This is Your Afterlife (20 page)

“There's an app to detect ghosts?” he says, sounding understandably incredulous.

“Welcome to the twenty-first century.”

He chuckles. “Look, some of his teammates are here, and I...I just want to know if you could come over. With your cards.”

“You want me to do a reading for them?” I can't imagine those jocks being open to tarot. “Why?”

He pauses before answering grimly, “So we can figure out if one of these ass-hats killed my brother.”

* * *

When I get to Dan's house, a woman who introduces herself as Aunt Katie lets me in. She's clearly in mother-hen mode. In minutes, I have a juice in one hand and a peanut butter cookie in the other. She shows me to the ultra-luxe basement where Dan's hanging out. The room's half the size of my house and filled with boys' toys. Three of Jimmy's buddies slouch on an L-shaped sofa and listlessly toss a football between them. Video footage of a Wolves game plays on an enormous curved TV screen. Someone near the cameraman shouts,
“Go, Jimmy!”

“Glad you could make it.” Dan squeezes my hand and lets go quickly. In my ear, he whispers, “Just so you know, I haven't mentioned tarot reading yet.”

My stomach lurches. Great. “I'll think of a way to bring it up. Don't worry.”

He smiles gratefully. “Hey, Todd, Sam, Jake. You guys remember Keira, right?”

“Hi, guys,” I say after they mumble greetings. Not one of them can raise a smile. I don't blame them.

“I'll grab some more food,” Dan says, reaching for an empty glass bowl. “Be right back.”

I sit in an armchair. My feet dangle three inches off the floor. It was obviously made for taller, Hawkins-sized people. Sports magazines sit untidily on a coffee table next to me. I discreetly push them to the side in a neat pile and lay out my cards. Never in my life have I felt so awkward.

Just remember this is for Jimmy and his family. Not for you.

The guys remain focused on the TV, occasionally offering commentary on the game.

“Man, what an arm,” Jake says, shaking his head.

Everyone murmurs agreement. Even me.

“How did he do that?” Sam says with wonder. He stands up, gripping the ball and keeping his eye on Jimmy sprinting toward the end zone.

I tune the guys out and channel all my thoughts onto the cards. Charlie had mentioned Jimmy's lost car keys. While it's improbable to think the cards could give the exact longitude and latitude of the keys, maybe a mental picture of the location will magically spring into my mind, just like the car.

Thwack!

“OW!” Pain reverberates in my head.

“Oh, shit! Are you all right?” Sam says. He leaps up and picks up the ball. The pointy end of which I can now say really does hurt like hell when it hits at thirty miles an hour.

“That was nasty!” Todd says. He offers me his ice-filled drink to press against my head, but I refuse.

“I'm fine.” I shake my head to clear the blurriness from my eyes. Dazed, I glance toward the stairs. What's taking Dan so long up there?

“Really? 'Cause I've copped a few hits
with
a helmet on and gotten a concussion.” Todd holds up three fingers. “How many do you see?”

“Eleven.” I manage a weak but brave smile. It's not a big deal compared to Jimmy's injury. The boys seem relieved that I'm still conscious. Todd and Jake hunch back down on the couch.

Sam points at the cards spread out in front of me. “What's this, a fancy type of Solitaire?”

I laugh now that the pain as well as the possibility of concussion seems to be fading. “No, it's not a game. These are tarot cards.”

Sam's grin falters. “Tarot? You mean like fortune telling?”

“In a way.” I shrug.

“Cool.” But the way he says it makes me think it's anything but cool. Ridiculous, maybe.

Dan returns to the deck carrying a veritable Everest of cookies. Unfortunately, they all seem to be choc-chip. The smell of gooey warm chocolate makes my brain spin. He sees me rubbing the back of my head, and looks concerned.

“What happened?” asks Dan.

“A close encounter between my head and a football.”

“She made full contact,” Sam says, grimacing.

Dan's eyes flash as he glares at Sam. Something tells me he'd like to give Sam a taste of “full contact.” The guy's got about fifteen pounds on Dan, and he's known for using his size to intimidate on the field. But here he steps back. I glance between the two of them. There's a definite air of jealousy on Dan's part.

