How to Ditch Dead Guys (The Witch's Handbook Book 2) Page 5

  “Why? Are you on a diet?” She studies my waistline. “Real men like curves, not sticks.”

  “Listen—” I feel like I’m fighting my own mother. Walker’s mom doesn’t even know me, but she sure knows all the right buttons to push.

  “Emma, how about I walk you out to your car?” Walker grabs my arm and steers me toward the front door.

  We head down the driveway in icy silence. I keep waiting for him to apologize, to admit that he made a mistake.

  When we reach my car, he pauses. “Can you help me early tomorrow morning with another case?”

  I spin around. “You have some nerve, asking for a favor after what you just put me through.” Good grief! He’s not even going to apologize?

  He shrugs. “Mom can be a little overprotective.”

  “That’s not the word I’d choose.” I beep the unlock button twice for emphasis.

  “Really? Then what word would you choose for your mother?” Walker opens the car door for me. “As I recall, the first time she saw me at your place, she acted the same way.”

  “Actually, it’s not your mom’s fault. It’s your fault. Why’d you invite me over when your family was here, anyway?”

  “I’m sorry. I honestly forgot they were coming up today.” He clears his throat. “Plus, we were fighting before you even got here. Her friends keep setting me up on dates, and Mom’s pissed it never works out. She’s got grandchildren fever or something.”

  “Fine. But why didn’t you tell her that we’re not dating?”

  “What else am I going to tell her? That I’m just using you for your witchcraft abilities?”

  Glancing back up at the window, I see her spying on us. “I don’t know, but if you stay out here talking to me any longer, she’s going to chuck a casserole dish at my head. And I bet she has good aim.”

  Walker chuckles.

  “You think the stupidest things are funny.” I grumble, easing into my car. I’m not sure who bugs me more—Walker’s dysfunctional family or the shower snake waiting for me at home.

  alker calls early the next morning, as promised. “I’m waiting in your parking lot. Where are you?”

  “What? Already?” I moan. After a long night spent staring at the ceiling, waiting to be terrorized again and startling at any little sound, I only slept for what seemed like two minutes before Walker’s call. Ugh.

  “Are you gonna hurry up, or what?” he asks.

  “Grrr. Sometimes I hate you.” I hang up on his laughter.

  Again, my ragged reflection stares back at me from the bathroom mirror. I dig in my closet for another turtleneck to cover the bruises, and hurry downstairs. My cumbersome bag bounces off my sore hip.

  I slide into the passenger’s seat. “What’s the rush? Didn’t this murder happen months ago?”

  “Yes, which makes the family all the more desperate for answers.” He turns on the engine. The radio blares, I jump, and he turns down the volume. “They’ve been waiting since March.”

  “What’s her name again?” I ask, buckling my seat belt carefully to avoid any pain.

  Walker digs in his pocket and pulls out a key. “Mrs. Jennifer Pearson.”

  “Where did it happen?” I ask, dreading the answer. I shouldn’t have agreed to this, but how can I explain why I can’t help Walker when those voices won’t let me tell him the truth?

  He hands me the house key, then pulls out of the parking lot. “In her bedroom, but this time the house isn’t for sale. We don’t have to worry about any interruptions.”

  The key glimmers in my hand. I stare at it awhile then break away to gaze out the window. The houses slip by. One, two, three… it’s like counting sheep with attached three-car garages. Safe at last, I fall asleep until Walker parks in the driveway of another monstrous gray McMansion. I yawn and stretch.

  “College students… you never get enough sleep.” He shakes a finger at me. “You must party too much.”

  “Yeah, that’s me. I’m a real party animal.” I give him a thumbs up sign. “Listen, I forgot a few steps last time. I’ll need to gather some supplies.”

  “What kind of supplies? You won’t find any witchcraft candles hidden in their cupboards. You can trust me on that.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about. I only need some rocks and flowers and stuff.” This time I need to do the spell right—for my own protection.

  “Go for it.”

