Taylor was stood jamming her thumb repeatedly against the call button when she was joined by the curly haired detective she had met earlier in the bathroom. “Journalist,” she greeted her with a nod of her head.
“Criminalist,” Taylor greeted her back, hiding how irritated she was feeling.
“Stella Bonasera,” she said, smiling and holding out her hand.
Taylor took it and returned the smile, “Taylor Turner.”
“The Crime Files author?” Taylor nodded. “Are you here for a case?”
“No, I’m here making an idiot of myself.”
Stella looked amused. “An idiot? How?”
Taylor looked at the detective and sighed, “If I said that a ghost of a victim kept appearing in my apartment, asking me to help them, what would you say?”
Stella frowned. “In all honesty, I’d ask what you’d been drinking.”
Taylor shrugged her shoulders, “And that’s why I’m making an idiot of myself. So now, I’m trying to find remaining shred of dignity I have, and leave.”
“What did your ghost tell you this time?”
Stella and Taylor turned around to find Flack and Mac watching them. “You believe me now?” Taylor asked Flack, who had asked the question.
“Nah,” Flack shook his head, pulling a face. “I just want to see exactly how deluded you are.”
If looks could have killed, Flack would have been dying a very painful death at that point. Thankfully, the lift appeared and Taylor stormed into it, jamming her thumb against the button again. The doors shut and she leant against the wall, but just as soon as she did, the doors opened again, and Mac stepped halfway in, preventing the lift from going anywhere.
“Miss Turner, we’re having trouble verifying the Chinese delivery. Which takeaway did you use?”
“Lee’s. Off Fifty-ninth. Anything else?” she asked, trying not to roll her eyes.
“You do realize that you cannot write about anything you know about the case, don’t you?” Mac finally asked her. “Not only would a leak damage the reputation of the lab, but it would also affect the outcome of the verdict when it goes to court.”
“I am perfectly aware of what I can write about, and what I can’t write about. I didn’t come here snooping,” Taylor informed him, her tone like acid. “And if you actually read my column, you’d notice that I don’t discuss specifics of current crimes. I came here to give you the latest piece of information Rebecca gave me.”
“And what information did you come up here with this time?” Flack asked, repeating his earlier question as he came up behind Mac.
Taylor snorted. “You’ve just told me you don’t believe me, so why do you care?”
“Miss Turner?” Mac pressed.
Taylor sighed. “A tattoo. A cross with a dragon. All in black.”
“The victim didn’t have a tattoo,” Mac frowned.
Taylor shrugged. “Well then, it belongs to the killer.”
“And did your ghost tell you who the killer was?” asked Flack sceptically
“No. She doesn’t say anything other than help me. It’s bad enough she keeps appearing, yet she can’t say anything else.” Taylor smirked at him. “Besides, you’re the detective. Detect.”
“That’s original!” said Flack, rolling his eyes at her.
“Thank you, Miss Turner,” interrupted Mac, “But a tattoo isn’t something we can be going on with. As a crime writer, you should understand we can’t just arrest everyone with a tattoo.”
Taylor sighed, “I know. Sorry, but…” She shook her head. “Never mind.”
“Good evening,” said Mac as he stepped back and finally allowed the doors to close.
“You hear that, Rebecca?” she said to the empty elevator as it began its descent, “I’m done now. Let me get some sleep!”
“Criminalist,” Taylor greeted her back, hiding how irritated she was feeling.
“Stella Bonasera,” she said, smiling and holding out her hand.
Taylor took it and returned the smile, “Taylor Turner.”
“The Crime Files author?” Taylor nodded. “Are you here for a case?”
“No, I’m here making an idiot of myself.”
Stella looked amused. “An idiot? How?”
Taylor looked at the detective and sighed, “If I said that a ghost of a victim kept appearing in my apartment, asking me to help them, what would you say?”
Stella frowned. “In all honesty, I’d ask what you’d been drinking.”
Taylor shrugged her shoulders, “And that’s why I’m making an idiot of myself. So now, I’m trying to find remaining shred of dignity I have, and leave.”
“What did your ghost tell you this time?”
Stella and Taylor turned around to find Flack and Mac watching them. “You believe me now?” Taylor asked Flack, who had asked the question.
“Nah,” Flack shook his head, pulling a face. “I just want to see exactly how deluded you are.”
