Dead to Rights Page 4

  “He can’t see me.” The woman ducked under his arm and into the elevator. “No one can but you.”

  He spun to face her. “You can’t follow me around; it’s illegal. I could have you arrested.”

  “I’d like to see that. What would you say exactly? ‘Please, Officer, arrest this ghost.’” She grinned, then pointed behind him. “Watch it.”

  He lurched forward out of the way of the closing doors, barely managing not to careen into her. He stared at her and made eye contact. His breathing hitched. She blinked at him through thick dark lashes, her honey-hued eyes holding him enthralled.

  She seemed so familiar, somehow…. He almost asked her if they’d met before, but she spoke first in a whisper. “What floor?”

  “What?” he asked, and the doors slid open again.

  “Mr. Daley,” Ryan asked from directly behind him. “Are you all right?”

  He jerked away from her, startled, and faced Ryan.

  The woman chuckled.

  Patrick clenched his jaw and turned. “I’m fine.”

  She thought she was a ghost? Brilliant. Crazy and delusional.

  He had to end this—now. He put the hand with the vodka out to hold the door again as he pointed to the woman with the other hand. “How many people are in the elevator?”

  “He can’t see me.” The woman threw her hands up. “I’m dead.”

  Ryan wrung his hands. “How many do you think there are?”

  Patrick swallowed. Well, that wasn’t good. “Nothing… never mind. Goodbye.” He gave Ryan a tight smile and punched the button for the tenth floor. After the door closed, Patrick dropped his head to his free hand. “Am I going crazy?”

  “No, you’re not.” She sounded exasperated and a little amused.

  He stared heavenward. “I’m seeing things. How is that not crazy?”

  “Maybe a little delusional but not crazy.” She grinned.

  How had it gone from her being the delusional one to him? “And fighting with my hallucination. Fantastic.”

  The elevator dinged, he rushed out, and she followed.

  He yanked his keys from his pant pockets, dropping them to the carpet. She stopped by the doorjamb as he picked them up.

  “How much have you had to drink today?” she asked.

  Too much, clearly too much. He got the door open and faced her, palm up and in her face.

  His next-door neighbor walked by. She shook her head of silver hair as she went, and a small “tsk” trailed after her.

  “Hello, Mrs. Jenkins,” he said. The old woman was the biggest gossip he knew, and the last thing he needed was her spreading this around. Patrick Daley is talking to himself. I’d say he’s losing his mind.

  No, thank you.

  He stepped into his apartment. “Stay.” He pointed at his petite stalker and shut the door.

  “I’m not a dog, you know,” she called after him, her voice surprisingly clear through the door.

  He went straight to the kitchen sink. Pulling the sack off his bottle, he emptied the remnants down the drain.

  “Good idea,” the woman said over his shoulder. “You’re shaky as it is. You should ease off.”

  He whipped her. “How’d you get in here?” He walked to the archway of the kitchen and peered at the door. The deadbolt was locked. He had locked it. Which meant she was a hallucination.

  She glanced around his apartment with a blank expression. “Nice place. Your, uh…” She pointed to his brown leather couch, the only piece of furniture in the place except his bed. “…couch looks cozy.”

  He hadn’t cleaned in a while. There were Chinese takeout containers piled on the floor by the couch, a trash can full of cans of Bloody Mary, and for some reason, a pair of boxers sat in the corner by the big picture window. When had he taken those off?

  “Have you lived here long?” The woman rubbed her hands on the front of her pants as her gaze skirted from the takeout boxes to his underwear, to the window.

  “None of your business.” He rushed to the corner and grabbed his boxers. He wadded them and shoved them in his pant pocket, creating a big bulge. This was ridiculous. She wasn’t real.

  She lifted her hands, palms up. “Don’t bother cleaning on my behalf.”

  “Go away. Please.” He crossed the room and plopped down on his couch.

  And then she was there, sitting next to him. “You’re not really a psychic?”

  He rubbed at his temples. “There’s no such thing as psychics.”

