Earthbound : A gripping crime thriller full of twists and supernatural suspense Fynn Perry (if you liked this book TXT) 📖

“Yes, but she told me at the arraignment how to sort my life out. So, in her mind, she’s done all she can. That’s my mom.”

“Wow, and you’re OK with that?”

“Actually, it suits me with all that’s going on. Come on, we must be able to find something in all this.” She motioned to an old, fancy-looking wooden bookcase dominating one of the walls of her bedroom. It was stuffed with books and binders. “This is all stuff on the paranormal. I started collecting books, articles—anything on the subject after I became convinced I had seen the ghost of my grandmother that day as a child.”

John nodded in recognition of the conversation they had had on the subject on the night of the stabbing.

“Turned out I was right!” She reached for a big reference book and started to thumb through it, then scanning pages until she found something of interest.

“Hey, listen,” she said, quoting, “Earthbound spirits are disembodied people who have stayed on Earth, attached to the physical realm, not wishing to move on beyond it after their physical body has expired.”

“I could have told you that,” John smiled. “You know, horse’s mouth and all that…” He paused, looking at her confused expression. “Remember…what the wise spirit woman I met told me?”

She gave a brief nod and carried on regardless. “When the body dies, the spirit of the person should move on to another spiritual plane, where it may rejoin loved ones and where a feeling of peace, love, and joy is experienced. This is a cleansing process for the spirit, blah, blah,” she continued, scanning the text. “Ah, this is more interesting.” She fast-forwarded through the text. “Spirits choosing to remain earthbound are found void of this cleansing and closure process and thus remain with those on the earth as ‘unclean spirits,’ having no peace, love or joy. Hell truly is found here on Earth. Disembodied spirits co-exist and unhealthily interact with those physically embodied.”

“No shit! I’d say causing someone to stab me is an unhealthy interaction!” John said and paused for a moment. “I guess it could have been a spirit’s random act of violence, but I doubt it, not with Donovan being involved with Hardwell.”

John leaned over Jennifer and read ahead. She shivered from the cold air settling on her back. “And we can’t just rely on it being random anyway, not while it seems to be hanging around. Remember, it possessed Hardwell’s lawyer and spoke to me,” she added.

“Here’s something else.” John started reading out loud. “The condition of the disembodied spirit will remain in the same condition that the mortal was in at the time of death. If the ghost was, in real life, addicted to drugs, sex or alcohol, for example, then those same addictions remain. In fact, the addictions and traumas will drive the disembodied spirit into trying to find relief, even though relief will not be found in the physical realm. As the ghost looks backward to the past and cannot move on, remaining earthbound, the prison is complete.”

John skipped through the next section. “It goes on to say that we should reason with the spirit and persuade it to move on.”

“You can’t reason with what I saw,” Jennifer exclaimed. “This isn’t some elderly person who needs gently guiding to the light. That looked like a psychotic killer in a prison jumpsuit with knife holes in it. We have to find out who the hell it is or was. How he died and why he targeted you. John, are you sure there’s not something you haven’t told me—someone you might have wronged at some time?’’

“Jen, of course I am!”

“What about your dad? You said he made a lot of money in land deals and developments . . . I don’t know . . . Maybe there were dealings with a gang or some cartel got involved?”

“Jen, really? No! For God’s sake! He was one of many Irish farmers who got lucky selling their land. He wasn’t even in the US until we moved here four months ago. I have no idea whose spirit you saw.”

David Miller had gotten back to his office from the court building and was sitting at his desk in front of a pile of re-used, tatty manila files. Many of them had previous case names crossed out. Gone were the days when he had been a criminal prosecutor, of sleek modern offices and expensive lunches with clients. He used to spar with high-priced opposing counsel and make damning closing arguments founded upon weeks or even months of evidence collection. Now that he was a pro bono lawyer in a legal clinic in Brooklyn, his court appearances were many—short and sharp, with a great deal of rapid plea bargaining. Clients had to be realistic. Free legal representation didn’t go far.

He tried to concentrate, but his mind kept wondering about Hardwell. Something about his behavior didn’t add up. David considered that his illness could have led him to confuse David’s daughter with his ex-wife. Jessica had, after all, been strikingly similar at the same age. But to stab someone? There was a cold heart behind the attack, and disheveled, disorganized Hardwell didn’t fit that profile.

The internal line on his telephone rang. It was the receptionist, Abigail Schmidt. David had a visitor, she said, an ex-employee of the clinic. It was Robert Devereux.

David Miller sighed. Robert had been the least welcoming of the lawyers in the clinic when he’d worked there and was always clearly suspicious of David. At nearly six feet tall, he would have been imposing, possibly handsome, had it not been for his hooked nose, rakish frame, and the unpleasantly bony feel of his hand in a handshake. When he smiled, which was rare, his thin-lipped mouth went taut over teeth that were too large, and his lips drew in rather than back.

There was a brief knock at the