When I got home, I found everyone in the family room. Buddha was on the floor by Dad’s feet. Ebony was curled on Serge’s lap.
“Hey.” I dropped my jacket on the couch arm. “Uh, I need to talk to Serge about…” I moved to him and gently sank to the chair. The furnace breathed to life and the drone of heated air filled the room.
He scratched the cat’s forehead.
“Um, how are you doing?”
The urge to say something sarcastic passed like lightning across his face. “I’m okay.”
Dad’s phone beeped. He looked down then gestured to the television. “I thought he might want to watch the football game with me.” Setting down the cell, he asked, “What did you want to talk to Serge about? Should I leave?”
I shook my head. Reaching over, I took the ghost’s hand. “I have a theory about your mom’s death but I need your help.” I paused. “And I need you to stay calm.”
Wary, he nodded.
“Amber is pregnant. Had you lived, what would you have done when you found out?”
“Gone to the cops,” he said.
Ebony preened, stretched her front legs and purred.
Serge smiled and rubbed her forehead.
“Why?” I asked.
“If he wanted to screw her, fine, but no way am I changing diapers and pretending his kid’s mine.”
Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. “Is that the only reason?”
“What do you mean?”
Dad tracked the conversation on his cell.
“Your mom—would you have outed him for her?”
“Of course.” He said it as though I was the world’s biggest idiot. “She’d have been humiliated. It’s one thing for him to sneak around but to have that kid in her face…”
“That’s what I thought,” I sighed.
Dad moved to us. “What’s going on?”
I looked at Serge. “Give me the cat.”
“What? Why?”
“Because if you blow up, I don’t want her hurt.”
“I’m not going to—”
“Give me Ebony.”
“Maggie—”
“Hand her over.”
He scowled but did as I asked. I gave her furry head a kiss and set her down.
“Maggie?” asked Dad.
“Serge—and this is only a question—” I held up my hands in a surrender gesture. “Is it possible that your mom may have been the one—” He looked at me, earnest and focused, and the words stuck in my throat. I blinked back the tears of sympathy and pity. “Is it possible that she is responsible for your death.”
His breath left his body in a forceful whoosh.
I tensed.
Serge’s head dropped to his chest.
After a few seconds, I tentatively reached out and touched his knee.
“I wondered why I couldn’t remember the murder,” he said dully. “It seemed so obvious that he did it, and so stupid that I couldn’t…” He lifted his head and swallowed. His eyes were bleak as he said, “It’s the only thing that makes sense, isn’t it?” His lips compressed into a tight line. “But I can’t believe it. She was my mom—she’d never—”
Dad looked up from his cell and we exchanged glances.
Serge rose to his feet. “She wouldn’t.” His jaw worked up and down. “He killed me. He killed her, too and I can prove it.”
I frowned. “How?”
“The flash drive. It’s documentation of abuse. Somewhere there are hospital records that will back it up.”
“But your dad took it—”
“Yeah, I still know how to get into the house.” He stretched out his hand. “Please, Maggie. Help me prove my mom didn’t do this to me or herself.”
Dad gave me a small nod.
I grabbed my jacket. “Let’s go.”