  Wincing, I haul my bag of tricks toward the front steps. I pause to grab a handful of landscaping rocks and drop them into my purse. Once inside the house, I crane my ears for any strange voices, but hear only silence. A vase of fresh flowers rests on a table near the front entry. I nick a bud and pocket it as I ascend the stairs.

  A slight tremble in my hands, I arrange candles around the bedroom and master bath. This time, I brought Grandma’s wooden bowl. I can’t believe I forgot it before. But it’s Walker’s fault-he rushed me. Perhaps using it-along with being more careful—will protect me. I made a mistake last time. I didn’t do the spell correctly. I’m not losing control.

  I glance toward the nearest sunny window to find a black moth plastered on the glass. My heart stutters. “Walker… is there any way we could do this tonight instead?”

  He barely glances up as he texts into his phone. “Why? Is there something else you’d rather be doing right now?”

  “Yes-sleeping, but that’s not what I meant.” I glance around, seeking something to comfort and protect me, but I know it’s a lost cause. “I think things might go better if we did this under the moon… a full moon, preferably.”

  Walker stops typing. “Did you have a full moon when you did Steve’s spell?”

  I think back. “No. One night after. So almost full.” I wait, wishing he’d abort this mission at least for the moment.

  “Just try it.” He starts texting again. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll come back again during a full moon.”

  “Okay. Fine.” I grit my teeth, prepared for the worst. My stomach clenches.

  I fill Grandma’s wooden bowl with sink water, place it at my feet, take a shaky breath, and begin to chant:

  “I call upon the elements of Air…”

  I peel apart the bud, cradling the petals in one hand.

  “Water…”

  I sprinkle petals over and around Grandma’s bowl in the center of the Magic Ring.

  “Earth…”

  Within the Magic Ring, I build a small pentagram of rocks.

  “And Fire… Watch over me!”

  The flames sputter and take hold as I light the candles.

  “Guard and guide me during these rites.

  Protect me during this… day as I call upon the… Sun.”

  I pause. “Are you sure we can’t do this tonight?”

  Walker spreads his hands wide, exasperated. “Don’t worry. It worked last time, didn’t it? Have some faith in yourself.”

  He doesn’t know what he’s asking.

  My shoulders tense as I continue the ritual, dreading the outcome.

  “Let us see

  The treachery.

  Expose the crime

  From back in time.

  Bring forth, bring down

  Let truth be found.

  Draw back the veil

  That hides the tale.

  Show us the fear

  That once lived here.”

  Silently, I add, Jennifer, please protect me. I’m trying to help you.

  Walker frowns, disappointed that the vision doesn’t roll forth like a home movie. “Well, hopefully this will be like last time, and you’ll call me later with your report.” He turns away and puts his phone to his ear.

  I watch for any signs of movement, but this time nothing dances on the sink.

  “Maybe.” Too bad he doesn’t know what he’s wishing for.

  I settle into a cross-legged position to watch the candles burn down, then blow them out and gather them up after they are halfway melted. As I reach for the ones encircling
the bed, the edge of the comforter lurches toward my outstretched hand. A thin trail of dark smoke curls out from underneath the fabric.

  I gasp and draw back. My heart starts to pound so loudly I swear Walker should be able to hear it.

  “Yes, Mom, I’ll be home soon.” Walker speaks into his phone across the room, his back to me.

  There must be a cat under the bed or something. I grab the comforter, but when I lift the heavy fabric, there’s nothing but a fat mattress and solid wooden frame. A chill penetrates my bones.

  A high-pitched hum fills the air, but Walker doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Let’s get out of here.” I grab the rest of my supplies in a rush.

  “Is something wrong, Emma? You’re shivering again. Why are you always cold? Is there something wrong with your thyroid gland? Maybe you should go to the doctor.”

  “I’m fine,” I lie, dashing down the stairs. “But thanks for asking about my hormones.”

  Walker trails behind me, texting again. “I’m afraid Mom isn’t pleased that I’m working on my day off. She called to remind me that brunch is getting cold.”