“She says there's no harm, no foul.” Sam swipes a cookie. “Keira was about to teach me some card tricks.”

Wincing a little at his comment, I sweep up the cards. I curse the fact I'd forgotten to bring my lucky quartz crystal. Nonetheless, I carry on with constructing an imaginary white bubble of protection.

“You're open to a reading?” I ask Sam, who's halfway through his third cookie. Crumbs spill from his lips. Chocolate crumbs.

“I guess. Maybe you can tell me who'll be captain now that...” Sam glances at Dan and hesitates.

Clearing my throat, I say, “I can't see the future. What I can do is give you some insights into you as a person.”
See if you're capable of murdering your teammate in a jealous rage.

Dan wafts the plate under my nose. “Keira, have one before the cookie monster eats them all.”

“No!” I slam back in my chair. Both boys look at me like I've turned into Medusa. “Does your aunt have any more of those peanut butter cookies? Sorry, I should have told you I can't eat chocolate.”

“You're kidding me!” Dan says.

“I wish.” I grimace. I thought I told him years ago. Maybe he's blotted it from his memory. “I've got an EpiPen in my bag, so if I accidentally inhale a cookie, I should be fine.”

He looks down at the plate, then back at me. “Okay, I'll...uh, I'll see what else I can rustle up.”

“I'll have those if no one else will.” Sam ignores Dan's sharp glare and tugs the plate out of his hands. After Dan disappears upstairs, Sam slides into a chair next to me. “How about doing a reading on him?”

I stare hard at Sam. “Why?”

“He's hard to figure out.” Sam leans back and laces his meaty fingers behind his tousled brown head. Body odor wafts faintly. “Word is he was jealous of Jimmy.”

Interesting. Seems to me everyone's got a theory on who killed Jimmy. What's also interesting is that I'm not sure the cops publicly said they believe he was murdered. “What are you implying, Sam?”

He lowers his voice. “Come on, how would you feel if your brother had everything handed to him? Jimmy got a brand-new car for his birthday. What did Dan get? Art supplies.”

“I don't have a brother or sister, so I wouldn't know.” I can sympathize with the feeling of inequity, though. “Still, Dan hardly seems affected by it. Art makes him happy, not cars. It's not like his parents force him to live in the attic and eat gruel. Has it occurred to you that Dan doesn't
want
materialistic stuff?”

Sam turns his attention back to the TV. “Man, Jimmy was good. Who knows how far he could've gotten if he didn't hurt his leg in that game?”

My vision blurs as I watch Sam mindlessly stuff cookies into his mouth. Tiny black ants spring onto his wrists. I try to focus, blinking once, twice. The ants grow bigger. No, not ants. Letters. Neat strings of random Helvetica letters. But they march like ants, spiraling around each of his stubby fingers, all the way up to his nails. Sam doesn't even notice.

Of course he doesn't. This is
my
hallucination.

Sam claps cookie pieces from his palms. The letters vault to the ceiling. They shuffle around, forming syllables, forming words.

Forming a headline.

Career Over for Top Quarterback.

“You're Anonymous,” I whisper.

Sam's eyes go round as the cookies he's devouring. He blinks rapidly.

“You were one of the few people who knew about Jimmy's injury. You wrote that article,” I say, my voice low and tight.

He clears his throat, but his voice comes out high and unnatural. “Article? No idea what you're saying.”

“Why did you write it?” I plow on. “Maybe
you're
the jealous one here, huh?”

“I don't—”

Heartbeats echo in my head, drowning out all but one thought. I lean forward, close enough to land a punch on his chiseled chin if I want to. Boy, do I want to. Words rush out of my mouth before I can stop them. “Sam, did you kill Jimmy? Because you wanted to be captain? Talk about a sheep in Wolves' clothing.”

“That's bullshit!” he yells. His voice echoes around the room. Todd and Jake throw us curious looks. Sam stands up, the chair banging to the floor. Fury makes his face red and sweaty. I notice the tremble in his hands as he tries to put the chair back in place.

“You okay, bud?” Todd asks, turning the TV volume down.

“Yeah. We were just talking about Jimmy. You know how it is,” Sam replies, his face tense.