If looks could have killed, Flack would have been dying a very painful death at that point. Thankfully, the lift appeared and Taylor stormed into it, jamming her thumb against the button again. The doors shut and she leant against the wall, but just as soon as she did, the doors opened again, and Mac stepped halfway in, preventing the lift from going anywhere.
“Miss Turner, we’re having trouble verifying the Chinese delivery. Which takeaway did you use?”
“Lee’s. Off Fifty-ninth. Anything else?” she asked, trying not to roll her eyes.
“You do realize that you cannot write about anything you know about the case, don’t you?” Mac finally asked her. “Not only would a leak damage the reputation of the lab, but it would also affect the outcome of the verdict when it goes to court.”
“I am perfectly aware of what I can write about, and what I can’t write about. I didn’t come here snooping,” Taylor informed him, her tone like acid. “And if you actually read my column, you’d notice that I don’t discuss specifics of current crimes. I came here to give you the latest piece of information Rebecca gave me.”
“And what information did you come up here with this time?” Flack asked, repeating his earlier question as he came up behind Mac.
Taylor snorted. “You’ve just told me you don’t believe me, so why do you care?”
“Miss Turner?” Mac pressed.
Taylor sighed. “A tattoo. A cross with a dragon. All in black.”
“The victim didn’t have a tattoo,” Mac frowned.
Taylor shrugged. “Well then, it belongs to the killer.”
“And did your ghost tell you who the killer was?” asked Flack sceptically
“No. She doesn’t say anything other than help me. It’s bad enough she keeps appearing, yet she can’t say anything else.” Taylor smirked at him. “Besides, you’re the detective. Detect.”
“That’s original!” said Flack, rolling his eyes at her.
“Thank you, Miss Turner,” interrupted Mac, “But a tattoo isn’t something we can be going on with. As a crime writer, you should understand we can’t just arrest everyone with a tattoo.”
Taylor sighed, “I know. Sorry, but…” She shook her head. “Never mind.”
“Good evening,” said Mac as he stepped back and finally allowed the doors to close.
“You hear that, Rebecca?” she said to the empty elevator as it began its descent, “I’m done now. Let me get some sleep!”
* * *
By two o’clock the following afternoon, Taylor had managed an undisturbed sleep. She had managed to call in to see her editor about upcoming articles and an upcoming ball, done her grocery shopping, stopped off at the gym, and come home to start on her next article. After a morning of normality, Taylor was almost convinced that she hadn’t seen a ghost, rather had a weird dream, with the explanation of Rebecca being she had seen her picture in the papers.
That was until she was busy doing her ironing. And Rebecca appeared again. Taylor was so startled, she dropped the iron on the other hand to the one she had burnt on her straightening irons the previous day (and was currently bandaged up).
“Help me.”
“Stop saying that!” Taylor shrieked as she removed the iron from her hand. “And stop coming to see me!”
“Help me.”
“Seriously, I have been to the police and they think I am a joke,” Taylor responded through gritted teeth. “On top of that, the information you gave me – they can’t use. It’s useless. Go haunt a detective. In fact, go pay that Flack a visit.”
“Help me.”
Taylor shut her eyes and counted to ten. At that moment in time, she was finding the urge to throw the iron at the ghost far too tempting. “What do you expect me to do?” she asked her, slightly more calmly as she opened her eyes.
“Help me.”
Taylor bit her lip. Well, that was a stupid question to ask, really. “But that’s just it. I can’t. I’m not a detective – I’m a journalist.” It was like someone had turned a light on. “And a journalist,” she thought out slowly, “Can go where a detective can’t unless he has a warrant.”
The ghost smiled at her and vanished. Taylor smiled at the spot Rebecca had been standing, a plan forming in her mind.
Half an hour later, she had changed into a smart, black skirt-suit, pinned her hair back, replaced her contacts with a pair of glasses, and was sitting in a cab making her way to the other side of the island. It pulled up outside Carol Anne Lewis Preparatory School, and she paid the driver.
After telling the secretary who she was, the principal, David Roberts, agreed to see her instantly. So there she was, sat on a plush leather seat on the other side of the principal’s desk. She smiled at him, “It’s been a long time since I was in a principal’s office.”
“You were a trouble maker?”
Taylor chucked, “Journalist on the school paper. The last time I was in a principal’s office, I was rooting through his files.”
“And is that why you’re here?” the bald man asked her.
Taylor shook her head, “I’m trying something new. One of your girls was found murdered.”
