“Faith is but a breath away from fear. Just breathe and believe…” — The Book of Stolen Secrets
Pushed up against the wall, Margot stared back at Malcolm as the pressure of his hand against her throat tightened yet further. She was about to pass out and she didn’t have the strength to fight back.
Corded veins stood out against Malcolm’s reddened neck as he gritted out, “Don't ever—”
Suddenly, Malcolm flew backward. She caught his stunned expression as his body twisted in the air and tumbled to the ground. Malcolm slid across the floor and hit the back of his head against the wall with a loud whack.
Gasping in a lungful air, Margot stared back in shock. How? Who? Flattening both palms against the wall on either side of her, she glanced around, but no one else was in the room with them.
Fear etched across his face, Malcolm scrambled to his feet, touched the base of his head, and backed slowly down the hall to the front entrance.
There was no way she'd managed to shove Malcolm off like that. It was almost as if he'd had some type of crazy spasm or someone had grabbed him from behind and thrown him across the room. But that was ludicrous.
“What—what happened?” Margot asked in a voice gone harsh and raw.
Still touching his head with one hand, his face a sick, pasty white, Malcolm edged closer to the front door, caution in his every step and look. He sneered back at her. “You figure it out.”
He disappeared out the door, leaving it open for a frosty breeze to blow into the house and brush against her skin. Shivering, she stepped around the forgotten garbage bag and closed the door after him. She leaned against the wood paneling, unable to stand properly without having her legs give out from under her.
“Is that you, Johnny?” she whispered.
She waited.
No answer.
But then, Margot never really expected one. For a moment, though, she'd hoped. Hoped? When was the last time she’d hoped for anything? After too many years of too many unanswered wishes.
It had to be her brother, though. How else could Malcolm suddenly fly through the air like that? But that was so crazy and so unlike Johnny. He’d been such a mild-mannered man. A man of science, a man who worked with his brain and not his hands. Then again, he’d been protecting her. Something she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to act on.
She needed a drink. Bad. She pushed off the door and hurried into the kitchen. With fumbling fingers, she uncorked a fresh bottle of red wine and poured herself a healthy glass. Closing her eyes, she drank, drank until the shaking stopped, drank until a numbness settled over her body, drank until she didn’t care about hope, about her ex threatening her, about her meaningless life...about ghosts.
Then Malcolm’s words rang in her head.
You figure it out.
What could he mean? What was it that she needed to figure out? Obviously, it was something he thought she should know. Or maybe not. Maybe Malcolm was just being his usual snide self. But then why had he shown up today?
You figure it out. Something about her? Miltronics? Jake? Or maybe Johnny?
So many questions. And she didn’t have an answer to any of them.
Grabbing the bottle and her glass, she sat down by the kitchen table and threw her feet up on an adjacent chair. After refilling her glass and recapping the bottle, she slouched further in her seat.
What did she need to figure out? She rubbed her brow. Pain throbbed between her eyes and against her temples. She didn’t want to figure it out. Not now. Not when all this thinking was killing her head.
The doorbell sounded. She staggered from her chair. Shaking her head to clear it, she almost ran into the dark green, plastic bag filled with garbage she’d forgotten about in her hurry to get to the door. This time, she glanced through the side window and saw Joyce with her brother, Carl.
“Shit.”
Margot didn’t want company, especially Joyce’s brother. Carl didn’t miss an opportunity to hit on her. The only thing that had kept her from slapping him silly was her friendship with Joyce. But, oh, the temptation had been there to do some serious damage to that ego of his, especially since he’d always been a self-righteous chauvinist. Being one of only three deputy’s in the town and surrounding area seemed to magnify his holier-than-thou attitude.
She swept her fingers through her hair to get the tangles out and took a couple of deep breaths, having the stupid hope that the added oxygen might clear her muddled head. It didn’t work. She thought about not answering, but with her Cherokee parked outside, Joyce wasn’t liable to leave without at least seeing Margot’s face.
When she opened the door, Joyce took one look at her and rushed inside. Carl followed more sedately and closed the door.
“What happened?” Joyce demanded, frowning in great concern. “You look like hell.”
“Malcolm was here and—”
“Shit.” Carl’s skin turned pallid. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
Carl hefted his pants up and gave her a tough man look. The image of a strong deputy, with pressed uniform and shiny gun, riding into town was ruined by what looked like a grease stain on his potbelly, which Margot considered the biggest muscle on his body. From as far back as she could remember, he’d been more bulk than brawn.
