Author: Kalayna Price

“Of course not! I’ve never been suicidal in my life.”

“So you don’t have any deep dark secrets that could have threatened to come to light? Gambling debts? Drug use? Mistresses? Love child?”

“No. I’m devoted to my wife and if you brought me in here just to slander my character, I’m leaving.”

“Calm down, Mr. Kingly. I’m just trying to eliminate possibilities,” I said, opening a new document in my computer labeled JAMES KINGLY. After adding a line about his claim to sainted behavior, I looked up again and said, “How was work? Was there any tension in the office?”

“There’s tension in every office, but nothing unusual. I got along with most of my coworkers and tolerated the rest.”

I added “No work problems” to the file. And I knew from previous conversations with Mrs. Kingly that money wasn’t an issue. I frowned.

“What about your disease. Where you having trouble managing it? Or maybe you couldn’t face the idea of having passed it to the baby?”

“What are you talking about? I was as healthy as an ox. I hadn’t been sick since—” The chime on the door sounded and the ghost whirled around, ready to charge back into the lobby.

“It’s my partner,” I said, recognizing Rianna’s magic. I added “denies being sick” to James’s file.

A light tap sounded on my door, which opened a moment later, allowing Rianna to poke her head into my office. “Did you know there’s a drunk pregnant lady in our lobby?”

“She’s not drunk. She’s…” I hesitated. “Calm.”

Rianna lifted both eyebrows, giving me an incredulous look. “She’s more than calm. What happened?”

“She was hyperventilating so I used my meditation charm on her. It seems something went a little awry.”

“A little?” She shook her head. “You want me to look her over, see if I can help?”

I didn’t have time to consider her offer before James raised a fist, shaking it at both of us. “No more magic.” If ghosts had color, I think he’d have turned red. “Hasn’t it done enough harm? This is why it should be more closely regulated and witches—”

I stopped listening to his Humans First diatribe; I’d heard it all before. To Rianna I said, “The effects can’t last much longer, so just let it wear off naturally.”

With a shrug that screamed “If you say so” Rianna ducked back out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

Once she was gone, I turned back to James Kingly. “What made you decide you needed a drink on your way home from work? Was that habit? Something someone who knew your schedule would expect?”

The ghost shook his head, but he didn’t elaborate.

“Well, if you have no problems at work and no problems at home, why did you lie to your wife and go out for a drink?”

I could have sworn the pale, shimmery face drained of what little color the ghost had. “I…saw something.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing hard. “I just needed to get it out of my head.”

The ghost’s penchant for vagueness was becoming irritating.

“What did you see?”

“It was…” He shook his head and collapsed into one of the chairs. Or at least, he tried to. He’d been right about it not holding him and he slid straight through to the ground.

I stepped around my desk and helped the shaken ghost to his feet. He held on to my hand longer than what would be considered polite, long enough that I wanted to tug free, but I knew exactly why he did it and that he wasn’t trying to be rude or sexual. He was just trying to understand.

“Why is it I can touch you but no one else? I mean, no one. I keep trying. No one but you even sees me,” he said, his voice full of wonder laced with sorrow.

“That’s a long story.” One we didn’t have time for because his wife would surely come around soon. I returned to my chair on the other side of the desk. “Now, what is it you saw?”

The ghost stepped backward, his face scrunching and his lips disappearing as he chewed at them.

“I need to know, Mr. Kingly. If you stumbled into a dark magic ritual or—”

“No, nothing like that. It was just a horrible, horrible tragedy.” He glanced down at the chair again, as if he wished he could sit, but he didn’t try again. “I was at the gas station, filling up my car, when a man carrying an empty plastic milk carton walked up to me. He asked if I could fill it for him. Gas is so expensive right now, but this guy, he was in bad shape. All skin and bones. And the clothes he wore? They couldn’t have been his. It looked like what he really needed was a hot meal, not gas, but I filled the jug for him. I even offered him a little money, and I never do that. He refused the money and thanked me for the gas. He was so polite.” James paused, his eyes distant with memory.

“Then what?” I asked, because if a homeless person’s appearance prompted him to drink, he was a hell of a lot less stable than he liked to let on.

