Remember That Time I Wrote a Book?

Remember when I ran three miles a day and dried my hair and wore eyeliner? Remember that other time I was an author? (Yes, I'm still doing that. It's in the works, man.) And remember that other, other time when I was posting chapters of the book I was working on. Remember when I worked for no one but Maragreg and Cousin Emily? I still work super, super part time for them, writing their favorite necromancer and reaper love story. This is for them because they are my fandom, and I must take care of my fangirls. If not, they will turn on me.

And I've been having so much fun at SJCDS. I've been with the Pre-Ks for almost two weeks. They are adorable, but exhausting, much like my own Ben. I also spent last night at the Spartan's football game. I'm loving coaching cheerleading and being involved with the school. Spartans for life!

This is horrible and full of plot holes and typos, but here you go. Sorry it took me so long.

Chapter 8

 

            “I didn’t do that. I swear,” I say, holding my hands up like I’m surrendering to Sheriff Michaels. The plastic orange chairs are all knocked to their side, and glass is littered across the floor, making it look like a disco ball exploded. “Lights break on their own all the time.”  I back away from all of them, wanting run. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m scared I broke the light or if I’m scared that I didn’t. What other explanation for it could there be?

But I’m not a witch. I have no powers besides raising the dead, Right? Right?  

            With his eyebrows drawn together, the sheriff studies me for a moment. “We’ll call you if we need any other help.”

“You believe me?” I ask, because no one ever does, and here I’ve got to adults who are listening to what I have to say.

“You should go home, Cass,” Sheriff Michaels says, not answering my question. “We need to clean this up.”

            As I walk away, I hear the receptionist chime in and ask them, “You believe her?”

            Instead of exiting the police station, I head down the hall that must lead to the holding cells that are located at the back of the building. The receptionist, Mr. Moore, and Sheriff Michaels are too busy to pay any attention to me. I stop just out of their sight, hide behind a fake plastic plant, and listen to what they have to say about me.

“Yes,” Mr. Moore replies. “Remember when my wife went missing.” There’s stretch of silence, and then he adds, “My first wife, Brittany’s mother. She disappeared right after Brittany was born. Everyone just thought she went crazy and left me, but I knew it wasn’t true. No one would believe me, though. At least until Judy Charon came to see me. She is the one who spoke to her ghost and found the body. Cass has the same abilities. If Cass is seeing Brittany, it can’t be a good sign. My daughter will be dead soon if we don’t do something.”

“Blake Harrington was the last person to see her, right?” Sheriff Michaels asks.

“Yes. He came over, but she didn’t invite him in. They stayed on the porch. I could hear them arguing from inside. He raised his voice to my baby girl, so I went out there and told him to leave her alone. He left, but as he got into his car, he yelled, ‘This isn’t over, Brittany!’. Then he sped off in his BMW. I’ve never liked the kid. So smug and self-righteous.”

I wanted to leave my hiding place and high-five Mr. Moore because he was possibly the only person in Ravines that felt the same way I did about Blake.

“Get him down here for questioning right away,” Sheriff Michaels says to the receptionist. “And Call Kyle Travis over in the Jacksonville FBI unit. He is already in town for another investigation. Tell him to get over here right away. If Brittany didn’t run away, we need to find her.”

             Mr. Moore leaves and they call in a maintenance man to clean up the mess I made. I don’t want to think about the lights that I may or may not have made explode and the fact that last night, I made out with the guy who is lead suspect in a girl’s disappearance, so I duck into the ladies’ room.

I splash water on my face, and as I straighten up, Reiner appears behind me. “Damn it!” I yell, flinching at the sight of him, not only because he startles me, but because his appearance truly is unnerving.

The florescent lights wash out his complexion even more than it usually is, making his veins appear black against the alabaster of his skin. His scars are more prominent, the arch across his throat red, like its fresh. I half-expect to see blood gush from the wound at any second.

            “It’s impolite to sneak up on people,” I say. “It’s also rude to show up in the girls’ restroom when you’re so obviously a male.” I glance down to his biceps, which are encased in his tight military sweater. I look away, hoping he doesn’t notice. Oh, but he does.