  “I saw part of your show last month. It was very convincing. Of course, I didn’t buy it, but you were good. How’d you do that?”

  Was this his conscience making him pay further recompense? “Listen, imaginary friend—”

  “Elizabeth.”

  He blinked at her. “Elizabeth?”

  “Elizabeth Shea.” She lifted her shoulders as if to ask, What?

  All right. “Miss Shea.”

  “Detective, actually.”

  Aha! He knew she was a cop. Then again, he had imagined her for a month, so he could make her whatever he wanted. The question was, why he’d chosen a cop, especially one who kept interrupting him. “You’re not real.”

  She narrowed her eyes and swiveled her knees toward him. “You’d seriously rather believe you’re losing your mind than entertain the possibility I am real?”

  “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” he replied.

  She stared at him a moment, then bit her lip. “What about God? Do you believe in Him?”

  He opened his mouth to say no, but found he couldn’t, and snapped it shut again. Weird. He believed in God. When had that happened?

  His mother had been a believer, his father agnostic, and so as a kid, he’d believed but never practiced until he’d married Katelyn. With her, he’d gone to church on a regular basis—that is, until she’d gotten breast cancer. He’d stopped believing after that. So what had changed since then? He racked his brain, thinking back over the last year of his life. The year in memories was patchy at best.

  He scrubbed a hand down his face. He needed to lay off the alcohol. Whatever had happened this last year, one thing was definitely clear. “I do believe in God.” But just because he believed in God didn’t mean he had to believe in ghosts.

  “Well, there you go. I’m a spirit with unfinished business, and you—”

  “You can’t be a ghost.”

  She huffed. “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “Surprise.” She threw her hands up as though she were tossing confetti.

  “No, you can’t be real, because there is no afterlife.”

  She scrunched her face at him. “How can you believe in God and not in an afterlife?”

  He stood and started pacing. “With ease… apparently.”

  Nothing had ever happened in his life that would suggest there was one. He’d met dozens and dozens of “psychics,” and every one of them had been a fake. He was arguably the best in the world, and he was a fake. He’d never heard of anyone ever really seeing or speaking with a ghost, and if there was an afterlife, he’d know about it.

  She stood and moved in his path, making him come to an abrupt halt. “I hate to break it to you, but I’m real, which means—”

  He went to the TV and turned it on.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said.

  He didn’t look at her, but he could imagine her throwing her hands in the air. She did that a lot.

  He rushed through the living room to his bedroom door, shutting it behind him, but she went through the door. He tried to tune her out and made a beeline for the bathroom, slamming the door behind him for good measure. “Don’t come in here; I’m naked.”

  Rationalizing with a figment of his imagination didn’t make any sense, but he was running out of ideas.

  “Hey!” She protested but didn’t follow.

  It was exactly what he was hoping, but at the same time, it seemed strange his imagination s
upplied a woman who didn’t want to see him naked when in real life women were constantly throwing themselves at him.

  She called through the door. “I need your help. Please.”

  He turned the shower on.

  “Oh, come on!” she yelled.

  He turned on the sink too, then slid down the wall. If he could ignore her until the alcohol left his system, he’d be good. She’d be gone, and he’d never look at another bottle of vodka again. He swore he wouldn’t, not after this. Not if the consequences were her.

  “Please!” she called out.

  He plugged his ears, shut his eyes, and hummed the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” He ignored the irony of his choice and focused on the music until it was all he could hear, until the water steaming up the mirrors ran cold, until sleep overtook him and he heard no more.

  Chapter Five

  The throbbing in his skull woke Patrick from a deep sleep. He blinked until the dark blue marbled floor beneath him came into focus. He rolled from his side onto his stomach and pressed his cheek against the cool tile, taking deep breaths to calm the churning in his gut. He couldn’t tell if it was hunger pangs or if he wanted to barf.

  The light in the bathroom was off, but light streamed in through the frosted window above the vanity. The hum of the spray of water and everything that’d happened came flooding back. He sat bolt upright, hitting his head on the underside of his pedestal sink.