“Yes,” he said gravely, “Rebecca Landry. Very smart girl.”
“You knew her then?”
“Of course. She was an honor roll student who’d just been accepted into Yale.”
“Did she have any enemies?” Taylor asked him. After she had given the detectives all the information that she knew, she was certain they would have been to question people here at the school, and inevitably, that would be one of the first questions. But it couldn’t hurt to ask it again.
“Not that I know of. Everyone loved her. The kids set up a memorial for her in the dinner hall,” he told her, his voice braking slightly.
Taylor frowned. In her opinion, Roberts was taking this just a little too badly. She got up, and leant over the desk, resting her hand on his arm, “How well did you know Rebecca?”
The principal recoiled instantly, “Just what are you insinuating, Miss Turner.”
“I… nothing,” she said, hurriedly withdrawing her hand.
“I think that you should leave now,” he told her, his demeanor suddenly becoming icy.
Taylor stared at him for a moment, and then got up. She was about to leave when she turned around for one final question, “Do you have a tattoo, Mr. Roberts?”
“No,” he told her, shortly.
“Thank you for your time,” she told him, and walked out of the office, the principal right behind her. As Taylor left, she heard him tell his secretary that he was done for the evening. He left the building so quickly, he didn’t notice Taylor, who was loitering around. As soon as he turned the corner, she went back into the school.
She spotted the secretary and went over to talk to her. She was sat at her desk sorting out the mail. “Hi there,” she greeted the woman, a bright smile on her face.
The secretary looked up from a letter she was holding in her hand. “Yes?”
Taylor continued to smile, even though the woman’s shortness was a bit rude. “So, how do you like working here? It seems like a really nice school.”
“It’s alright.”
“Did you ever meet Rebecca?”
“Once or twice. She was always going to see David,” she said with a scowl on her face.
Taylor frowned. “Really? I was under the impression she was a good student.”
“She was.”
“Really?”
The secretary stared at her, silently telling her to drop it. Taylor glanced down at the name in front of her. “So, Janice,” she started, trying a different approach, “How long have you been working here?”
‘Sixteen years.”
“Wow, you must really like your job.”
“Not as long as David,” Janice responded warily. “He’s been here just over twenty years.”
“Jeeze, that’s a lot of girls coming through his doors,” Taylor muttered, mentally trying to do the math.
“You have no idea,” Janice responded darkly.
Taylor frowned. “Twenty years? What did that get him? Something China?”
Janice smirked. “Rebecca was in charge of buying him a commemorative item. Only she got confused and got something for the thirty year anniversary.”
“Thirty years? What’s that? Silver?”
‘Silver is twenty-five years,” Janice explained. “Pearl is thirty years. She got him a twin set of letter openers.”
“Really?” asked Taylor, her eyes lighting up. “Wow, that’s thoughtful. Where are the letter openers now?”
“Why,” Janice asked suspiciously.
“Oh, uh, I thought it would be a nice angle to run with, you know,” Taylor shrugged. “Model student buys principal present.”
Janice shrugged and pulled out one of the knives from under the stack of papers on her desk and handed it over.
“This looks pretty expensive,” Taylor told her, casually turning it over in her hands, even though she recognised it the moment Janice had taken hold of it.
“Well, these girls aren’t exactly lacking in money.”
Taylor looked at the woman. “Where’s the other?”
Janice shrugged. “Around somewhere,” she answered vaguely.
Taylor nodded and looked up, before dropping the knife in shock. Standing behind Janice was Rebecca, pointing at the secretary. Janice looked up at the journalist. “Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
If only she knew. Taylor shook her head and picked up the knife. “Yeah, sorry, I spaced out there,” she explained quickly. She held the knife out, but as Janice went to grab it, ‘accidentally’ dropped it on the floor.
As Janice leant over to pick up the knife, her blouse came away from the top of her trousers to reveal her lower back. And the tattoo of a cross and dragon on it.
Janice righted herself and looked at Taylor. She smiled, then walked out from behind the desk, over to the door. Taylor watched her, the blood running from her face as Janice locked the door. She turned back to face Taylor, the knife still in her hand.
“You know.”
Taylor froze. “Know what?”
“My little secret,” Janice told her slowly, advancing towards her.
Taylor slowly began moving backwards. She was not trained to deal with someone attacking her, let alone someone armed with a knife. She gulped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Janice. But you’re beginning to scare me,” she said, trying to joke.