            “Is that a compliment?” he asks, raising his eyebrows at me.

            “Shut up,” I mutter.

            He smirks in return. I roll my eyes and look back at myself in the mirror. “Do I look any different to you?” I ask him. It’s a dumb question since we just met. How would he know if I’d changed? I fishing to see if I suddenly look like a witch.

            “You look the same as you have in my dreams,” he replies. “The wild blond hair, green eyes who has seen more death than life, and a mouth that doesn’t smile as often as it should.”

            I roll my eyes at him. “Stop trying to flirt with me,” I say. “You don’t dream about me.”

He shrugs. “You have dreamed of me, have you not? Why cannot I see our future together also?”

“It’s not our future. It’s just dreams, nothing more.” Curious, I want to ask him what he’s seen about me.

“Do you know what your name means?” he asks.

“I was named after my mother’s high school best friend.”

He shakes his head. “Cassandra literally means prophet. You are a soothsayer.”

I laugh out loud, and it lasts so long that I sound as crazy as everyone in town thinks I am. I clear my throat, and look back to Reiner. He isn’t smiling. Instead his eyes are narrowed, like he doesn’t understand laughter.

“Reiner, if I’m such a prophetess, I’d have much better grades in Algebra. And I never would have come into this bathroom because I would have known I’d see you here, when all I want to do is avoid you.”

One corner of his pale lips turn up. 

But what if he’s right? I did see myself with him in the Afterworld, and I can still remember what his hand felt like in mine, the warmth of Purgatory’s fires, and the happiness that bloomed within me. What if these visions are the start of some unknown part of my power? Maybe I’m seeing Brittany’s future as well as my own.

“I can’t foresee the anything,” I say, not wanting to believe any of it.

“Have you seen how you will die?” he asks.

He starts toward me, but I rush out of the bathroom. All the Reaper has to do it touch me and I’m dead. Once I’m in the hall, I look back, expecting him to be right behind me, but I’m alone. I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m dealing with enough. I’ve got to look up a spell to banish the Reaper from my life.

            I stop walking when I realize what I just said. A spell. What if I am what I’ve always denied? A witch. I stumble down the hall, like a drunk woman trying to find her way home. I’m not a witch. I’m not one if I say I’m not. I’m not.

            I go back out to the lobby. The glass has been cleaned up and the chairs put back where they belong. All proof of what happened is gone. See? I’m not a witch.

I’m about to leave the police station, but duck back behind the fake plant again when the

doors to the police station swing open and Blake strolls in. Despite myself and everything I’ve learned about him, my stomach still does a little flip flop when I spot him.

“I’m here to see Sheriff Michaels,” Blake says, giving the sixty year old receptionist his best smile. Her wrinkled skin turns pink at the cheeks. Then she spills her coffee when he leans unto her desk.

See. I’m not the only one who turns into an idiot when Blake is around. As he helps her clean up the mess, I duck back behind the plant, making sure he can’t see me when he straightens up.

If Blake and I make eye contact, I’m afraid I might punch him in one of his sultry green eyes. I don’t think assaulting someone while in a police station would be a good idea.

Before Blake can sit in the waiting area, a plain-clothes detective leads comes out to greet him.

“I’m Special Agent Travis,” he says, holding out his hand for Blake to shake. Dressed in a cheap navy suit, the FBI agent’s young age is apparent. He’s maybe ten years older than me, much too young to be taking on a case like this.

Travis shows Blake into the room, so I emerge from my hiding place behind the tree. Since the receptionist is reading a bodice-ripping romance novel and paying no attention to me, I step up to the interrogation room, and lean against the door, hold my breath, and since the city of Ravines didn’t swing for a sound proof interrogation room, I can hear everything.

            “When was the last time you saw Brittany?” asks Agent Travis.

            “Last Sunday. She came over to my house. We . . .” Blake’s voice trails off.

            “We know about the fight, Blake.”

            Blake sighs. “We broke up.”