  “Ow!” He slid out from under his attacker and slowly moved to his feet, straining to hear over the running water.

  It’d been hours, at least. He was definitely sober if the pounding in his skull was anything to go by. What a foreign feeling that was. It’d been a long time since he’d last been sober, and now he remembered why.

  He turned the water off in the sink and shower, then inched toward the door and pressed his ear to it. He heard nothing, so he reached for the handle and slowly eased it open. A chill shot up his spine in anticipation as he peeked out the door into his bedroom. No hallucination there.

  “Hello?” He kept his voice soft.

  No response came, so he tiptoed out of the bathroom and across his room. The alarm clock on the floor next to his bed read eight forty-three a.m. Wow, he’d really been out. He’d finished lunch with Zak yesterday around one, which meant he’d slept for sixteen-plus hours. He hadn’t gotten that much sleep in months.

  He peeked out into the living room. When no little, obnoxious brunette greeted him, he stepped in. He lifted his hands over his head and arched his back. The noise from the TV hurt his head, so he switched it off and headed for the kitchen. He needed aspirin and several glasses of water. And honestly, more sleep would do him good.

  After taking the aspirin, he went to his room and plopped face-first on to his mattress. Despite the fact that he was still dressed in his suit from yesterday, he burrowed into the down comforter and closed his eyes. It wasn’t long until his breathing evened and his thoughts drifted.

  “Hello, Patrick.”

  His eyes flew open and skittered to the edge of his mattress and away from her voice. Elizabeth sat on the end of his bed, resting on one arm, her legs crossed toward him. Light spilled in through the window, illuminating her pale skin.

  “Considering how little you actually have in your apartment, I’m surprised you have such a nice bed. And these sheets? Are they Egyptian cotton? They look nice.” She tossed her raven hair over her shoulder.

  Startled by the movement, he scooted back and fell off the far edge of the bed.

  A moment later, she peered over the side. “Having a rough time, aren’t you?”

  No, no, it wasn’t real. None of this was real. He wasn’t drunk anymore, he’d gotten decent rest, and he was of sound mind for the first time in a while. He jumped to his feet. “This can’t be happening.”

  “Really, we’re back to ‘this can’t be happening’? Jeez.” She stood. “Come on, Patrick. How else can you explain me?”

  “I’m having a breakdown. That’s got to be it.” And if not drinking didn’t help, then he would drink. A lot.

  Elizabeth followed Patrick as he stalked down the booze aisle at the grocery store, pushing a shopping cart with a wheel that kept spinning and throwing the cart off course. That didn’t stop his determined gait; if anything, it made him more forceful with the cart.

  If Elizabeth weren’t so irritated with his obstinate need for her to not be real and for him to be crazy, she would have found it funny or sad and pathetic. Or all three.

  While he’d been asleep, she considered appealing to his humanity: simply telling him she was desperate for help and about her brothers. But he was so dismissive. He barely acknowledged her, and the last thing she wanted was for him to brush off her brothers like they were nothing. She couldn’t handle that. When he believed she was real, she’d tell him. Until then, she would play it cool and continue to tamp down her roiling emotions.

  He was a mess. He hadn’t even changed out of his clothes from last night, which had been wrinkled to begin with. Now they were an embarrassment. The attractive man she’d seen on TV a month ago was nowhere to be found. Even his pretty blue-green eyes were too bloodshot to hold the same thrall they’d had. What had happened to the poor sucker?

  He stopped in the middle of the aisle and ran a hand through his messy, blond barrel curls while he examined the shelves. Finally, he loaded two jumbo-sized vodka bottles into the cart, then crossed to the refrigerated section and reached for six packs of Bloody Mary.

  She crossed her arms. “They make Bloody Marys in a can?”

  He froze for a second, his gaze shifting to her, then upwards in an eye roll. He said nothing, though, but he grabbed three six-packs, which was response enough. She couldn’t wait to see him juggle all of this on his walk back home.

