Carlos

Despite my promise to Kyle, Detective Turner isn't the first person I contact. He already seems disinclined to like me, and it's barely six a.m. I doubt he'd appreciate the wake-up call.

That privilege goes to Aunt Toni, whose number I contemplate with nerves tingling and my heart picking up speed in my chest. After rehearsing what I'll say in my head, I tap the screen and wait while the call connects.

Just like last time, and all the times before, it goes to voicemail. I take a breath, intending to leave a message, but my throat closes off and I can't speak. I end the call, open the messaging app, and begin typing out a long and detailed explanation.

Then, as I re-read it, the last conversation I had with Toni replays itself in my head.

It wasn't pretty. I accused her of taking advantage of me — using me like a tool of her trade, keeping me from having a normal life under the guise of protecting me — and it hadn't gone over well.

In the end, she'd called me an ungrateful little shit and told me not to come crawling back to her when reality caught up and bit me in the ass.

Reality was biting all right, and here I was, on my hands and knees.

Sighing, I erase the message and type out a different one.

Auntie,
I'm sorry for what I said.
I miss you. Can we talk?

Tapping "send" before I can talk myself out of it, I flop back on my bed, blow out my breath, and press my palms against my eyes.

The ball's in her court now, and the next move is hers, but I'm not holding my breath for an answer any time soon.

Aunt Toni loves me like a son, but I know I hurt her, and Antonia Martinez holds a mean grudge.

~ ★ ~

After leaving a message for Turner, I get dressed, eat breakfast, grab a spare battery and jumper cables, and catch the bus into town. In the Walmart parking lot, I find my truck where I left it, thankfully unmolested, and with a boost from the spare battery, it starts right up. Then I drive around a bit, letting the truck's battery charge, and stop at a roadside flower stall for a bouquet of white carnations.

I don't know enough about flowers to tell if they're a good 'sorry for your loss' gift, but they're white and cheap, so I figure they'll do.

Lucille Peters lives in an old Victorian a few houses down the street at the crest of a small hill. The garage belonged to her late husband and stood vacant, falling into disrepair, until I came along and asked if the property was available to rent. It was, she said, under certain conditions, one of which was that I couldn't make any changes without her approval, and another of which was Kyle.

Now that Kyle is gone, I can only hope she doesn't decide having a tenant is more trouble than it's worth and rescind the offer.

Gathering my nerve, I walk up the paved path, climb the steps to the porch, and ring the bell. The place looks like it's seen better days, with peeling paint and so many cobwebs hanging from the rafters it looks decorated for Halloween.

The interior appears dark, and after ringing the bell twice, I'm about to leave the flowers on the doorstep and retreat when I catch a glimpse of movement through the frosted glass windows beside the door. It opens a crack, and Lucille peers out at me with puffy, red-rimmed eyes.

"Yes? What do you want?"

"Hello, Mrs. Peters. Um..." I hold out the bouquet. "I just came by to say I'm sorry about Kyle."

She stares at the flowers as if she's never seen anything quite like them, before taking them in a claw-fingered hand. She looks more like Kyle's grandmother than his aunt, and I wonder I how much older she is than his mom.

"Oh, yes. Thank you," she says, wiping her eyes. "My poor, dear nephew didn't deserve this, you know. He was a good boy, at heart."

Personally, I think there are very few people in the history of humanity who would actually deserve what Kyle went through, but I merely nod.

"The police aren't any help," she continues, in her unusually deep, gravelly voice. "They won't even let me see the body."

I swallow. "That's... maybe for the best, Mrs. Peters. I'm sure Kyle would prefer you remember him as he was in life. In fact..." I hesitate, then take the risk. "In fact, I've seen him around. He's okay now. Well, I mean he's dead, obviously, but he's... better."

Okay, Carlos, shut the fuck up now.

Mrs. Peters gives me a strange look. "You've seen him, you say?"

"Yes. My family... Well, I wouldn't say I'm psychic, in the usual sense, but... Yes, sometimes I see things."

"Ghosts."

"Er... Well, yes. And other things."

Stop. Talking.

Like a certain Alice, I give myself very good advice, but I very seldom follow it.

"Has he said anything?" Mrs. Peters asks, narrowing her eyes at me.

"Oh, um, no. He doesn't talk. He just hangs around and bothers me. Kinda like when he was alive."

Carlos! For fuck's sake, shut up!

"Is that so? Well, personally, I believe that my nephew is in Heaven, with his mother and my dear husband, where he belongs, and I'll thank you for not speaking such blasphemies again. Good day, Mr. Martinez. Thank you for the flowers."

She shuts the door in my face with a snap.

Great, great. This is why people don't like you, Carlos. And now you'll be lucky if you're not evicted. Way to go.