  “Momma’s boy.” I mask my words with a cough, as we reach the front door.

  He sighs. “And she’s not pleased that I don’t want to quit my job.”

  “What?” I swing around. “Why would you quit?” What would I do without him? I’ve lost everyone else.

  Walker clears his throat. “Mom’s under the impression that my job here was meant to be temporary, to get a few years experience in before moving on. She wants me to work in Milwaukee or Madison, somewhere closer to home.”

  Forcing myself to be fair, I don’t ask him to stay. “Well, what do you want?”

  “Right now, I’m too busy working on these cases with you to think about anything else.” Walker gestures at my bag of witchcraft goods. “Especially Steve’s. I don’t want to leave town before we put his murderers in jail. But I can’t exactly tell Mom that.”

  The breath I was holding releases. “So, what did you say to her?”

  Walker busies himself with opening the front door. “I… uh… told her I’m your grief counselor and can’t leave you now.”

  I halt in place as he hurries out the door. “What?”

  He turns back. “You know. About Mike. And because I know what you’re going through since my friend Billy drowned when we were kids, remember?”

  “Yeah, of course I remember.” Now I feel bad, reminding him of that. “But I don’t like looking pathetic, or having people feel sorry for me.”

  He rolls his eyes. “That’s not the worst thing in the world that could happen to you.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “But that excuse didn’t work out too well. Mom envisions us sitting around, wallowing in grief and guilt, and doesn’t think this is healthy for either of us. She’s determined that I leave town. And soon.”

  I pause on the front step. Maybe she has a point. It would be nice not to feel guilty all the time. But Walker leaving won’t fix me.

  “Sorry I’m always telling you about our arguments, but I guess you’re used to that, right?”

  “Huh?” I shake off my train of thought.

  He shrugs. “Steve told me you always fight with your mom.”

  “I do not,” I huff. “Mom and I get along fine.” Thanks a lot, Steve. Mind your own business.

  Walker raises his brows. “I’m sure you do, because you’re such an easy person to get along with.”

  I glare at him as we approach his truck. “You always think you know so much about me.”

  “I do know a lot about you.” He smirks.

  Not this time, he doesn’t. I brace myself. He needs to know what’s going on with me. “Listen, Walker, I have to tell you something. It’s import—”

  A dark cloud catches my eye. But it’s not a rain cloud; it’s a clustering of black moths headed our way. They swarm my head, catch in my hair, and flutter against my ears.

  I scream, my knees buckling beneath me.

  A downpour drenches me. I’m soaked, still fighting off the moths.

  I scramble, flinging my arms to knock down the flying insects until there are none left.

  My vision clears. Walker comes back into focus, two water bottles in hand. I lean against his vehicle, legs shaking. Water drips from my hair.

  I glance down. My shirt clings to my chest.

  “Hey, this isn’t a wet T-shirt contest!” I unstick the shirt from my skin.

  “What the Hell is wrong with you?” Walker gawks at me like I’ve lost my mind, which is a good possibility. “I thought you were having a seizure or something. Are you epileptic? Because you should’ve told me.”

  “No.” I attempt to squeeze the water out of my shirt.

  “Are you sick?” He tosses the empty water bottles in the back of his truck.

  “No.” Not physically, anyway. Maybe mentally.

  “Are you trying to hide something from me again?” Walker narrows his eyes. “I thought you were done with all that. I’ll find out anyway, so I wish you’d just spit it out.”

  I only wish I could.

  I focus on breathing, because that’s the only thing I’m capable of at the moment.

  “What is it, Emma?” He comes closer, inspecting me like some bug on a pin. “Tell me.”

  My throat constricts each time I try to talk. There’s no use. I can’t tell him, even though I’m dying to. I wish he would figure it out on his own, because this time I guess he’ll have to.