“He…he took his jug of gas and walked out into the middle of the street. Then he dumped the entire gallon over his head, letting it run down him, soaking his clothes. He pulled a cigarette out of his coat pocket. Then a lighter.” The ghost’s Adam’s apple quivered. “The flames moved so fast. One moment he was dripping in the middle of the street, the next he was covered in flames.” He paused again, chewing at his lip. “I thought it was a prank at first. I think we all did. Because he stood there, not making a sound. I assumed it had to be magic. Maybe some sort of charm that prevented fire from burning flesh, they have those, right?”

I didn’t interrupt him to tell him that no charm, no matter how powerful, would allow someone not to be burned by that sort of proximity to fire.

“People were pouring out of nearby stores and businesses to see this man standing perfectly still while covered in flames. He must have been burning for a full minute, and we were all watching him, when all of a sudden, he started screaming and running around, flailing his arms. No one knew what to do. We ran from the gas station because if the fire got near those pumps…” He shivered. “But he never made it that far. His screams stopped almost as suddenly as they started, and he collapsed. This flaming heap that smelled of burnt hair and charred flesh. It was…I needed that drink.”

“How long before that second drink and your last memory did this incident occur?”

“Incident? It was a fucking nightmare. It was terrible. The man was so nice. So polite. I had no idea he’d use the gas I gave him to kill himself. What was he thinking? Why would anyone want to go out that way?”

I didn’t have answers for any of those questions, but it was certainly interesting that my suicide victim had witnessed a suicide.

He’d talked to the man directly before the stranger had flambéed himself. Kingly obviously felt sympathetic toward him, and guilty he’d given him the gas. Could Kingly have been suffering from some sort of shock? Sort of a posttraumatic stress that left him wandering without any memory. Maybe he did kill himself?

Though shouldn’t the shade have some sort of memory of that time? Even if it were jumbled? Besides, would someone in a state of shock go out for a meal including veal and a hundred dollar bottle of wine? That didn’t fit.

I tapped a pen against the desk, beating out an uneven rhythm as I thought.

I had two very public suicides. It was strange, though the real question was did the first suicide act as a catalyst for the second? Was it James’s tipping point? A coincidence?

Or was it a pattern?

Chapter 12

I’d have liked to ask James more questions about the suicide he’d witnessed, but we’d run out of time. My door flew open, revealing a fuming Mrs. Kingly.

“I should sue you,” she said, moving faster than I thought a person could at a waddle. “How dare you use magic on me.” Then she collapsed into one of my chairs, wrapped her arms around her belly, and began weeping. Not just crying, but loud, body-shaking sobs.

I sat at my desk, my pen hanging frozen in the air, and stared at her. What do I say now? Hell, more than say, what was I supposed to do? I glanced at her husband, but he looked as lost as me.

Across the lobby, Rianna’s door opened as she stepped out, staring at the wailing woman in my office. I jumped from behind my desk, and all but fled the room. Rianna met me halfway across the lobby.

“Now what did you do to her?”

“Nothing,” I whispered, my voice a hiss.

We both looked at the sobbing woman in my office.

“So what are you going to do?”

I frowned. “Remember to buy tissue,” I said, and then stepped around Rianna and headed for our small bathroom.

I pulled a few sheets off the roll of toilet paper and turned, but even three rooms away—granted small rooms with all the doors open—I could still hear her crying. I glanced at the paltry wad of single ply toilet paper in my hand. Oh hell. I unhooked the entire roll, taking it back to my office with me.

I set the roll on my desk and handed Mrs. Kingly the loose wad I’d already pulled free. She took it with a trembling hand and blew her nose. The loud sound seemed almost profane coming from the uptight, proper woman. Making sure the roll of toilet paper was within her reach, I placed my wastebasket beside her and then retreated behind my desk.

By the time I’d claimed my chair, she had the roll of toilet paper in her lap. She blew her nose again, a loud, honking sound. I made a point of not watching her, but woke my laptop and wrote down every detail I could remember from James’s report on the suicide he’d witnessed. When I reached Kingly’s description of the man I stopped. He’d called him skeletally thin. Which is exactly how I described James in the photos John showed me. I put an asterisk beside the words before moving on.

By the time I finished typing, Mrs. Kingly’s sobs had quieted. I could still hear the rasp in her chest, as if the tears could start again any moment, but for now, she was maintaining at least a semblance of control. When she looked up, what was left of her makeup was smeared, and her eyes were glassy and red rimmed. The effect was that her eyes looked bright blue, the color highlighted in a way that all her makeup had not accomplished. Not that I was advocating crying as a fashion choice.