Jake nods in sympathy. “It's cool, man. We're all having a rough time.”

Sam moves to the foosball table in a far corner. I follow him. In a low voice, he says, “I don't know how the hell you figured it out, but, yeah, I wrote the article.”

“Why?”

He sweeps his hair back in frustration. “Because I couldn't get Coach to listen to me. Having Jimmy out there, with that burnt-out leg, we'd be handicapped.”

“Nice,” I sneer. “Everyone knows Jimmy could still win games for the Wolves even at half-speed.”

“No, he couldn't. He wasn't invincible.” Sam spins a row of plastic soccer players in orange jerseys. “The last couple of games were hell on him. We won, sure. But the margins were tight. He tried his hardest, but I could see it was getting him down. He hated losing, and I hated seeing him try to push himself. All just to please his dad and the coach.”

“So you had to do something drastic.”

“I couldn't see any other way.”

“What about pushing him off a cliff?” I say in a hard tone. He looks at me like I slapped him.

“What benefit would there be in killing my best friend? The article was enough. It
should
have been enough to give him a way off the team.” He shakes his head. “I've known Jimmy since kindergarten. He's the last person I thought would commit suicide, but...everyone has their limits, you know? If he didn't have the game, he didn't have anything.”

We stay quiet for a while, both of us lost in our own thoughts. His breathing grows steadier, calmer.

“I'm sorry about what I did. With the article,” he says softly.

Sighing, I say, “It'll never be published. No one has to know about the injury or the article for now. Except Dan.”

“But—”

“Jimmy blamed Dan for writing the piece. Dan deserves an apology from you, Mr. Anonymous.”

He shoots me a pained look, and then nods compliantly.

“Were you behind the anonymous text message, too? About Aimee?”

“You're losing me.” Sam shakes his head and leans on the table. “Look, I get that you don't trust me because of the article. But...I didn't kill Jimmy. I bet your spooky cards will confirm that. Go on and get them. I'll wait here.”

We stare at each other. The harsh light directly above his head makes him seem kind of menacing. Silently, I ask the universe—Grandie, in particular—for a little help in mind-reading. Some kind of sign.

Sam is the first to blink. His gaze flickers toward something behind me. A smile inches across his face.

“Hey, Mara,” he says, sounding a whole lot friendlier now.

I turn slowly, eyes wide. “Mara! I didn't hear you come in.”

Honestly, she must be some kind of ninja to tread down here without making a bit of noise.

“I was going to call you and then I happened to see your car out front,” Mara says, smiling. Her eyes have an actual sparkle. It's a far cry from the gloomy-girl image she's been projecting.

When she says “car,” an image of keys pops into my head and I can't get it out. I'm itching to return to my cards and meditate on the keys.

“You left the diner in a rush last night.”

She shrugs by way of apology. “My mom called and asked me to run an errand.”

“Oh.” She could have come to the restroom to find me. Good thing she didn't, though. She would've seen me getting chummy with Aimee. “Thanks for picking up the check. I owe you.”

“Forget about it.” She glances around as Todd and Jake call out greetings.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” I ask.

“Our investigation on Jimmy.” She flashes another smile. Gesturing at my cards on the coffee table, she says, “Is the Mystic Madam doing tarot readings for the boys?”

I gather up the cards. “I'm done for now.”

Mara grabs hold of my arm. “Come with me. I have an idea.”

“Where are we going?” I'm not in the mood to chase Aimee, and I'm certain that's exactly on Mara's agenda.

“Jimmy's bedroom.”

“Why do I get the feeling you want me to perform a séance?
Please
promise me you won't ask.”

“I promise. Wait in here,” Mara says outside a bedroom off the main hall. Her cheeks glow with excitement. “I'll be right back.”

She pushes me inside and shuts the door. Her footsteps carry away out of earshot.

The first thing that strikes me about Jimmy's room is not the poster gallery of pouting girls in various states of undress. Not the unmade bed that probably hasn't been touched since the day Jimmy was killed. Not the altar of dirty laundry piled in a corner. What hits me is that the room is a snapshot of an interrupted life. A life on hold. The room is waiting for its rightful owner to return home, complete the picture.