  Walker takes my arm, his touch a lot more gentle than I’d expect. “Come on. I’ll take you home. Or I can take you to the doctor—”

  “No! No doctor!” I can finally speak, but say nothing of significance. “I’m just having trouble sleeping.”

  Walker stares at me, suspicious. “I believe it. You look like Hell.”

  He doesn’t know the half of it. I only wish he did.

  I wave half-heartedly as he pulls away from my apartment parking lot. Staring at the building, an unexpected wave of homesickness hits me. I dig out my phone and call my parents, but have to leave a message. I force my voice to be chipper as I invite them to visit later this month. The bruises should be gone by then. As I slip the phone back in my pocket, something slithers across the sidewalk in front of me. I jump back with a shriek.

  Oh, grow up! It’s just a harmless garter snake.

  I shake off my fears and head inside, checking my empty mail slot before I hike upstairs. Heart racing, I cross the threshold, my right hand in a fist. I creep through each room, straining my ears in the silence. I scan the walls for errant moths, the space under closed doors for curls of smoke, and find nothing out of place.

  What if I’m making all this up? Is that possible?

  I change and go for a walk to calm my nerves, pausing near the edge of the river to stare at the spot where Mike and I entered the waters that stole him away. I miss him, and all the other souls I accidentally summoned along with him.

  Especially Jake. If he were still here, he’d fix everything. He’d force me to tell him what’s wrong. Somehow I’d get past the choking and coughing, and tell him the truth.

  But no, the river took them all away.

  None of them can help me now.

  ack at the apartment, I jump at every sound. After a quick shower, I lie on top of the bed, resting my wet head on the pillow.

  Much later, I wake under a dark forested canopy. At first, I’m not sure where I am or even who I am.

  One certain fear pounds in my head: He’s going to kill me!

  But who is he?

  I’m no longer Emma Roberts. I’m Jennifer Pearson and I’m in trouble, big time. I roll to one side, scramble off the ground, and push through the underbrush. Branches whip my legs and face, but their repeated stings hurt far less than my black eye and bruised ribs. If only I could move faster, but a shooting pain in my groin hampers my gait.

  I’m almost there, I tell myself. God, if you get me
out of this, I swear I’ll never cheat on my husband again.

  The trees thin as I near the parking lot. Fumbling in my pockets for the keys, I sob in relief.

  Out of nowhere, he attacks from the side and knocks me down. I scramble to get off the ground, but he kicks me full in the stomach. Screaming obscenities, bloody spit flying from his mouth, he strikes me over and over. I’m swimming in pain, struggling not to pass out.

  Then he kneels on top of me, and rips at my torn shirt. He’s going to kill me! Hands shaking, I jab him in the eyes with my car keys.

  He screams and falls away.

  Sticky blood stains my fingers.

  I lurch off the ground and lunge for the car. My hands quiver so much it’s hard to get the key in the lock. But I get inside and the engine roars to life.

  I made it!

  He charges toward my car, his feet slipping on the pavement.

  I hit the automatic locks three times, then speed off, tires squealing.

  Why didn’t I run him over while I had the chance?

  Breathing hurts. Every part of my body aches. I glance in the rearview mirror. I’m half-dressed, covered with blood, and beaten. How will I explain this to my husband? Will he ever forgive me?

  Too scared to go to the hospital or call the police, I drive home, stash my ripped blouse in the bottom of the neighbors’ outdoor garbage can, and shower. I can’t stop the cut on my lip from bleeding. Trembling, I dig out my long flannel pajamas. I have to cover up some of these bruises.

  The garage door opens as I comb through my wet hair.

  Footfalls sound on the stairs.

  What am I going to tell my husband? I brace myself, finally ready to tell him the truth.

  We’ll get counseling. We’ll figure this out.

  I turn to face him.

  But my husband isn’t home.

  The wrong guy darkens the doorway, backlit by the hall light.

  Blood spattered across his face, the bastard comes for me.

  I’m frozen in place. I can’t do a thing to stop him.

  My screams echo in my head. Everything careens to black and painful.

  Then only the black remains.