            “I bet you were angry.”

            “No. I felt relieved. I didn’t want to be with her any more, hadn’t for a long time.  We weren’t that serious to begin with. We went out when we weren’t seeing anyone else. Brittany knew how to have a good time.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

            “I bet she did,” I say out loud. I still clamp my hand over my mouth as I glance at the receptionist, certain she had to have heard me, but she’s still busy reading about bulging biceps and heaving bosoms.

            “You and Brittany were together for almost a year. Sounds pretty serious to me,” Travis says. “Were you sleeping with her?”

            I perk up at this because I want know, too.

            “I don’t think that has anything to do with her disappearance,” Blake responds.

“Just answer the question.”

“Like I said, we were causal,” he says, keeping his answer vague. “It’s not like we were in love. Our parents were friends, and we just . . . it was complicated. Besides, I’m underage. You shouldn’t be asking me these questions about my sex life without a parent or an attorney present.”

“Do you need an attorney?” Travis asks.

“No. But it’s illegal for you to question me about anything while I’m underage and under duress.”

            “Oh, Mr. Harrington, we’re not forcing you to be here.”

“Then let me go,” Blake replies.

“We’ll release you. . .” Travis says, ending on a dramatic pause. “For now. But answer one last question. Where were you last Sunday night after you left Brittany?”

            “With my mom.”

            “A good looking, single guy like you was home on a summer night with his mother?”

            “Yes. What are you so worried about? Brittany does crap like this all the time to get attention. She always comes back.”

“We have reason to believe Brittany is being held against her will.”

“What?” Blake’s voice cracks a little.

“Brittany is missing, and you’re the last person to see her.”

“How do you know she’s missing?” Blake asks.

After a moment of silence, someone I didn’t even know was in the room speaks. “Cass Charon was in here this afternoon,” Sheriff Michaels says. “She’s been having dreams.”

“Cass sees dead people,” Blake says. “Not girls who have gone missing.”

“Maybe Brittany is already dead. Maybe you killed her,” Sheriff Michaels replies.

“Wait,” Agent Travis says. “You called me down here because of what some charlatan said? That’s all the evidence you have?”

“The Charons have helped me before on cases,” Sheriff Michaels says. “I trust them.”

“Then you’re a fool,” Agent Travis says. “Mr. Harrington, you’re free to go. And I must apologize for the unprofessional behavior of the Ravines’ police department.”

A moment later, the door to the interrogation room opens, and I almost fall over myself making sure I can’t be seen. I don’t even chance watching Blake leave, but I hear the door to the police precinct slam. I remain where I am for a minute, listening the Sheriff Michaels and Agent Travis argue over the sheriff’s ineptitude and me being a crazy witch.

            After looking through the front window, making sure Blake’s navy BMW isn’t in the lot anymore, I exit the station, and head out to my car. I crank the key, but the ignition doesn’t start. I slam my hand into the steering wheel, causing it to vibrate and making my hand sting.

I swear a lot and eventually get the car started. As I wait at the stoplight, I close my eyes, suddenly so tired I want to sleep right there in the intersection. The light is red so I have thirty seconds or so to myself. I try to think about butterflies and birthday cake, but all I can see is a dirty cabin where Brittany is being held.

I squeeze my eyes tighter, trying to force of vision, so I can see anything helpful. Nothing comes. Then I think about Blake. Could the police be right? Could he be a viable suspect? He had opportunity, motive, and the means. Brittany certainly had a romantic relationship with her kidnapper. I close my eyes and try to remember the guy’s voice. It didn’t sound exactly like Blake’s, but maybe Blake has some unknown talent at disguising his voice. I think I remember something about him being in a play once.

But could Blake really kidnap and torture someone? Even if he didn’t get along with Brittany, I don’t see him doing something so awful. Blake is all charm and smiles, but then again, he kissed me last summer while he was still technically with Brittany.

I don’t know what’s worse, suspecting him of kidnapping or cheating. He’s handsome and kind, but how well do I really know him? How well can you really know anyone?