“I guess it will have to be our little secret now.” Janice told her quietly.
Taylor’s back hit the wall. “Yeah, I can keep secrets.”
“You’re a journalist. You can’t keep secrets. The dead can, however.”
“Open the door!” There was a banging at the door. “NYPD!”
“HELP!” Taylor screamed.
As the door burst open, Taylor found herself being grabbed by Janice and a knife being held at her throat.
“Put down the knife!” yelled Mac - one of the officers who had burst through the door.
“You have nowhere to go,” shouted Flack – one of the other officers - his gun trained on Janice.
Taylor was frozen to the spot. She could honestly say she had never been this frightened in her life.
“I’m going nowhere,” shrieked Janice, as she jabbed the knife just enough to nick Taylor. For a letter opener, the knife was surprisingly sharp.
Suddenly, Rebecca appeared in front of Taylor and Janice. Taylor was about to tell the ghost that now was not the best time to be asking for help, when she felt Janice drop the knife, as she gasped Rebecca’s name.
That was until she was busy doing her ironing. And Rebecca appeared again. Taylor was so startled, she dropped the iron on the other hand to the one she had burnt on her straightening irons the previous day (and was currently bandaged up).
“Help me.”
“Stop saying that!” Taylor shrieked as she removed the iron from her hand. “And stop coming to see me!”
“Help me.”
“Seriously, I have been to the police and they think I am a joke,” Taylor responded through gritted teeth. “On top of that, the information you gave me – they can’t use. It’s useless. Go haunt a detective. In fact, go pay that Flack a visit.”
“Help me.”
Taylor shut her eyes and counted to ten. At that moment in time, she was finding the urge to throw the iron at the ghost far too tempting. “What do you expect me to do?” she asked her, slightly more calmly as she opened her eyes.
“Help me.”
Taylor bit her lip. Well, that was a stupid question to ask, really. “But that’s just it. I can’t. I’m not a detective – I’m a journalist.” It was like someone had turned a light on. “And a journalist,” she thought out slowly, “Can go where a detective can’t unless he has a warrant.”
The ghost smiled at her and vanished. Taylor smiled at the spot Rebecca had been standing, a plan forming in her mind.
Half an hour later, she had changed into a smart, black skirt-suit, pinned her hair back, replaced her contacts with a pair of glasses, and was sitting in a cab making her way to the other side of the island. It pulled up outside Carol Anne Lewis Preparatory School, and she paid the driver.
After telling the secretary who she was, the principal, David Roberts, agreed to see her instantly. So there she was, sat on a plush leather seat on the other side of the principal’s desk. She smiled at him, “It’s been a long time since I was in a principal’s office.”
“You were a trouble maker?”
Taylor chucked, “Journalist on the school paper. The last time I was in a principal’s office, I was rooting through his files.”
“And is that why you’re here?” the bald man asked her.
Taylor shook her head, “I’m trying something new. One of your girls was found murdered.”
“Yes,” he said gravely, “Rebecca Landry. Very smart girl.”
“You knew her then?”
“Of course. She was an honor roll student who’d just been accepted into Yale.”
“Did she have any enemies?” Taylor asked him. After she had given the detectives all the information that she knew, she was certain they would have been to question people here at the school, and inevitably, that would be one of the first questions. But it couldn’t hurt to ask it again.
“Not that I know of. Everyone loved her. The kids set up a memorial for her in the dinner hall,” he told her, his voice braking slightly.
Taylor frowned. In her opinion, Roberts was taking this just a little too badly. She got up, and leant over the desk, resting her hand on his arm, “How well did you know Rebecca?”
The principal recoiled instantly, “Just what are you insinuating, Miss Turner.”
“I… nothing,” she said, hurriedly withdrawing her hand.
“I think that you should leave now,” he told her, his demeanor suddenly becoming icy.
Taylor stared at him for a moment, and then got up. She was about to leave when she turned around for one final question, “Do you have a tattoo, Mr. Roberts?”
“No,” he told her, shortly.
“Thank you for your time,” she told him, and walked out of the office, the principal right behind her. As Taylor left, she heard him tell his secretary that he was done for the evening. He left the building so quickly, he didn’t notice Taylor, who was loitering around. As soon as he turned the corner, she went back into the school.
She spotted the secretary and went over to talk to her. She was sat at her desk sorting out the mail. “Hi there,” she greeted the woman, a bright smile on her face.