Sighing, I turn around and walk back along the path to the street, and down the sloping sidewalk to my truck. As I step into the street, walk around to the driver's side, and open the door, movement catches my eye. I look up and see another, much larger truck rolling towards me and picking up speed.

With a yelp of alarm, I leap into the cab, but I don't have time to close the door. The other vehicle barrels right into it, snaps it off its hinges, and sends it skidding down the street in a shower of sparks. There's no one behind the wheel.

Shouts echo from further up the street and a breathless man dressed for heavy-duty yardwork, whose truck is on the run, dashes up and leans in to look at me.

"Holy shit! Are you okay, man?"

"Yeah, yeah — I'm not hurt," I gasp, assuring myself of this at the same time.

Meanwhile, the escaped vehicle hops the curb and comes to rest harmlessly on someone's front lawn.

The man clutches the sides of his head and swears. "Fucking hell! I swear the brake was on. I checked. I always check! I coulda sworn..."

"I'm sure it just wasn't engaged all the way and failed," I say, though I'm not sure at all.

"Shit, you sure you're okay?"

I climb out of the doorless cab and shield my eyes as I look up and down the street. "Yeah, I'm fine. Can't say the same for my truck, though."

"Shit. Here." The man pulls a pen and card from his breast pocket, scribbles something on the card and hands it to me.

I take it and frown. "What's this?"

"My info. For the insurance company, you know? Gimme yours, too."

I give him a business card for the garage.

"I better check if there's any property damage, too. I don't wanna get sued. Better take some pictures, too. Document everything."

He pulls out a phone in a heavy-duty case and snaps a few shots. I do the same, recalling that I'll need it for the insurance claim, anyway. Then I walk down to where the other guy is inspecting his own truck.

"Just a scrape and a dented bumper," he says. "No property damage either — thank God! Here—" He jogs over to where my door lies like roadkill at the side of the street. "Lemme help you with this."

Together, we carry it back up the hill and toss it in the back of my truck.

The man dusts his hands off and extends one for me to shake. "Rafael," he says. "Moretti Bros Landscaping. You need any work done, call me. I'll do it free."

I finally take a proper look at him, and see a handsome face with blue eyes and black hair. He grins sheepishly.

"Shit, man. I'm just glad you're okay. I coulda sworn somebody stole my truck. It looked like it was steering itself right at you! Crazy, right?"

"Yeah," I agree, a little weakly. "Crazy."

As crazy as talking to ghosts, anyway.

~ ★ ~

"So what, now the ghost is trying to kill you?"

John Turner looks up from his inspection of my truck and arches a brow at me. When I texted him, he'd responded by showing up in person. At least I know he comes when called.

"I don't know," I say, scratching the back of my head. "Maybe he was mad I upset his aunt."

"Or maybe the parking brake failed."

I frown, recalling the number of near misses I'd had while Kyle was alive. "Maybe."

Turner straightens to his full height and looks down at me. "You worried?"

I shrug. "Not really."

"Maybe you should be. I don't know if I believe in this supernatural shit, but I believe in evidence. You're close to this case, and like I said, we think Kyle knew his killer. That means you might know the killer, too."

I frown. "You never did tell me what evidence you had that linked me to the scene."

"The cigarettes," he says. "Marlboro Lights. Whoever used Kyle's eye-sockets as ashtrays smokes the same kind."

I turn aside, sickened by the thought, and then startle as a large, warm hand settles on my shoulder.

"Hey, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it like that. You get hardened to shit, and you forget not everyone is as fucked up as you are."

I laugh shakily. "Don't worry. I'm pretty fucked up."

A car backfires somewhere down the street, one loud pop and two softer ones. I turn to look, wondering what kinda weird-ass custom engine would make that sound, when I'm tackled to the ground and crushed into the sharp gravel, pinned beneath John Turner's body.

A second later, he's up again, weapon drawn, while I stare at a fluffy cloud floating in a patch of blue sky and listen to the fading roar of an engine.

Turner leans over me. "You okay, Martinez?"

I cough and sit up, rubbing the back of my head, and squint at him. "No. What the fuck, Turner? You never heard an engine backfire before?"

"Sure, plenty of times. I've heard semi-automatic handgun fire, too."

"What?"

He points, and I see two new holes in the side of my truck. "Do backfiring cars typically shoot bullets?"

"No," I say weakly. "And neither do ghosts."

He nods and helps me to my feet. "Supernatural shit aside, the evidence is telling me one of two things. Either somebody really hates your truck, or somebody wants you dead. For safety's sake, let's bet on the latter."

"Fuck. What do I do?" I hadn't even known I was in danger until he pointed it out, but now my voice shakes with a late surge of adrenaline.

He looks at me with the expression of a man about to do something unpleasant.

"Pack a bag," he says. "You're coming with me."