “I might have answers.”

I pull out the papers Maddox gave me, and read the police report first, which states that Lauralei Annabelle Thorne — her first name is blurry which might be why the tour guides call her Annabelle — fell