The secretary looked up from a letter she was holding in her hand. “Yes?”
Taylor continued to smile, even though the woman’s shortness was a bit rude. “So, how do you like working here? It seems like a really nice school.”
“It’s alright.”
“Did you ever meet Rebecca?”
“Once or twice. She was always going to see David,” she said with a scowl on her face.
Taylor frowned. “Really? I was under the impression she was a good student.”
“She was.”
“Really?”
The secretary stared at her, silently telling her to drop it. Taylor glanced down at the name in front of her. “So, Janice,” she started, trying a different approach, “How long have you been working here?”
‘Sixteen years.”
“Wow, you must really like your job.”
“Not as long as David,” Janice responded warily. “He’s been here just over twenty years.”
“Jeeze, that’s a lot of girls coming through his doors,” Taylor muttered, mentally trying to do the math.
“You have no idea,” Janice responded darkly.
Taylor frowned. “Twenty years? What did that get him? Something China?”
Janice smirked. “Rebecca was in charge of buying him a commemorative item. Only she got confused and got something for the thirty year anniversary.”
“Thirty years? What’s that? Silver?”
‘Silver is twenty-five years,” Janice explained. “Pearl is thirty years. She got him a twin set of letter openers.”
“Really?” asked Taylor, her eyes lighting up. “Wow, that’s thoughtful. Where are the letter openers now?”
“Why,” Janice asked suspiciously.
“Oh, uh, I thought it would be a nice angle to run with, you know,” Taylor shrugged. “Model student buys principal present.”
Janice shrugged and pulled out one of the knives from under the stack of papers on her desk and handed it over.
“This looks pretty expensive,” Taylor told her, casually turning it over in her hands, even though she recognised it the moment Janice had taken hold of it.
“Well, these girls aren’t exactly lacking in money.”
Taylor looked at the woman. “Where’s the other?”
Janice shrugged. “Around somewhere,” she answered vaguely.
Taylor nodded and looked up, before dropping the knife in shock. Standing behind Janice was Rebecca, pointing at the secretary. Janice looked up at the journalist. “Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
If only she knew. Taylor shook her head and picked up the knife. “Yeah, sorry, I spaced out there,” she explained quickly. She held the knife out, but as Janice went to grab it, ‘accidentally’ dropped it on the floor.
As Janice leant over to pick up the knife, her blouse came away from the top of her trousers to reveal her lower back. And the tattoo of a cross and dragon on it.
Janice righted herself and looked at Taylor. She smiled, then walked out from behind the desk, over to the door. Taylor watched her, the blood running from her face as Janice locked the door. She turned back to face Taylor, the knife still in her hand.
“You know.”
Taylor froze. “Know what?”
“My little secret,” Janice told her slowly, advancing towards her.
Taylor slowly began moving backwards. She was not trained to deal with someone attacking her, let alone someone armed with a knife. She gulped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Janice. But you’re beginning to scare me,” she said, trying to joke.
“I guess it will have to be our little secret now.” Janice told her quietly.
Taylor’s back hit the wall. “Yeah, I can keep secrets.”
“You’re a journalist. You can’t keep secrets. The dead can, however.”
“Open the door!” There was a banging at the door. “NYPD!”
“HELP!” Taylor screamed.
As the door burst open, Taylor found herself being grabbed by Janice and a knife being held at her throat.
“Put down the knife!” yelled Mac - one of the officers who had burst through the door.
“You have nowhere to go,” shouted Flack – one of the other officers - his gun trained on Janice.
Taylor was frozen to the spot. She could honestly say she had never been this frightened in her life.
“I’m going nowhere,” shrieked Janice, as she jabbed the knife just enough to nick Taylor. For a letter opener, the knife was surprisingly sharp.
Suddenly, Rebecca appeared in front of Taylor and Janice. Taylor was about to tell the ghost that now was not the best time to be asking for help, when she felt Janice drop the knife, as she gasped Rebecca’s name.
* * *
Taylor stood watching Flack interview Janice through the two-way mirror. She had finally stopped shaking, and was nursing a cup of coffee. Janice had confessed everything, saying the ghost of Rebecca had come back to haunt her. About time Rebecca moved onto the next victim, Taylor thought wryly.
Behind her, the door opened and Mac entered. Taylor looked up at him and started to smile, until she saw the look on his face. “What?”