“Of course he did,” Joyce answered for her. “Why of all—”
“No, Joyce,” Margot forestalled her. “He didn’t get a chance to touch me. Something pulled him off me.”
“What do you mean ‘something pulled him off’ you?” Joyce asked.
“Just that.” God, the drink was loosening her tongue. She glanced at Carl, then took Joyce’s elbow and led them further down the hall and out of his earshot. Carl loved gossip and ranked up there with the town’s worst. Whoever said women loved to talk obviously hadn’t been around a bunch of men for any length of time.
After letting go of her friend’s arm, Margot massaged the bridge of her nose—anything to try to clear her head. “Malcolm had me up against the wall when something—don’t ask me what—grabbed him and flung him into the air. He never saw the ground coming. I don’t know what happened. It was almost like a ghost.”
“You’ve got to be joking. A ghost?” The disbelief on Joyce’s face was unmistakable.
“Yes, a ghost,” Margot retorted in a hushed voice.
Joyce sniffed, and a look of reproof flashed in her eyes. “You’ve been drinking, haven’t you? Now that I think of it, I can smell it on your breath.”
“I had a glass or two after it happened,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t have anything to do with what just happened. Malcolm was there. He’d be the first to admit—”
“What’s wrong?” Carl walked over to them.
Margot sent Joyce a fierce look and answered, “Nothing.”
“I thought I heard you mention ghosts.”
Margot bit back a snappy retort. She didn’t need to antagonize the local law enforcement.
“Margot thinks a ghost attacked Malcolm,” Joyce said.
She winced. It sounded far worse coming from someone else.
Carl hooked his thumbs over his waistband and rocked back on his heels. “A ghost, you say?”
“Yes,” Joyce answered for her. “But she’s been drinking. So...”
Margot disliked the conspiratorial look that passed between them.
“You need to lay off the bottle, Margot,” Carl said. “It’s not doing you any good. Next you’ll be talking vampires.” Exposing a set of big, white teeth, he deepened his voice. “I vaaant to suuuck your blooood.”
He laughed at his lousy impression of Count Dracula, and Joyce joined in. Margot wanted to hit them both.
Still chuckling, Joyce flapped a hand. “Don’t even start talking about vampires. She’s got this guy who’s renting a room from her, and he only shows up at night. Talk about weird. He could be some blood sucking vampire for all we know.”
“Thanks guys.”
Immediately, Joyce turned serious. “Oh, jeez, Margot. I’m sorry. That wasn’t very nice. But really. It’s hard to swallow. Ghosts. You yourself told me that they were only stories. Maybe staying here by yourself isn’t such a good idea after all.”
“You don’t understand. You weren’t there.”
“Why don’t you just sleep it off,” Carl urged. He kneaded her shoulder with a big, meaty hand, which she immediately shrugged off. “Maybe after you’re sober—”
A loud crash reverberated through the hall. All three jumped and looked over to the wall where a picture had slipped from its mooring and fallen to the floor.
“See.” Margot pointed. “That’s exactly what I mean. Ever since Johnny—”
“Margot,” Carl interrupted. “A picture fell. You’re reading into something that ain’t there.”
She wanted to scream in frustration and get it through their heads that pictures didn’t fall off walls by themselves. Instead, she changed the subject. “Why are the two of you here, anyway?”
Joyce smiled. “We were going to have lunch and thought you might want to get out for a bit. The forecast has another storm coming in, so you could be holed up here for a while. And actually, it was Carl’s idea.”
Margot could just bet. Sometimes Joyce could be as thick skinned as her brother. Couldn’t either one of them see she wasn’t interested in Carl? She knew Joyce wanted her in the family, but Margot wasn’t about to get involved with some self-important deputy with macaroni for brains. Not even for her best friend.
“Maybe another time,” she said. “Right now, I’m way behind on inputting titles into my database.”
“If you’re sure...” Joyce tugged at her brother’s elbow. “I’ll call you later.”
“Now, Margot. Ease up on the bottle.” Carl gave her an important look before he allowed Joyce to lead him to the front door.
Margot only nodded and watched them leave. When the door closed soundly behind them, she slumped against the wood frame, looked up at the ceiling and groaned. “Tell me, is he annoying,” she asked the empty hall, “or is it just me?”
The picture opposite from the one that had fallen, slipped from its hook and crashed to the floor. She didn’t even jump this time.
“Johnny? At least, I think it’s you.” Stepping forward and slowly circling, she looked over the corners and shadows of the empty foyer and hall. “Thanks for the backup. But I think it’s going to take a little more than falling pictures to get them to believe in ghosts.”
Silence. Then again, had she really expected more?