  She cleared her throat. “Yeah, you’re right…”

  He slowed.

  “Getting drunk,” she continued. “That probably is the best way to deal with your problems. Especially at eight in the morning. Very healthy.”

  “Mind your business.” He turned off the aisle and passed a woman with a baby, grabbing diapers. The woman scooted out of his way.

  Elizabeth kept pace with him all the way to the checkstand. “You keep this up, and people will think you’re crazy.”

  The clerk saw him coming and smiled. “Mr. Daley, good morning. How are you?”

  He returned her smile, though it appeared difficult for him. “Alice, good morning.” He unloaded the three six-packs and two large bottles of vodka. “How are you?”

  Elizabeth was surprised he knew her name, but he’d known the doorman’s name too. It improved her opinion of him.

  Alice swiveled her hips as she scanned the alcohol. “Great now; it’s always nice to see you.”

  Elizabeth jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious—she’s hitting on you? What is she—eighteen?”

  Patrick spoke to her out of the side of his mouth. “Twenty.”

  “Oh, well, that’s appropriate.” Elizabeth moved past the checkstand and waited for him to pay. “You’re practically the same age. What are you, thirty-four?”

  He whipped his gaze to her, his card flipping out of his hand and hitting Alice in the face. “I’m twenty-eight!”

  Alice giggled a nervous kind of giggle as she swiped his card. “Oh, I don’t need your ID.”

  “Smooth,” Elizabeth said. “Real smooth.”

  He took his card back, with a sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

  “No worries.” Alice twirled a strand of her long brown hair around a finger. “Come back soon, Mr. Daley.”

  He gathered the two paper bags of alcohol, somehow managing it, but barely.

  “Unbelievable.” Elizabeth followed after him.

  “Go away.” They neared the exit where a stand with bouquets of flowers stood.

  “I’m not leaving until you help me.”

  “You’re not real.”

  Her ire rose to boiling levels as they reached the sta
nd. Throwing a fist at a protruding bouquet of sunflowers, she yelled, “I am!” Her hand made contact, and the bouquet went flying past him.

  They both froze.

  He nearly dropped one of his sacks. “Did you do that?”

  She placed her hands over her mouth.

  Alice came running.

  Patrick dragged his gaze from her to the young cashier. “I’m sorry, I don’t—”

  Picking up the flowers, Alice batted her lashes at him. “I saw the whole thing; you weren’t anywhere near it. It must have been the wind.”

  Elizabeth was stunned. She’d moved those flowers. She’d hit them with all the fury in her, and they’d soared. She lowered her hands.

  “Thank you,” Patrick said and rushed from the store.

  Elizabeth chased after him. “Did you see that?” That was so cool! Who knew spirits could do that? She’d certainly had no clue. She couldn’t remember her Sunday school teachers ever talking about it in church. In fact, she couldn’t remember any of her local church authorities ever talking about spirits, period. The afterlife, yes, but spirits, no. This was all new territory for her. She laughed. “I’m like Patrick Swayze from that one movie where he’s a ghost.”

  “Ghost.” His voice was a whisper, and she couldn’t tell if he was providing her the name of the movie or calling her one. She became even more uncertain when she glanced over at him. His face was pale as a… well, her. His cheeks, which had been a healthy rosy color this morning, were now a sickly gray.

  “Oh, right.” She chuckled. He knew. He knew she was real. It was the only thing that could explain his sudden change in countenance. He wasn’t even arguing with her anymore. “You believe me, don’t you? That I’m here?”

  Right before they reached his building, he looked at her and gave a slight nod.

  Chapter Six

  Patrick yanked open his refrigerator and shoved the cans of Bloody Mary onto the shelf.

  “If you believe I’m real, then why won’t you help me?” Elizabeth asked from behind him.

  It was too early for a philosophical debate. “Because I don’t want to.” He grabbed one of the cans and popped it open. Tomato juice sprayed onto his hand, and he licked it off.