“You are not a detective,” he began angrily. “You could have been killed.”
“Well you guys didn’t seem to be in any hurry to find her killer.”
“We follow evidence, not hallucinations of an overworked journalist.”
“Number one, I am not overworked, number two, I was not hallucinating. She saw her,” Taylor told him, just as angrily, pointing to Janice.
“That woman thought she was in a relationship with the principal. She also thought that Rebecca was. She’s crazy, that’s why she thinks she’s seeing ghosts.”
Taylor slammed the cup of coffee onto a table, spilling it over the edge of the cup, but she didn’t notice. “If I’m crazy, how did I get to the murderer before you?”
“In all honesty, I don’t know, Miss Turner. But one thing is for certain, there are no such things as ghosts.”
“Have you ever seen one?”
“No, because they don’t exist.”
Taylor let out an exasperated groan. “You deal with science, and I get that. But there are some things in the world that science can’t explain.”
“There are explanations to everything,” Mac told her calmly.
“Yeah, I agree, and in this instance, it was a ghost.”
Mac eyed her wearily. “Regardless of what you saw, or think you saw, you should not have gone to that school. We would have gotten there as soon as we had processed the evidence.”
“I just happened to get there quicker,” she pointed out.
“You shouldn’t have gotten there at all. You should have left your information with us and let us do our jobs.”
“What, the, a ghost told me… you didn’t believe me. The poor girl’s spirit was trapped, and she didn’t look like she was going to leave me alone anytime soon.”
“If you feel the need to get involved in a case in future, you run it by me first,” he told her before walking out.
Taylor watched him leave. She hadn’t seen anyone be that calm, and yet that angry at the same time before. That, however, wasn’t her problem anymore.
Behind her, the door opened and Mac entered. Taylor looked up at him and started to smile, until she saw the look on his face. “What?”
“You are not a detective,” he began angrily. “You could have been killed.”
“Well you guys didn’t seem to be in any hurry to find her killer.”
“We follow evidence, not hallucinations of an overworked journalist.”
“Number one, I am not overworked, number two, I was not hallucinating. She saw her,” Taylor told him, just as angrily, pointing to Janice.
“That woman thought she was in a relationship with the principal. She also thought that Rebecca was. She’s crazy, that’s why she thinks she’s seeing ghosts.”
Taylor slammed the cup of coffee onto a table, spilling it over the edge of the cup, but she didn’t notice. “If I’m crazy, how did I get to the murderer before you?”
“In all honesty, I don’t know, Miss Turner. But one thing is for certain, there are no such things as ghosts.”
“Have you ever seen one?”
“No, because they don’t exist.”
Taylor let out an exasperated groan. “You deal with science, and I get that. But there are some things in the world that science can’t explain.”
“There are explanations to everything,” Mac told her calmly.
“Yeah, I agree, and in this instance, it was a ghost.”
Mac eyed her wearily. “Regardless of what you saw, or think you saw, you should not have gone to that school. We would have gotten there as soon as we had processed the evidence.”
“I just happened to get there quicker,” she pointed out.
“You shouldn’t have gotten there at all. You should have left your information with us and let us do our jobs.”
“What, the, a ghost told me… you didn’t believe me. The poor girl’s spirit was trapped, and she didn’t look like she was going to leave me alone anytime soon.”
“If you feel the need to get involved in a case in future, you run it by me first,” he told her before walking out.
Taylor watched him leave. She hadn’t seen anyone be that calm, and yet that angry at the same time before. That, however, wasn’t her problem anymore.
* * *
A little over a week later, and the rain had finally stopped. It was a bright and sunny - although, still cold– the perfect day for a funeral. Rebecca’s body had finally been released, and thanks to her friend in the obituaries section, Taylor had found out when the funeral was.
She was stood to the back, out of the way of the grieving family and friends, watching the coffin be lowered, when she became aware of someone stood next to her. She turned and found it was Rebecca, dressed in white, minus the knife. She looked at peace.
“Thank you.”
Taylor’s mouth dropped open – she had learnt a new phrase? “You’re welcome,” she said, stumbling over the words. “Take care in the next life.”
Rebecca smiled. “They’ll come around eventually. They’ll have to.”
“Who?” She was too in shock at the ghost’s new found ability to articulate sentences that she couldn’t manage much else.
“Tell Detective Taylor that Claire says, let out the air and let go. There’s someone else for him to love now.”
