It’s my wedding ring.
36
I stare wide-eyed at the coin and the ring with my pulse throbbing and a scream trapped inside my chest, knowing that there’s something extremely significant here that I’m missing.
When I glance up at Claire, she says calmly, “Call the detective.”
I whisper, “How did my ring fall through the ceiling?”
“Call the detective, Kayla. We don’t have much time.”
“What do you mean? What’s happening?”
Outside, the storm is gathering power. Rain lashes the windows and roof. Thunder booms and lightning crackles. It seems as if the house itself sits in the center of a tornado and is about to be ripped right off the ground and launched into space.
From her other pocket, Claire removes my cell phone. She must’ve picked it up from my desk. She thrusts it at me, insisting, “Make the call!”
Panicked, I grab the phone from her hand. Crossing the kitchen, I rummage through the open drawer next to the stove where I keep all the junk. I find the detective’s business card and dial his number with shaking fingers.
A woman answers, her tone clipped. “Seattle PD, how can I assist you?”
“Detective Roman Peters, please.”
There’s a pause, then she says, “Are you a friend of his, ma’am?”
What a strange question. “What? No. No, he helped me a while back. My husband was in an accident, and he interviewed me and gave me his card. I’d like to speak with him, please. It’s urgent.”
I glance up to see Claire and Fiona standing beside the kitchen table, encouraging me with smiles and nods.
The woman on the other end of the line says, “I’m sorry, but that’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Detective Peters passed on.”
I’m in such a state of agitation, I don’t understand her meaning. “Passed on? You mean he was promoted to another department?”
“No, ma’am. He died. Sudden cardiac arrest. I’ll transfer you to the extension of his replacement, Detective Brown. Please hold.”
I hear a click, then brief silence. Then a recording of a man’s voice plays, instructing me to leave my number.
I disconnect, feeling strangely numb.
Fiona prompts, “Well, what did they say?”
“He’s dead. Detective Peters is dead. He died of a heart attack.”
“When?”
“She didn’t say. Why does it matter?”
Shaking her head in impatience, Claire opens the laptop and taps the power button. She pulls up the internet browser and starts to type.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking up the office of the county recorder. We can check the property records for this address to discover who owned the house before you.” She clicks around for a minute, then types into a search bar. Then she stands back, frowning.
“What is it?”
“Was the deed to this property recorded in someone else’s name?”
“No. It should be listed as Michael and Kayla Reece.” I walk closer and peer over her shoulder at the screen. “Who the hell are Sandy and David Wainwright? It says they bought this house in January!”
Somewhere upstairs, another door slams. I hear the sound of running feet, then a child’s laughter.
My breath catches.
Looking upward, I say, “Wait. The little boy. We’re forgetting about him. If Dante’s the ghost in this house…who’s the kid? And what about the man in the trench coat and hat? How does he fit into all this?”
When I look back at Claire and Fiona, they’re wearing identical expressions of sadness, along with another emotion I’ve seen before. I saw it on Destiny’s face, the psychic I visited who wished me safe travels as I was leaving. It’s unmistakable.
It’s pity.
Unnerved, I demand, “Why are you guys looking at me like that?”
Claire says gently, “It’s all right, Kayla. Don’t be afraid. There’s nothing to be afraid of, my dear.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Give me the phone, dear.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to call the police station again.”
“What for?”
“I think there’s something you should know.”
“Like what?”
“Give me the phone.”
An overwhelming feeling of wrongness overtakes me. I back up a step. My blood turns to ice. All the hair on my arms stands on end, and I begin to hyperventilate.
The storm outside rages.