“Let out the air? What does that mean?” Taylor didn’t get a reply. Rebecca just smiled and faded away.
“Talking to your ghosts?” Taylor turned around to find Mac dressed in a smart black suit. “You look confused,” he told her, commenting on the expression on her face.
“That was Rebecca.”
Mac looked at her sceptically. “Right.”
Taylor shook her head softly and listened to the preacher say his final prayers, before the crowd began to disperse. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”
“There are some cases where I try to get to the funeral. This is one of them.”
Taylor watched him watching the mourning people leave, and took a deep breath. “Who’s Claire?”
Mac turned his head so sharply, Taylor was almost certain he’d acquired a crick in it. “Have you been researching me?” he asked angrily.
“No, I-”
“I am not going to comment on anything for your article.”
Taylor shook her head, “No, Rebecca, she said, someone called Claire said to tell you to let the air go.” She instantly regretted saying anything when his mouth dropped open and tears began to form in the corner of her eyes.
“I only ever told one person that,” he muttered, briefly looking away.
“What,” she paused, “What did Rebecca mean?”
“My wife, Claire died on 9/11,” he said softly, almost as if he didn’t believe he was telling her this. “When it came to… to packing her stuff away, the only thing I couldn’t throw out was a beach ball. She had blown it up.”
Taylor nodded, looking at her feet, which had suddenly become interesting, feeling even guiltier. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbled. She looked up at him to find him smiling softly.
“That’s something Claire would say.”
“She…” she hesitated, but decided to carry on, “Rebecca also said to tell you that there’s someone else for you to love now.”
Mac smiled, “Maybe there is.”
Taylor watched him – he was looking like he almost didn’t think she was crazy anymore – and smiled back. She watched two men begin to fill in the hole. There was just one small thing bothering her now – the fact that Rebecca had said they’ll have to. Just what did she mean by that?
She was stood to the back, out of the way of the grieving family and friends, watching the coffin be lowered, when she became aware of someone stood next to her. She turned and found it was Rebecca, dressed in white, minus the knife. She looked at peace.
“Thank you.”
Taylor’s mouth dropped open – she had learnt a new phrase? “You’re welcome,” she said, stumbling over the words. “Take care in the next life.”
Rebecca smiled. “They’ll come around eventually. They’ll have to.”
“Who?” She was too in shock at the ghost’s new found ability to articulate sentences that she couldn’t manage much else.
“Tell Detective Taylor that Claire says, let out the air and let go. There’s someone else for him to love now.”
“Let out the air? What does that mean?” Taylor didn’t get a reply. Rebecca just smiled and faded away.
“Talking to your ghosts?” Taylor turned around to find Mac dressed in a smart black suit. “You look confused,” he told her, commenting on the expression on her face.
“That was Rebecca.”
Mac looked at her sceptically. “Right.”
Taylor shook her head softly and listened to the preacher say his final prayers, before the crowd began to disperse. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”
“There are some cases where I try to get to the funeral. This is one of them.”
Taylor watched him watching the mourning people leave, and took a deep breath. “Who’s Claire?”
Mac turned his head so sharply, Taylor was almost certain he’d acquired a crick in it. “Have you been researching me?” he asked angrily.
“No, I-”
“I am not going to comment on anything for your article.”
Taylor shook her head, “No, Rebecca, she said, someone called Claire said to tell you to let the air go.” She instantly regretted saying anything when his mouth dropped open and tears began to form in the corner of her eyes.
“I only ever told one person that,” he muttered, briefly looking away.
“What,” she paused, “What did Rebecca mean?”
“My wife, Claire died on 9/11,” he said softly, almost as if he didn’t believe he was telling her this. “When it came to… to packing her stuff away, the only thing I couldn’t throw out was a beach ball. She had blown it up.”
Taylor nodded, looking at her feet, which had suddenly become interesting, feeling even guiltier. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbled. She looked up at him to find him smiling softly.
“That’s something Claire would say.”
“She…” she hesitated, but decided to carry on, “Rebecca also said to tell you that there’s someone else for you to love now.”
Mac smiled, “Maybe there is.”
Taylor watched him – he was looking like he almost didn’t think she was crazy anymore – and smiled back. She watched two men begin to fill in the hole. There was just one small thing bothering her now – the fact that Rebecca had said they’ll have to. Just what did she mean by that?
Originally posted: 11/05/2006